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“Of course,” Morris murmured, his exotic eyes amused as he added more data. “From the angles, the depth of the head wounds, the attack would have gone—probability ninety-six-point-eight percent—like this.”
On screen two figures faced. One gripped the trophy in both hands swung right to left, striking the other figure on the temple. Ziegler’s figure staggered back, then pitched forward. As it fell, the attacker swung again—now left to right—striking the back of the skull.
“Double-handed blows.”
“Considering the weight of the weapon, and the angles, the force, that’s my conclusion. Like swinging for the fences on the first, then rounding back, striking down—almost a chop—for the second.”
“Ziegler was six-one. You have the killer about the same height.”
“Yes, from the angles, near to the same. An inch or two either way, but I wouldn’t say more. And I’d also conclude the killer had excellent upper-body strength. These were not glancing blows.”
“Yeah, I get that. Then you’ve got a hundred-eighty pounds of dead weight—all muscle—to haul off the floor and onto the bed.”
“Our killer isn’t a ninety-pound weakling. An old cliché,” Morris said at Eve’s blank look. “As for the knife wound, the vic was dead before that was inflicted—and still there was considerable force used, enough to break the tip of the knife.” He gestured to a small sample bowl, and the tiny piece of metal it held.
“Somebody was really pissed off,” Eve acknowledged. “Did the vic have sex before death?”
“I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t like to, but I can’t tell you. He’d showered or bathed—and thoroughly. He sports what’s called a Continental.”
Eve looked down at the razor thin, sharply edged zigzag of hair at the crotch. “Yeah, I noticed that. Weird.”
“But tidy. His genitals and what pubic hair he has were thoroughly washed and groomed. He died clean. He’d consumed about eight ounces of red wine less than an hour prior to death, a field green salad and an energy drink about two hours prior.”
“He had a little bag of dried leaves in his suitcase. Looked and smelled like tea to me, but . . .”
“The tox isn’t back yet—they’re backed up as usual—but from the condition of his body, his organs, I’d doubt he had any habitual illegals use. I see no signs he took any sort of drugs on a regular basis. This was a very healthy man in peak physical condition.”
“Personal trainer of the year.”
“In life and in death.”
“Thanks.” She rolled up her empty Pepsi tube, two-pointed it into his recycler. “That helped.”
“Anytime. I’m looking forward to your party. It’s the bash of the season.”
“Yeah? I’d guess Ziegler probably feels his big trophy was the bash of the season.”
“Ha,” Morris said.
• • •
With Peabody, Eve worked down Ziegler’s client list, giving priority to women of means.
She hit the managing partner of a SoHo art gallery, the CFO of a real-estate company, the owner of a small chain of boutique day spas, and a couple of women who’d married well and spent most of their time spending money.
“The last one was skinny as a snake and barely five-foot-four.”
“And her current husband is six-foot, also has a BB membership, and plays lacrosse. Jealous husbands qualify, Peabody. We run him.”
“Got it.”
Eve walked toward the elegant three-story brownstone drenched in holiday glamour. “We’ll take this one—Natasha Quigley, spouse John Jake Copley—both clients. Then we’ll call it for the day.”
“Yay. My butt’s dragging.”
“Well, hike it up.” She rang the buzzer.
Good afternoon.
