Faithless in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  “Music off.”

  In the silence she looked at the victim, a small-statured female in sweatpants cut off at the knees, a sweatshirt cut off at the armpits.

  Blood matted her hair, short, ink black with streaks of bright blue. “From the position of the wound, it looks like it hit slightly to the right—and she went down to the left. Came up behind her, that’s clear enough,” Eve commented. “She’s standing there at that worktable, facing it, the window, working on that hunk of stone.”

  “It’s marble, I think.”

  “Okay. She’s got tools right there. A chisel, a hammer, there’s bits of stone on the table, on the floor. Got the music going, the lights on. It’d be hard to see her from the street because the worktable’s too far back. But she can see out if she wants.”

  “No sign of struggle. The coffee sack …” Peabody frowned at it. “Somebody starts up—most likely the nine-one-one caller, right? Sees the body, drops the bag. Splat.”

  “That’s how it looks. No obvious signs of burglary or theft up here, either. A lot of statues—finished, half-finished. A lot of stone and wood and tools. The killer comes in—we’ll take a good look at the door for tampering—comes up the steps. Picks up that mallet—plenty of that sort of thing right there on that other bench. Wham”.

  She held up a finger, circled the body. “Or possibly she’s had some wine and sex with someone. And he comes up with her. They argue—or started to argue downstairs. She’s done, calls for the music, picks up her tools. And in that moment when people just lose their fucking minds, he grabs the mallet and crushes her skull. Probably bashes her a couple times. Then it’s: Oh shit. Or: She deserved it. And he gets the hell out.”

  “Her neighbor might know if she was seeing anyone.”

  “Yeah, we’ll check on that.” With her field kit, Eve crouched down, doing what she could to avoid the pool of blood. Using her Identi-pad to confirm ID, she read it into the record.

  “Victim is officially identified as Ariel Byrd of this address, mixed-race female, age twenty-seven. I’ve got the body, Peabody. Start downstairs, start with the bedroom. Let’s see if we can lift some prints or DNA off the wineglasses.”

  She didn’t need the microgoggles to examine the wound. “At least two blows from the shape, the width. And since the killer left the weapon right here, easily identified. Bagging for evidence.”

  She bagged it, sealed it, labeled it, set it aside. “Vic’s wearing work gloves and boots and protective goggles.”

  Eve leaned in, angled her head to look through the goggles to the dark eyes—filmed now—that stared back at her. Then took out her gauges to confirm time of death.

  “TOD, twenty-two-forty-eight. COD, blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. ME to confirm.”

  Since the victim was about five-three and maybe a hundred pounds, Eve didn’t call Peabody to help her turn the body.

  “Yeah, she tipped to the left, damage to right cheekbone where it slammed against the floor. Hard fall.” She lifted the sweatshirt. “Rammed the table first, bet we’ve got a broken rib here. Couple of strong, hard blows from behind. The victim slams forward—but this table’s bolted down so it doesn’t move. Then she goes down to the left. I’m saying that’s when the killer follows up with the next hit, and that turns her head so she hits the floor with the right side of her face. She’s dead before she hits the floor.”

  Eve duckwalked back, mindful of the blood. She straightened, took out her ’link to call for a wagon and the sweepers.

  Crouching again, she examined the take-out bag, used a finger to press on one of the muffins.

  Still fresh, she noted, so from this morning.

  She flagged the bag and contents for the sweepers.

  She took a tour around the space, a dedicated work space. Tools, tarps, a mini-AutoChef, and a tiny friggie that held water and a couple of energy drinks. An easel stood in the corner holding a series of sketches.

  The wood, of course, the stone. Some pieces seemed finished to her—and some delicate, some chunky and rough. Faces in the stone, a nude woman, a nude man, a couple of indeterminate sex caught in an embrace.

  And in wood a dragon curled as if in sleep, a woman standing en pointe, a many-branched tree with a hint of a face in the trunk.

  Most likely, Eve considered, she’d had some success. She wasn’t an expert on art, but the pieces had something that clicked with her.

  Either success, she thought as she started downstairs, or somebody backing her financially. Rent in a space like this in the West Village wouldn’t come cheap.

  She scanned the living area.

  No sign of any disturbance.

  A wall screen, and a sofa that looked comfortably saggy, covered in dark pink, bright blue, deep green stripes. A big, thick rug—probably in deference to her downstairs neighbor—covered most of the floor. An eating area defined by a square table in that same deep pink, four chairs, two in the blue and two in the green. Flowers in a stone—marble?—vase.

  The flowers looked very fresh.

  No clutter, she thought, unless you counted the art crammed on the walls. All kinds of art, some framed, some just tacked-up sketches.

  She glanced in the kitchen. A single counter, and the bottle of red with maybe half a glass left. She marked it for the sweepers.

  More wine, some cheese, some yogurt, some energy drinks in a refrigerator that looked as if it had done duty for a couple decades. An old AC—and she checked for last programmed.

  No dishes in the sink.

  She circled out and paused by the open door of a home office doubling as a guest room. Neat, uncluttered, colorful, Eve noted, with the bed made, the pillows plumped.

  Someone—maybe the victim—had painted a mural on one wall, a street scene of sidewalk artists at their easels, cars blurring by.

  She flagged the mini data and communication unit on the table under the window for EDD before continuing on.

  The bathroom, clean again, simple. She opened the door of the mirrored cabinet over the sink to find some over-the-counter meds, organized by type. She took a moment to check the drawers and cabinet of the vanity before joining Peabody in the main bedroom.

  Peabody stood, hands on hips, frowning at the room.

  Two stands flanked the unmade bed, with a lamp and a print-dust-coated wineglass on each. The single horizontal window had a privacy screen—unengaged.

  Peabody turned. “I wanted you to see it before I bagged the glasses. Prints on both. The vic’s on the one on the right of the bed. The ones on the left aren’t in the system. The lab’s going to find DNA on the glasses and these sheets.”

  “Yeah, that’s not sleep mode. Did you check the drawers in the stands?”

  “A tablet, her ’link, and a sketch pad and pencils in a case in the one on the right. Nothing on the left. No calls, texts, incoming or outgoing, on the ’link since mid-afternoon. Then just a text. I recorded the number, registered to a Gwendolyn Huffman.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Just: I’m looking forward to our sitting. The victim texted back she was, too, and the texter said she’d see her soon, and wouldn’t come empty-handed.”

  “No time stated. Bag it for EDD. No condoms, no sex toys,” Eve added. “Not here, not in the bathroom. Closet?”

  “Just clothes, shoes, a couple of handbags—one day, one evening. Two rolly bags, the small inside the large. She wasn’t a clotheshorse,” Peabody added as Eve walked to the closet to look herself.

  “But you can see she organized what she had by type. Work clothes, street clothes, one basic black dress, a couple of what I’d call fun-night-out outfits. Shoes the same way. She’s got underwear, sleep clothes, workout gear, and that sort of thing in the dresser—organized by type again. One small drawer for jewelry—costume, arty, fun stuff. Everything’s tidy, Dallas, and nothing looks as if anyone went through it looking for anything.”

  “No, not here, not anywhere else.”

  “It bugs m
e.”

  Yeah, it did, Eve thought, but turned. “Speak.”

  “Okay, so you look around the place—her studio upstairs, the living space down here—and everything’s clean, really neat and tidy. Except for the art on the walls, she was a serious minimalist, and clearly liked everything clean and in its place.”

  “Agreed.”

  “No discarded shirt tossed on the little chair over there, no shoes kicked off anywhere to be put back on or put away later.”

  “No dirty dishes—except those glasses,” Eve added. “The spread thing’s folded on top of the bench at the foot of the bed, but the sheets are tangled, half kicked off. Not sleep mode. Sex mode.”

  “Maybe I can see leaving the bed messy—she’s going to smooth it out before coming back to sleep. That’s a little stretch considering how, you know, precise she was in her living style, but I don’t see her leaving those used wineglasses.”

  “She used the kitchen AC at eighteen-ten last night to order up a single serving of chicken and rice with a side of brussels sprouts. Those dishes, and the ones from what she ordered for breakfast yesterday at zero-eight-twenty, lunch at thirteen-thirty-five, are in the dishwasher, clean. She programmed it to run at eighteen-twenty-eight.”

  “So maybe she didn’t feel like emptying it so she could load the wineglasses, but I don’t see her leaving them in here.”

  “Doesn’t fit the pattern,” Eve agreed.

  “She’s having wine and sex with somebody, and all signs say consensual. But somewhere along the line, there’s an argument. Serious enough for the victim to get up, throw on some work clothes, and not follow pattern by tidying up. She’s like: ‘I’m not doing this again. We’re done. Get dressed, get out. I’m going to work.’ ”

  “Following that line,” Eve said, “the dumped lover doesn’t want it to be done, doesn’t want to get out. And concludes the fight by bashing the victim with a mallet.”

  “Crime of passion,” Peabody concluded. ‘ “I’ll show you who’s done, bitch!’ ”

  “Decent probability on all of that. The morgue and the sweepers are on the way. Let’s have a look at the entrance door, and flag the sheets. The sweepers can take them, the glasses, and the rest.”

  “They’re going to find DNA,” Peabody predicted, “but if the prints aren’t on file …”

  “DNA being on file for the as-yet-unidentified lover is less likely,” Eve finished as she opened the front door, hunkered down. She put on microgoggles to study the lock, the key-card swipe.

  “Cheap crap,” she muttered, “but no sign I can see of tampering. Let’s have EDD come in, check it—and see if they can tell how many times it was accessed yesterday. They can check the main door downstairs, too. Possibility: One lover storms out. ‘Fuck you, Ariel.’ She’s upstairs, music on, working. Second lover comes in. Hard to square someone without any sex toys or basic protection juggling a couple of bed partners, but maybe. Second lover sees bed, wineglasses. Why, that bitch! Walks up, bashes her. ‘That’ll teach you to cheat on me.’ ”

  “Being tidy and organized doesn’t mean she wasn’t a bitch, and one tangling sheets with multiples.” Even so, Peabody sighed. “Too bad if she turns out to be a cheater, because I really like her work.”

  When she heard the steps clanging, Eve replaced the goggles in her field kit. “That should be the morgue or the sweepers. Either way, let’s get them started, then go down and talk to the neighbor. She might know who the vic liked to tangle sheets with.”

  2

  Tall, slender, and visibly distressed, Hettie Brownstone let them into an apartment that smelled of vanilla from a candle burning on the ledge over a small electric fireplace. Unlike Byrd’s space, this one didn’t come within a mile of minimalistic.

  Toys jumbled from a trio of stacked tubes in one corner and pillows forested the couch. A kind of cubby/tree inside the entrance held kid-size—and a few adult-size—shoes, boots, jackets, hats.

  Dust catchers abounded.

  “Is it true? There isn’t a mistake? About Ariel?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Her eyes teared up, but she shook her head, gestured. “Please, sit down. I haven’t been to the market—I was going to go after getting my daughter to school, but… I have some tea, and some juice tubes.”

  “We’re fine,” Eve told her.

  “Can you tell me what happened? It’s awful not knowing what happened, and right upstairs from where my little girl sleeps.”

  “We’re investigating.”

  Brownstone dropped down in a chair, grabbed the pillow tucked in behind her, and hugged it. “The officers I talked to didn’t say, but I got the impression it wasn’t an accident.”

  “No, ma’am, it wasn’t an accident.”

  Now she squeezed her eyes shut. “She was so … blasé about security. The landlord’s useless when it comes to security, to improvement. Even repairs take forever. I put the camera and security locks on the apartment myself, and I can tell you I’ve learned how to do some basic plumbing. Actually, Ariel showed me how to change a washer and clean out a drain. That’s how we got to know each other.”

  “How well did you know each other?”

  “We’re the only tenants, both women, both single. But she’s very private, and as a single mother, a working one, I’m insanely busy most of the time. We’re friendly, but we don’t—didn’t,” she corrected, “really socialize or hang together. I teach dance six days a week, and I have Tasha. My socializing consists of playdates, trips to the park, kid vids. Ariel teaches art, and works hard and seriously at her own.”

  “You had access to her unit.”

  “Yes. Ariel had a cat—Rodin. She sometimes travels to art festivals, and she asked if I’d look after Rodin, go up, make sure he had food and water, give him a little company whenever she was away. He died last winter. I completely forgot to give her the key card back. And she never asked, so it slipped my mind. I gave it to the police.”

  “Yes, we have it. Can you tell us about your evening?”

  “Oh, sure.” She pushed both hands through a wild mass of curly black hair. “Like I told the other officers, after I picked up Tasha from school, we came home. I fixed her a snack, and she took a nap while I taught a class in my studio across the hall. I use a monitor so I can see and hear her if she wakes up. The security on the front is worthless, in my opinion, but I can’t afford to fix it myself. I keep the apartment locked if she’s sleeping and I’m teaching, but I have the monitor.”

  “You know she’s safe,” Peabody put in.

  “Yes.” Brownstone’s hand fluttered up to the top button of her shirt, twisted at it. “I don’t want you to think I neglect her. It’s just the two of us. Her father hasn’t been in the picture since before she was born—his choice. I filed for professional-mother status for the first six months, but …”

  “You need to work,” Eve said.

  “I do. I want her to know I’m supporting us, using what I have to teach. Anyway, we have a routine, and she generally conks during the three o’clock class, then we bring some of her toys over so she can play during the next class. After that there’s dinner, and a walk to the park if the weather’s good or whatever we’re up for. Then I have an eight o’clock—the thirteen-to seventeen-year-old students. Tasha likes to dance with the kids, and they don’t mind. After that, I lock up, put her to bed. Sometimes that’s quick and easy, sometimes not.” She smiled a little. “Last night was quick and easy, so I had her down for the count about quarter after nine, took a shower. I had some wine, and started nodding off in front of the screen. So I went to bed.”

  “Did you hear anything from upstairs, hear anyone come in or go out of the building? The stairs are loud,” Eve pointed out.

  “Tell me about it. I invested in soundproofing for that exact reason. Do either of you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let me tell you, when you’ve walked the floor with a teething baby, finally get her to sleep, and s
omebody comes clanging up the damn stairs and wakes her up, you want to murder them.”

  She jerked back. “I didn’t actually mean—”

  “We get it,” Peabody assured her.

  “The landlord wouldn’t spring for soundproofing, but told me if I wanted to spend the money on it, go ahead. Actually, my parents paid for it. They live upstate.”

  “What do you know about Ms. Byrd’s friends, her romantic relationships?”

  “Oh, not much, if anything. I know she had students on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and every other Saturday afternoon. If I had a class or was going in or out of the building, I’d see them coming in. She never talked to me about anyone she was seeing.”

  Again, she shook her head. “I lit that candle for her. Silly, I guess, but I wanted to … If I’d made more time, put more effort into getting to know her, I might be able to help now.”

  “You have helped,” Peabody told her.

  “Part of me wants to shut everything down and run back upstate. I’ve lived in the city since I was seventeen and had a chance to study with the Company. I had dreams of being a prima ballerina. I made it to principal,” she said with a smile. “And then there was Tasha. I don’t regret for a single second choosing her over that dream. She is the dream. And this is the first time I’ve even thought about leaving. Can’t do it.”

  She lifted her hands, let them fall. “We’ve made our life here, and it’s a good one. But I hope to God you find who did this to Ariel, not only so I can sleep at night, but because she didn’t deserve this. What I knew of her was she was a good person, a talented artist, and a considerate neighbor.”

  Outside, as they walked back to the car, Peabody slipped her hands into her pretty pink coat because, to her thinking, it made it more of a stroll.

  “Parenting’s hard,” she commented. “Single parenting without the other parent involved has to be brutal. But that was a happy apartment. You could feel it.”

  “It’ll be happier when we find out who killed her neighbor.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  “What do we know, Peabody?”