The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [61]
She parked a block back and walked up as the sky was just beginning to lighten with the first tinge of dawn. Half a dozen neighbors hovered in overpriced doorways, wearing silk dressing robes and Burberry overcoats and gazing at Rainie cautiously as she passed. The neighbors looked scared. The tall, narrow town houses sat shoulder to shoulder, and for all their impression of discreet wealth, they weren’t that different from one long apartment complex. Now, a very bad thing had happened down the hall, and not all the money in the world could put enough distance between that and them.
Rainie arrived at Bethie’s residence. Inside the hastily roped off perimeter, a young officer was guarding the scene, sipping coffee from Wawa’s and yawning every two or three seconds. Rainie flashed her PI’s license.
“Nope,” he said.
“I’m working for FBI Agent Pierce Quincy,” she countered.
“And I’m working for Mayor John F. Street. Fuck off.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” She arched a brow, then dropped her voice to deadly serious. “Hey rookie, go inside. Find Supervisory Special Agent Quincy and tell him Lorraine Conner is here.”
“Why?”
“Because I work with him, because he personally called me to this scene, and because you don’t want to start your day getting your ass kicked by a girl.”
“Like I’m going to start my day taking orders from one—”
“Officer.”
Both Rainie and the young officer jerked their attention to the open doorway. Of all people, Special Agent Glenda Rodman stood there, wearing the same stark gray suit from the day before, except as she’d also been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, her dark hair was a bit more mussed around her face. Rainie thought the hairstyle was kinder, but mostly she was mortified at being caught in yet another losing battle.
“Special Agent Quincy has requested Ms. Conner’s presence,” Glenda informed the officer. “Do allow her in, and don’t mind what she says. I understand that she’s not a morning person.”
“Oh, I like mornings just fine. It’s people I can’t stand.”
“If you will follow me . . .”
Officer I’m-in-Charge grudgingly raised the police tape. In turn, Rainie flashed him a gloating smile, then immediately blanked her features before entering the scene. She had no sooner followed Special Agent Rodman into the foyer, when she was assaulted with the stench of blood.
She recoiled, caught herself, and for a moment, simply had to stand her ground. Special Agent Rodman had stopped as well. Her expression was patient, perhaps even kind. At that moment, Rainie understood just how bad it was going to get.
Blood was everywhere. Streaked across ecru-colored walls, splattered onto oil canvases, pooled on parquet floors and century-old silk carpets. In the foyer, the table had been toppled, the phone yanked out of its socket, and the answering machine dashed against a massive gold-framed mirror. Shards of glass riddled the floor, and the sweet smell of alcohol mingled with bodily fluids.
Jesus, Rainie thought. She couldn’t get beyond that. Jesus.
Special Agent Rodman was moving. She led Rainie into the dining room, where crime-scene technicians were now dusting a gleaming cherrywood table for prints, while another pair of officers were rolling up the oriental rug to be shipped to the lab. Glenda paused again. She was providing a tour of the scene, Rainie realized. Giving discreet but effective highlights of events.
It would appear that the attack started in the foyer. Given the spray pattern, the weapon was maybe a knife or blunt object. Elizabeth is ambushed. Elizabeth fights back. Elizabeth runs into the dining room. A gilded French lamp. Rainie saw it ripped out of the wall and flung across the room. The base bore a small round mark of blood and hair. His? Hers? She supposed it depended on who grabbed the lamp first. More spray patterns on the far