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Del followed his assistants to the front door. The police officer let them through before reattaching the yellow tape that barred entrance to those neighbors who tried to get a glimpse. The officer was polite but firm, and the rubberneckers soon gave up.
Gary’s hackles rose.Yeah, someone is dead. You can read all about it in the media tomorrow.Christ, number four had made the headlines before the ink was dry on Gary’s report. He breathed deeply. His energies were best directed to the case.
Riley came over. “The victim’s name was Marius Eisler, age forty-five.” Gary’s stomach clenched, but he pushed down hard on the momentary flash of nausea that always accompanied a surge of grief.
Keep focused.
Riley continued. “The body was discovered at twenty-three-hundred hours by the guy from the apartment next door, one Billy Raymond. He had a key. He said Marius had a habit of working late and not eating properly, so Billy regularly dropped by with food. He didn’t see anyone. Uniforms have questioned everyone on this floor, but no one saw our man.”
“Too much to hope there are cameras?” Gary asked.
Riley snorted. “Sure, they have cameras in the hallway downstairs, but they don’t work. The neighbors said there were always guys coming and going.”
Lewis rolled his eyes. “Another queer? Nowthere’sa surprise.” Riley fired him a disgusted glance.
Gary didn’t bother reining in his glare. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that. Now why don’t you go speak with Sergeant Michaels? See what else you can learn about the victim, the building….”
Lewis’s brow furrowed, but he went without a word.
Gary breathed a little easier. He didn’t need Lewis’s shit right then. He scanned the bedroom. “No sign of a cell phone?”
Riley shook his head. “Just like the others. We’ve searched the whole apartment.” He gazed at the rumpled sheets on the bed. “I’ll bag these too.” Riley glanced toward the door with a distant stare. “This was one talented guy. Did you see his paintings?”
Gary hadn’t seen a thing. He’d been in too much of a rush to prove that nagging feeling in his gut wrong.
One look at the blood on the sheet had confirmed his fears.
“Our killer’s not in any hurry, is he? Five bodies in two years.” Riley’s shoulders slumped. “I really thought he was done. Nothing since December.”
Gary had hoped the same thing. “What worries me is those letters. How many bodies are there going to be before whatever it is he’s spelling out begins to make sense and we get a lead?” Because so far they’d had precious few of those.
He walked into the living room, leaving Riley to remove the sheets from the bed, and paused to get a feel for the place. The heavily varnished wooden floor and oak furniture gave the apartment an elegant appearance. It wasn’t cluttered, and judging by the size of the windows, Gary imagined it would be a light, airy room in the daylight. Every inch of available wall space was taken up with paintings of men. Some of the models were clothed, but most were nude or seminude, and all of them were good-looking. An easel stood by the window, a table next to it on which sat an open box filled with squeezed tubes of oil paint. A glass jar filled with dirty liquid held three long thin paintbrushes, and there was a palette covered with blobs of paint, a layer of clear wrap laid over it. A couple of rags smeared with colors sat beside the palette, and the odor of turpentine lingered in the air.
Gary went closer to look at the canvas sitting on the easel. It was a detailed study of a middle-aged man, clothed, sitting in a wide armchair, the same chair that stood beside the comfy-looking couch. The artist had yet to work on the clothing; the model’s shirt was blocked in solid colors, shades of dark and light.
And now he’ll never get to finish it.
Riley joined him. “According to the neighbor, this is how the victim earned his living. I googled him. Pretty well-known artist. I’ll see what else I can find out tomorrow.” He inclined his head toward the door. “The CSIs are here to dust and document the scene.”
Beside him, Sergeant Rob Michaels cleared his throat. “I’ll secure the scene once all the evidence has been removed.”
“Thanks, Rob.”
Lewis came over to them. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do here.”
Gary had to agree. The day had almost ended, and he was in dire need of sleep. “I’ll see you both in the morning. You can write your reports then.” He bade a good-night to Rob, and once the officer at the door had let him out, he hurried along the hallway to the stairs, stripping off his gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his jacket. Some doors were open, and residents peered out as he passed.
Gary paid them no mind. He was too busy thinking about their victim.
Please, God, let us catch him. Don’t let there be a number six.
Gary let himself into his apartment and bolted the door behind him. The silence that greeted him held none of its usual comfort.
He knew why. All the way home, his head had been filled with thoughts of Brad. No, even before that. Memories of his late brother had suffocated him all day, to the point where he’d struggled to maintain his focus.
He’d have been forty-five today. The same age as Marius Eisler.It had taken every ounce of effort not to react when Riley had revealed the victim’s age.
Gary trudged into the kitchen and peered into the fridge, not that he wanted anything. The neatly stacked microwave meals, bottles of iced tea and water, and foil-wrapped lump of cheese made the fridge’s interior appear as minimalist as his apartment.
