What did was the way other female officers treated her. Womenwere still a minority in the force, and in Grey’s ideal world, she would’ve preferred solidarity, no matter how kumbaya that made her sound. But a lot of older female cops had come up in an era of policing that equated femininity with weakness and machismo with respect. Unfortunately, Grey was a bottle-service moonlighter who wore a lot of pink. She understood that she and her colleagues were all just products of their times, and while she might wish differently, there was no forcing friendship. So she’d resigned herself to keeping her head down, her mouth shut, and her clearance rate unimpeachable, and to hell with the whispers.
“What do we know so far?” she asked Cliff, redirecting.
His voice took on the well-oiled rhythm of a man who’d given this rundown plenty of times. “Victim’s name is Elizabeth Drake. Thirty-three years old. Her mom called from the family home in Iowa. Said Drake moved out here years ago to work in the industry but was currently unemployed. Claimed there was no history of mental illness.”
“Drake, huh?” The name stirred something. “I swear I’ve heard that before.”
“Sounds familiar to me, too,” Cliff agreed. “We haven’t found any signs of forced entry, other than your Officer Cowboy getting rough with the door, so the killer might’ve known Drake or had a key. She was shot in the temple, at close range. The bullet hole is small, so we’re looking at a lightweight handgun, maybe a nine millimeter.”
“Easy to handle,” Grey observed. “And conceal.”
“You know what’s not?” Cliff gestured to the streaks of blood and gore that had turned the wall into a Jackson Pollock painting. “The shooter was close enough to get sprayed.”
Grey turned to one of Cliff’s assistants. “Check the bathrooms to see if the shooter washed up and left any DNA. And go downstairs and tell Officer Gomez to start knocking on neighbors’ doors. We need to know if anyone saw or heard anything unusual around…” She glanced at Cliff.
“My best guess is she’s been dead anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. I’ll know more once I get her on my table.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Grey concluded. “Through the evening.” The assistant nodded and left.
“An execution-style killing,” Grey mused, returning to the body.“Single bullet to the head.” Elizabeth Drake was dressed like she was on her way to Pilates, which suggested she hadn’t realized she was under imminent threat of death.
“It’s a cold job,” Cliff agreed. “You don’t normally see a professional-style hit on a girl like this. Sorority type.”
Grey turned to the most unsettling part of the room, other than the body. “Now tell me about that.”
She pointed at the wall, where the wordsI EAT TRAITORS FOR BREAKFASTwere streaked in large crimson letters. “Is that what it looks like?”
“It’s blood,” he confirmed. “We’ll have to test to be sure, but I’m guessing it came from Drake.”
“So our killer enters the house—either invited or found a way to sneak in—makes their way to the bedroom, shoots Drake, dips their fingers into that hole in her head, and finger-paints this message. Then they walk right out, possibly in broad daylight, and no one calls in anything suspicious.”
Cliff whistled. “Someone hated her. Maybe an ex?”
Grey’s eyes roved over the words on the wall. “You don’t go to the trouble of writing a message in blood unless you want to make a statement you hope others will see. I think it’s a warning. But to who?”
She studied the rest of the bedroom, which was wall-to-wall pink. Drake’s mansion was styled like a mid-century cottage. Most of the houses in Bel Air’s exclusive zip code, like the two that dwarfed this one, were ostentatious mansions owned by entertainment moguls, complete with helipads. Grey was willing to bet that this home, even though it was on the smaller side, would still net north of two million. Even if Drake was renting, it would’ve cost a pretty penny.
“Her mom said she lived here alone?” Grey asked. “And she was unemployed?”
Cliff caught her drift. “Maybe she was an heiress. Or an actress between projects, and that’s why her name sounds familiar. Face might look more recognizable once we clean her up.”
“Or maybe she’s an OnlyFans celeb,” snickered a uniformed cop who’d wandered upstairs. “And it’s not her face that’s famous.”
Grey slid him a cool look. “You find that funny?”
His smile deflated. “I guess not.”
She scanned the room. “If Drakewasrunning her own content business, there’d be filming and lighting equipment in the house, and I haven’t seen any.” She turned to Cliff. “Have your guys found anything?”
“Nada.”
“That’s why we don’t speculate without proof,” she told the cop, who would undoubtedly dislike her from this moment forward. He could join the club. “And why we stay professional.”
The cop cleared his throat. “Detective, I was sent to tell you that the message on the wall is a lyric from a Scout Sage song. Officer Kelly recognized it.”
“Who’s Scout Sage?” asked Cliff.
“A pop singer,” Grey answered, before the cop could. “Not exactly famous, but on the rise.”
