She drove downtown in that strange hour when night and day met, and neither dominated. The early hour offered light traffic, maxibuses carting commuters home after the night shift or to work for the early shift, a few cabs—night revelers finally calling it, travelers heading out for an early flight.
Shops and restaurants remained closed but for the occasional twenty-four/seven or round-the-clock café. Pedestrian traffic consisted of a couple of street-level LCs hoping for one more score before breakfast, and a couple of guys, obviously drunk, weaving their way toward one of the cafés.
Lights flickered in the occasional window in darkened buildings, but for the most part, the city slept. Not all of it, Eve knew. There were sectors where the party never quit, where the music would bang and boom in clubs and joints and dives until well after dawn broke.
However, along her route, her city held quiet. But like a breath caught, when it exhaled, life began another day.
Unfortunately, as a murder cop she knew, too well, the dawn didn’t break for everyone.
King Street, she mused. Kind of arty on its edge between SoHo and Greenwich Village. Some buildings thrown up after the Urbans, but more old ones, condos, single-family (if you had the scratch for it), lofts, cafés, art shops, boutiques.
She rated the general neighborhood as solid, established, and the sort of place frequented by people who liked to discuss art or other intellectual themes as they downed shit coffee or organic teas while someone recited poetry or played an acoustic guitar.
But then, people killed people everywhere from the hell of the underground to the loftiest penthouse.
It was her job to find out who, how, and why, and she felt it her duty to build a case that brought justice to the victims and those who mourned them.
She spotted the pair of police cruisers, pulled in behind them. She took out her badge as she approached the yellow tape blocking off a pre-Urban, three-story brownstone currently lit up like Christmas.
“Lieutenant.” The female uniform gave her a nod. “Officer Cyril.”
“What’ve you got, Officer Cyril?”
“My partner—Officer Stowe—and I responded to a nine-one-one at approximately oh-five-fifty. The wit resides here. Seventeen, snuck out last night, and was sneaking back in when she saw the body.”
As Eve ducked under the tape, Cyril gestured. “The wit—Fiona Whittier—has the basement apartment. The body’s at the bottom of the stairs in front of the secured door.”
“So I see. I also see a door cam.”
“Sir, the witness admitted to deactivating that camera at about midnight. Intending to reactivate when she got back inside.”
“Great.”
“We have two officers inside with the family. Ah, we asked for thebackup, as the wit and her family—mother, father, younger brother—were argumentative, mostly with each other—and hell, sir, damn near hysterical.”
“Got it. Detective Peabody will be here shortly. She’s good at dealing with civilian hysteria, if necessary. I’ll take the body. Stand by.”
Eve took Seal-It out of her field kit, coated her shoes, her hands, then turned on her recorder.
She walked down the concrete steps to the small, flagstoned area in front of the door.
“The victim’s female, Caucasian, early twenties. She’s been placed—posed—with her right side and shoulder against the door of the basement apartment of the residence. Her head’s turned as if looking over her left shoulder. There’s some wire here.”
She pulled out her microgoggles.
“There’s wire holding her head in this position. The vic’s wearing what appears to be a costume, with a head scarf—no, looks like two scarves wound together—covering her hair, a long tunic and skirt, both gold, a white shirt—no, like a collar or scarf—under the tunic. Big pearl earrings.”
She took the left hand lying over the right in the victim’s lap, and pressed a finger to her Identi-pad.
“Victim is identified as Leesa Culver, age twenty-two. Licensed companion, street level. Resides 215 Tenth Avenue, apartment 403.”
Eve eased closer, angled her head. “Bruising on neck consistent with strangulation, as are the broken vessels in the eyes. ME to determine.
“Something about the eyes…” Carefully, Eve touched a fingertip to an eyelid. “The victim’s eyes are held open, likely with some sort of adhesive. Glue, tape.”
She sat back on her heels. “The killer wanted her eyes open. Wanted her head at this angle. Wanted it enough to use wire and adhesive to leave her in this pose.”
Pulling out her gauges she established time of death.
