The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [177]
She trailed off as the elevator bumped to a stop again. “There’s my kit,” she said as Roarke stepped out. “Start knocking. Vic’s Lombard, Trudy, out of Texas.”
She took the kit from Roarke, opened it for a can of Seal-It. “You made good time.” She coated her hands, her boots. “Might as well say it so I can say I said it. You don’t have to stay for this.”
“And so I can say I said it, I’ll say I’ll wait. Do you want help?” He eyed the can of Seal-It with some disgust.
“Better not, not in there anyway. Anyone comes out or onto the floor, you can look stern and tell them to move along.”
“A boyhood dream of mine.”
That got a wisp of a smile out of her before she stepped inside.
The room was standard, which meant it was bland. Dull, washed-out colors, a few cheap prints in cheaper frames on the tofu-colored walls. There was a midget-sized kitchenette, which included a self-stocked AutoChef, minifriggie, and a sink the size of a walnut. A stingy entertainment screen was across from the bed, where the sheets were rumpled and a remarkably ugly spread was shoved down, draping its green leaves and red flowers at the foot.
The carpet was green, thin, and pocked with a few burn holes. It had soaked up some of the blood.
There was a single window, green drapes pulled tight, and a narrow bath where the short beige counter was jammed with various face and body creams and lotions, medications, hair products. There were towels on the floor. Eve counted one bath, one washcloth, and two hand towels.
On the dresser—a just-up-a-level-from-cardboard affair with a mirror above—were a travel candle, a disc holder, a pair of faux pearl earrings, a fancy wrist unit, and a string of pearls that might have been the genuine deal.
She studied, recorded, then stepped to the body that lay between the bed and a faded red chair.
The face was turned toward her, those eyes filmed over the way death did. Blood had trickled and dried on the hair and skin of the temple, running there from where she could see the death blow at the back of the head.
She wore rings—a trio of silver bands on her left hand, a blue stone in an ornate silver setting on the right. The nightgown was good quality cotton, white as snow where it wasn’t stained with blood. It was hiked up to the top of her thighs, and exposed bruising on both legs. The left side of her face carried a whopper that had blackened the eye.
For the record, she took out her Identi-pad and verified.
“Victim is identified as Lombard, Trudy. Female, Caucasian. Age fifty-eight. Vic was discovered by primary investigator, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, at this location. The body shows bruising on both thighs as well as facial bruising.”
And that was off, Eve thought, but continued.
“Cause of death appears to be a fractured skull caused by multiple blows to the back of the head. There’s no weapon near the body.” She took out her gauges. “Time of death is found to be one-thirty this morning.”
A part of her unclenched at that. Both she and Roarke had been at home, with a couple hundred people, at the time in question.
“Examination of the wound indicates your classic blunt instrument. There is no evidence of sexual assault. Vic’s wearing rings, and there is jewelry in plain sight on the dresser. Burglary is unlikely. There’s no evidence of struggle. No defensive wounds. The room is orderly. Bed’s been slept in,” she murmured as she re-examined the lay of the land from her crouch by the body. “So why is she over here?”
Eve rose, crossed to the window, opened the drapes. The window was half-open. “Window’s open, emergency escape is easily accessible. Possibly the perpetrator entered through this route.”
She turned around again, studied again. “But she wasn’t running toward the door. Somebody crawls in your window, and you