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“Maybe, but he strikes me as a runner, not a suicide.”
She stepped inside, got to work.
She took the room first. Slick and stylish, like the man. Pricey clothes, pricey decor, high-end electronics. A man who liked his comforts, she thought, his conveniences, and his symbols of status.
Lifting the wineglass, she sniffed. Left a marker in its place before she sealed the contents, then the glass itself.
She tapped the comp unit with a gloved finger, and the screen engaged. She read the text written on it.
I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t live this way. I see their faces, Natalie and Bick. It was only money, just money. It got out of hand. I must have lost my mind to pay to have them killed. I lost my mind, and now I’ve lost my soul. Forgive me, because I can’t forgive myself. I take this terrible act with me to Hell, for eternity.
She turned from the screen to the body. “Well, one thing on there’s pure truth: It got out of hand.”
She identified the body for the record by the fingerprints, then examined the hands, bagged them. Her gauge put time of death at twenty-fifteen, Friday evening.
Moving to the adjoining bath, she recorded while she studied. Clean, she noted, with a few men’s toiletries on the counter along with a big leafy plant in a glossy black pot. Separate steam shower, drying tube, glossy jet tub with a marble surround. An oversized black towel was draped over a chrome warmer.
She opened the cabinet, scanned the contents.
Lotions, potions—anti-age skin and hair products for the most part. Male birth control tabs, pain blockers, sleep aids. In the counter drawer were more grooming aids, dental hygiene products.
She looked back up at the body.
“You practice tying that noose, Randall?” she wondered. “It sure is perfect. Takes a steady hand and some skill to create a textbook hanging noose.”
She stepped out of the room when she heard the buzzer and went down to meet the sweepers and give them the lay of the land.
She found Roarke sitting with Jake and Rochelle in the living area. Jake sat hunched over, his arms dangling between his legs. His eyes were red and swollen as were Rochelle’s, who sat beside him in silence.
“I need to see my father,” Jake said without looking up. “I need to see him. I need to talk to my grandparents.”
“I’m going to arrange for that soon.” Since it was handy, Eve sat on the low table in front of him. “Jake, when’s the last time you saw or spoke to your father?”
“Friday. We had a memorial service for Nat and Bick at the offices. Their families aren’t having one in the city. We wanted to do something. We were all there.”
“What time was that?”
“Toward the end of the day. About four. The partners let everyone who wanted to go home leave immediately after. We left together, my father and I, about five. He asked if I wanted to go have a drink, but I just went on home. I should’ve gone with him. I should’ve talked to him.”
“Did he seem upset, depressed?”
Jake’s head snapped up, and his eyes went hot. “It was a memorial service, for Christ’s sake.”
“Jake,” Rochelle murmured, and rubbed a hand over his thigh. “She’s trying to help.”
“He’s dead. How can she help? Why would he kill himself?” Jake demanded. “Why would he do that? He was young and healthy and successful. He—Oh, God, was he healthy? Did he have something wrong with him, and we didn’t know?”
“I’m going to ask you again. Did he seem upset or depressed recently?”
“I don’t know. Sad. We were all sad, and shocked. I guess he seemed edgy on Friday. Jumpy. He asked me if I wanted to go have a drink, but it was knee-jerk. He didn’t want to hang any more than I did.”
“Do you know where he did his gambling?”
“That was before. Jesus, that was years ago. He doesn’t do that anymore. He stopped.”
“All right. Did he mention where he was going when you left him on Friday?”
“No. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I was upset. God, I have to tell my mother. They’ve been divorced forever, but she has to know. My grandparents.” He put his head in his hands again. “I don’t know how much more they can take.”
