The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [608]
She stepped inside the narrow hall that separated living from dining areas. “Whatcha got? A couple of bags, likely. Nothing big or bold. Soft black bags, probably, to carry the weapons, the jammers, protective gear. Couldn’t gear up outside, too risky. Right here, I’d wager, right here just inside the door. Pull on the gear, split up. One upstairs, one straight back to the housekeeper. No talking, just business.”
“Hand signals maybe,” Peabody suggested. “Night vision equipment.”
“Yeah. Tools in the pouch, but you know the route, the routine. You’ve done sims. Bet your ass you’ve done sims.” She walked back toward the kitchen, imagining the dark, the utter quiet. Straight back, she thought. Been here before or had a blueprint. She flicked a glance toward the table and benches where Nixie had been.
“Wouldn’t see the kid, wouldn’t be looking.”
She went into a crouch, and had to angle her body to see the police marker where Nixie’s soda had been found. “And even if you glanced around, you wouldn’t see a little girl lying on the bench. Attention’s this way, toward the housekeeper’s rooms.”
Inga had been neat, as she’d expect of someone who made her living cleaning up other people’s debris. She could see the order under the disorder caused by the sweepers. Catch the fresh scents, and the death scents, under the smear of chemicals.
And she imagined Nixie creeping in, the excitement of a child hoping to catch adults in a forbidden act.
In the bedroom, blood patterned the walls, the bedside table and lamp, pooled on the sheets, had dripped to the floor.
“She liked the right side of the bed, probably a side sleeper. See?” Eve moved into the murder zone, gestured to the spatter pattern.
“He walks up to this side, has to—or wants to—lift her head up. The spatter shows that her head was turned a little, so her body’s on her left side, facing away from the bed—the way he left her after he cut her throat. Her blood’s on him now, but he doesn’t worry about that. Take care of that before he leaves. Walks right out again, walks right by the kid.”
Illustrating, Eve turns, heads out. “Must’ve passed inches away from her. Smart kid, scared kid. She doesn’t make a peep.”
Turning again, she studied the bedroom. “Nothing out of place. He doesn’t touch anything but her. Isn’t interested in anything but her, and the rest of the mission.”
“Is that how you see it? A mission?”
“What else?” Eve shrugged. “Leaves, work’s done here. Why doesn’t he take the back steps?”
“Ah . . .” Peabody frowned in concentration, looked at the layout. “Positioning? Master bedroom’s actually closer to the main stairs. That’s probably where his partner was stationed. Does another sweep by going around that way.”
“Adults have to come first, have to be done at the same time.” Eve nodded as they made the trip around. “He probably has a way to signal his partner that the first wave is complete and he’s on his way.”
She glanced at the blood, the occasional drops of it staining floor or carpet, stair treads. “He leaves a little trail, but no big. It’s her blood, not his. This down here, on the right, will all be the housekeeper’s. They removed the bloody gear, stuffed it in the bags before they came down again.”
“Cold,” Peabody commented. “No hand slapping, no good job. Slice five people, strip off the gear, and move on.”
“Straight up, straight in while the kid pulls it together enough to get the pocket ’link and call nine-one-one. Y off in here, in the main bedroom, one to each side of the bed. Same pattern as the housekeeper. They’ve got a rhythm down. Terminate the targets, move out and on.”
“They slept back-to-back,” Peabody pointed out. “The ass-to-ass snuggle. McNab and I do that, mostly.”
Eve was seeing them, husband and wife, mother and father, sleeping butt-to-butt