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Clapper pointed up toward the camera mounted on a concrete pylon. It faced down the ramp, away from the Caddy.
He lifted his chin toward another camera that was pointed up the ramp toward the fifth level.
“I don’t think you’re going to catch this bird doing the vic on tape,” Clapper said. “This car is in a perfect blind spot.”
I like this about Charlie. He knows what he’s doing, shows you what he sees, but the guy doesn’t try to take over the scene. He lets you do your job, too.
I directed my flashlight beam into the interior of the car, checking off the relevant details in my mind.
The victim looked healthy, weighed about 110, stood maybe five foot or five one.
No wedding band or engagement ring.
She was wearing a crystal bead necklace, which hung below a ligature mark.
The mark itself was shallow and ropy, as if it had been made with something soft.
I saw no defensive cuts or bruises on her arms and, except for the ligature mark, no signs of violence.
I didn’t know how or why this girl had been killed, but my eyes and my gut told me that she hadn’t died in this car.
She had to have been moved here, then posed in a tableau that somebody was meant to admire.
I doubted that someone had gone to all of this trouble for me.
I hoped not.
Chapter 10
“HAVE YOU GOT your pictures?” I asked Clapper.
There wasn’t much room to work, and I wanted to get in close for a better look at the victim.
“I’ve got more than enough for my collection,” he said. “The camera loves this girl.”
He stowed his digital Olympus in his case, snapped the lid closed.
I reached into the car and gingerly fished out the labels from the back of the victim’s pale-pink coat and then her slim black party dress.
“The coat is Narciso Rodriguez,” I called out to Jacobi. “And the dress is a little Carolina Herrera number. We’re looking at about six grand in threads here. And that’s not counting the shoes.”
Since Sex and the City, when it came to shoes, Manolo Blahnik was the man. I recognized a pair of his trademark sling-backs on the victim’s feet.
“She even smells like money,” said Jacobi.
“You’ve got a good nose, buddy.”
The fragrance the victim wore had a musky undertone calling up ballrooms and orchids, and maybe moonlit trysts under mossy trees. I was pretty sure I’d never smelled it before, though. Maybe some kind of pricey private label.
I was leaning in for another sniff, when Conklin escorted a short, fortyish white man up the steep ramp. He had a ruff of frizzy hair and small, darting eyes, almost black dots.
“I’m Dr. Lawrence Guttman,” the man huffed indignantly to Jacobi. “And yes. Thanks for asking. That is my car. What are you doing to it?”
Jacobi showed Guttman his badge, said, “Let’s walk down to my car, Dr. Guttman, take a ride to the station. Inspector Conklin and I have some questions for you, but I’m sure we can clear this all up, PDQ.”
It was then that Guttman saw the dead woman in the passenger seat of his Seville. He snapped his eyes back to Jacobi.
“My God! Who is that woman? She’s dead! W-what are you thinking?” he sputtered. “That I killed someone and left her in my car? You can’t think. . . . Are you crazy? I want my lawyer.”
