“Roarke’s right, the face isn’t there, but the eyes are close. So they were important enough. Hold on.”
She crouched down again, used her penlight to shine in the victim’s mouth. “He’s glued inside her mouth to hold her lips like the painting—really fucking specific.”
“Maybe an art student, art historian, struggling or failed artist. She might have modeled for him.”
“She was an LC, street level. But yeah, he had to see her to kill her, had to see her as this—what did Roarke call it?—tronie to go through all this to replicate. The outfit, the earring, the angle of the body. He wired her to the doorknob. He had to do that here, on-site, take that time.”
“So it was important. It’s part of the kill. COD?”
“She was strangled. Morris will confirm, but it looks like manual strangulation from my visual. Let’s call in the morgue team, the sweepers.”
She straightened. “Teenage daughter sneaking back into the house after a night of partying—I assume—found her. Officer on scene states she and her family got into it, lot of arguing and hysteria. If that’s not cooled by now, you’ll need to smooth it out. Or I’ll cut it off. Whichever works.”
“I’ll try the smooth first.”
Eve walked back up the stairs to talk to the uniforms. “Stay on the body. My partner’s calling in the dead wagon and the sweepers. We’ll go talk to the wit and her family.”
Day had begun to push back the night so the air was a soft, filmy gray when Eve walked up the steps to the front door of the brownstone.
She noted good security.
So did Peabody. “We should get something from the security feed on the basement door cam.”
“Deactivated by the kid when she slipped out.”
“Well, yeah, of course.”
Eve hit the buzzer. A uniform answered, and one Eve recognized.
“Hey, LT, Detective.”
“LaValle, what’s the status in here?”
“Détente. Things were pretty, let’s say fraught, but my trainee—he’s only been on six weeks—got them smooth. He’s got a way, I gotta give it to him. Plus, he’s damn good-looking, and that helps. Officer Freemont, Jerry Freemont’s boy.”
“Sure, I know Sergeant Freemont. Peabody and I will take it from here. Appreciate your assist.”
“No worries. Some place, huh?”
The foyer impressed with what looked like marble floors as white as the Alps, walls of the pearl gray of Roarke’s shirt, and a three-tier chandelier of silver rings.
Art, too, that looked important.
“The rook talked them into going back to the kitchen, having coffee. Once he sat down back there with them, it toned the decibels down a lot. I’ll show you. You’ve got the mother—mid-forties and I’ll say starchy. The father, late forties, more wilted at this point. Younger brother, smart-mouthed. And the witness, defiant, teary. Can’t decide, you ask me, whether to bitch at her parents or crawl into their laps.”
As he spoke, Eve took in the house. Shiny, clean, contemporary style, and one that said money was plentiful. Spacious living area, a pair of home offices, a kind of den.
Art everywhere: paintings, sculptures, photographs, etchings.
It all opened up to a large white-on-white-and-silver kitchen where the family and the rookie sat at a generous breakfast area.
The rookie rose, and he was very good-looking, with creamy brown skin, large dark eyes, a pair of perfect dimples that winked on as he smiled.
“Whittier family—Opal, Roger, Fiona, and Trent,” Officer LaValle announced, “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. Officer Freemont, we’ll be on our way.”
The girl groped for Freemont’s hand. “Oh, but… Do you have to go?”
“I do. Everything’s going to be fine, Fiona. You just tell the lieutenant and the detective what happened. They’re here to help.”
