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“Strangled?”
“Yes, sir. Definite signs of sexual assault with object. Fourth floor,” he said when they were in the elevator. “Looks like he used a broomstick on her. It’s pretty bad.”
She said nothing, letting the new data filter through.
“He left a note,” Frohickie said. “Addressed to you. Bastard stuck the envelope between her toes.”
“DeSalvo,” she muttered. “Good Christ.”
Then she blanked it out, blanked it all out so she would walk into the scene with no set images or preconceptions in her head.
“I need a field kit and a recorder.”
“Brought them up when we got word you were tagged away from home.”
She forgave him for his comments about the car. “Scene’s secured?” she questioned.
“Yes, sir. We’ve got the son in the kitchen, with a uniform and an MT. He’s in bad shape. He says he didn’t touch her.”
“My aide’s on her way. Send her in when she gets here. You have to stay out,” she said to Roarke.
“Understood.” But he felt a quick wrench that he would remain closed out while she walked into what was going to be another nightmare.
She marched in the open door, noted there were no signs of forced entry nor of struggle in the neat, simple living area. There were plain blue curtains at the window, sheer enough to let in the light. No privacy screens were engaged.
She squatted down to examine a few drops of blood on the edge of an area rug.
She could hear weeping from another room. The son in the kitchen, she thought, then blocked it out. Rising, she gestured the other cops back, sealed up, fixed on her recorder, then went into the bedroom.
Lois Gregg lay on the bed, nude, still bound, with the sash that had strangled her around her neck tied just under her chin in a festive bow.
The creamy envelope with Eve’s name printed on the front was stuck between the toes of her left foot.
There was more blood—not as much as Wooton—on the plain white sheets, on her thighs, on the broomstick he’d left on the floor.
She was a small woman, probably no more than a hundred and ten pounds, with the caramel complexion that indicated mixed-race heritage.
Broken capillaries in her face, in her eyes, the distended and swollen tongue, were signs of the strangulation. The body fought back, Eve thought. Even after the mind went dark, the body fought for air. For life.
Eve spotted the long green robe beside the bed. He’d used the robe sash to strangle her.
He’d have wanted you conscious when he hurt you. He’d want to see your face, the pain, the horror, the terror. Yes, he’d want that this time. He’d want to hear you scream. Nice building like this ought to have decent soundproofing. He’d checked it out, checked you out before today.
Did he tell you what he was going to do to you? Or did he work in silence while you begged?
She recorded the scene, documenting the position of the body, the placement of the robe, the broomstick, the carefully drawn curtains.
Then she took the envelope, opened it, and read.
Hello again, Lieutenant Dallas. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? A day that just begs for heading down to the shore or strolling through the park. I hate to interrupt your Sunday, but you seem to enjoy your work so much—as I do mine—that I didn’t think you’d mind.
I’m a little disappointed in you, however, for a couple of reasons. First, tsk, tsk, on stonewalling the media reports on me. I was really looking forward to the buzz. Then again, you’re not going to be able to keep a lid on the barrel too much longer. Second, I thought you’d be giving me just a bit more of a challenge by this point. Hopefully, my latest offer will inspire you.
Best of luck!
—Al
“Self-important bastard, aren’t you?” she stated aloud, then sealed the note and envelope before opening the field kit.
