“Primarily, yes. I don’t understand.”
“Detective, if you’d take Ms. Hornesby inside for her statement, and explain what’s relevant.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Peabody and McNab led Natalie inside, Eve walked over to the shield.
“You be the judge, Lieutenant,” the first officer began. “We were to be on the lookout for something like this. She sure fits.”
He lifted the shield.
She did fit.
“The victim,” Eve said for the record as she sealed up, “is a mixed-race female of about thirty. She’s been posed to sit with her back against the wall of the residence. Due to visible bruising around the neck, strangulation is apparent cause of death. As the victim’s clothing is relevant, she is dressed in a pink gown belted at the waist by what appears to be a scarf that trails down her right hip. The lowVof the bodice has a white frilled collar tied with a bow, and white cuffs at the wrists. There is a black—shit, what’s it?—shawl draped just below the shoulders.”
Eve slid a finger along the hairline. “A light brown wig is glued in place at the ears, and a straw-colored hat is glued to the wig. The hat has flowers around the crown and a large feather curved over the left side of the wide brim.
“The eyes are glued open, and the mouth glued into a subtle smile. A brown artist’s palette with blobs of paint has been wired to the victim’s left forearm, and…” She counted. “Seven artist’s brushes are in her lefthand, wired and glued to hold them in place. Her right hand is posed in a downward position with the fingers slightly curled.”
Pausing, she looked up at Roarke. “Do you know what painting she’s been mocked up to replicate?”
“I do, yes. It’s Vigée Le Brun’sSelf-Portrait in a Straw Hat.”
“Who was he?”
“She. Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, eighteenth-century France. You’d appreciate that in a field dominated by men, she became the most successful portraitist of her era. From what I can see, the costume is exact, as are the props, down to the color of the daubs of paint on the palette. But, in the portrait, she stands against the backdrop of the sky.”
“Not sitting like this?”
“No, the arms are correct, but though it’s not a full-length portrait, she’s clearly standing.”
“He didn’t want to bother with a board again. Hard to manage that, so he lowered his standards for convenience this time.”
With a nod, she pulled her gauges out of her field kit.
“TOD, oh-three-oh-seven. Officer.”
“Kingsly, and Owen, sir.”
“Kingsly, do me a favor, go ask Ms. Hornesby what time her sprinklers run.” Eve took the pad, started to press the victim’s right thumb onto it. “Something under the nail of her index finger. Just something.”
She got out microgoggles, angled herself, and carefully scraped under the nail, then studied the result in the clear tube.
“It’s fabric. It’s a trace, dark gray.” Satisfaction ran dark and it ran deep. “Here’s a mistake. Here’s a fucking mistake. Just a couple threads caught under her nail. He missed that. Had to get there after he glued and wired.”
Closing her eyes, she imagined it. “Against his clothes? Maybe, possibly, but… More likely scraped across a rug as he was moving her.
“That’s it,” she murmured, studying the threads as another might havea precious gem. “The way he’s glued her fingers, the index is lower, and it catches on a rug—in the transpo. It’s glued to the next finger at the first knuckle so it can’t really bend. It scraped along the carpet just enough to pick up some trace.”
“You’re a wonder, Lieutenant.”
She shook her head at Roarke.
“Just a cop. Flagged for the lab, flagged for Harvo. Top priority.”
She set the sealed tube in her field kit, and once again picked up the Identi-pad.
“Victim is identified as Janette Whithers, age thirty-one, mixed race, street name Chablis. Licensed companion, street level. Avenue B address—most work close to where they live. No marriages, no official cohabs. Parents, married thirty-three years, in Wichita, Kansas. Two siblings, brother age twenty-nine, sister age twenty-six. Kansas residents.”
