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I said, “But if all you want is some theorizing, it won’t be a big deal.”
“Well,” he said, smiling uneasily, “you never know. Too many weird things going on with this one.”
“Like?”
“Nothing I can put a finger on, just a feeling. And, amigo, it’s better when it gets weird.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Intended as such.” He grinned. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
—
He led me out of the kitchen and into the living room, beige and white and fastidious except for a rumpled duvet and a pillow atop the largerof two taupe sofas. A white door shut off entry to what I assumed was a staircase to the second story.
I said, “No forced entry, weapon of convenience, someone sleeping over. His clothes were also sent to the crypt?”
He frowned. “No clothes, that’s part of the weirdness. Not anywhere here or, so far, outside. People aren’t gonna let us into their castles but maybe we can glance at backyards. Or owners will and find a stash.”
“The guy hid his the clothes and his I.D. somewhere then showed up naked?”
He shrugged. “Maybe the whole thing started as an adventurous booty call. Or if the grumpy neighbor’s right, an adventurous in-call. Either way, he shows up starkers to spice it up, intends to come back later for his duds and I.D. The two of them start to party but it goes bad and he ends up on the couch.”
“She lets him stay rather than kicking him out?”
The question vexed him. The way a persistent sore does.
“I know, I know—maybe he was tired, Alex, and she took pity. A date gone wrong could fit with that, too. She appeased him because they had a relationship. But instead of settling down on the sofa, he tossed and turned and worked himself up. What better way to cook up male rage than sexual rejection?”
I pointed to the white door. “Her bedroom’s upstairs?”
“Right at the top of the stairs but no sign of romance or struggle there or anywhere on the second floor. That’s why I’m figuring it started and ended on the first floor.”
I said, “The party duds out, she asks him to leave, he bargains for the couch, she agrees and goes to sleep upstairs. Then for some reason, she comes back down here?”
“Maybe he was making noise. Hollering, pacing around, she has enough and comes down and now she is ready to kick him out.”
“He’s not hearing it, gets a knife from the kitchen and murders her? But not in the kitchen and not here, the blood’s too skimpy.”
“She’s got defensive wounds, some of the kitchen could be from those if there was a confrontation. Or, it’s his blood—knife slippage.”
I closed my eyes, took a moment to imagine. “He chases her, stabs her to death, then runs outside and gets slammed by the van.”
“You’re the psychologist. You see it as impossible?”
When it comes to human behavior few things are impossible. But that scenario felt wrong. Contrived.
On the other hand, first impressions can be way off the mark. And Milo’s got the highest solve rate in the department; his gut feelings deserve respect.
My silences can get him edgy. He kicked one heel with the other.
I said, “Not impossible. So where did it happen?” Though I already knew.
He opened the white door and we continued another few, terrible feet.
—
When women are murdered at home, it’s most often in the bedroom, with the kitchen ranked second. This woman had been slaughtered in a narrow wood-floored corridor leading from the living room to what appeared to be an office. At the far end, a narrow staircase right-angled upstairs. Awkward design and placement. A tacked-on feature suggesting a later add-on.
