Jazz apparently had mastered minimalism in his approach to home decorating. I knew exactly what he needed to make the place homey: me. Of course, the lack of a corpse would do wonders as well.
Carly stopped at two wet spots pooled just inside the door. Broken pieces of pottery caught my eye.Aw, man!
It must not have been a good night for Addie Lee’s Starry Night mugs. So much for getting Jazz’s. I briefly——and selfishly——wondered if he had two of them.
They’re rare, clown girl! Besides, this is no time to ponder adding to my Addie Lee art collection.
Carly crouched down to examine the wet spots. Sniffed. Wrinkled her nose. “One is urine.” A broken red fingernail lay beside it. She stood up again. “The other has no odor. It’s probably water.” Carefully, she walked out of the living area, toward a full-size bed perched in a corner by one of windows.His bed.
I followed her, hands and Amos behind me. Jazz’s bed had a cast-iron headboard wrought into several hundred candleholders that he’d filled with white candles. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that many, but they looked so beautiful, lit up as if in a sanctuary. A lovely patchwork quilt, made of a rich jewel-toned shimmery fabric, lay folded at the foot of the bed——no doubt another gift from Jazz’s mother for me to covet. God have mercy on me, the things I could picture doing in that bed, if it weren’t for the dead woman sprawled in the center of the mattress, looking frail and pitiful beneath the white satin sheet, which covered her partially clad body from the waist down.
I followed Carly over to the bed, my steps heavy, as if I had worn steel-toed work boots instead of my gold sparkly shoes. The former Mrs. Brown was not quite resting in peace, her body an odd pale blue except for her bloodred face. My heart plunged to my shoes.
Carly snapped a vinyl glove on her hand and pulled the sheet back, exposing the body. Kate had been posed in a most unflattering, sexually suggestive way.
A primal scream sounded in my head. My legs threatened to fold beneath me, and I stumbled into Carly. She turned swiftly and caught me, forcing me upright. Her half nod, a brisk downward thrust of her chin, gave me a little courage.
I muttered to her, “Excuse me, Dr. Brown.” I tried to regain some semblance of composure and took a deep breath before I looked again.
Kate wore only a man’s white button-down shirt. What must have been her clothing——a little black dress that I could have fit into when I was five——frilly black panties, a demi-bra, a garter, and thigh-high panty hose lay neatly folded on the floor by the bed, her black stilettos upright beside them.
Death pallor aside, Kate Townsend had to be one of the prettiest women I’d ever seen. When Jazz and I first met, he told me that I reminded him of a story about a monk and an actress. He was the monk, Nonnus, and I was his Pelagia, the woman who inspired him at first sight. Or so he said. After seeing Kate, I had my doubts. She had the kind of beauty that could awaken a man; I didn’t. She and Jazz must have made a lovely pair.
I hate to admit how much that disturbed me.
She had fair skin, like Jazz, but a bit more tawny, and the same exotic biracial good looks. She couldn’t have been over thirty years old. Her brown hair had been coiffed to perfection in a sweeping updo. White rhinestones dotted her crimson nails——nails now broken, as evidenced by the one on the floor near the urine. Some had been torn off completely——defensive wounds.
She didn’t go easy. Good for you, Kate.
She was wearing false eyelashes, which gave her a dramatic Audrey Hepburn inBreakfast at Tiffany’s look. A stunner. She’d obviously made a big production of how she looked tonight, the poor doll. Now her striking hazel eyes looked dramatic because they were bulging in wide-eyed terror. Mouth open, tongue protruding over her bloodred lipstick, competing with the unnatural ruddiness of her face.
Carly bent over the body. She manipulated the woman’s open mouth, then prodded and turned her head. “She’s still warm——no rigor yet. I don’t think she’s been dead over a few hours, if it’s been that long.” Carly shook her head, a look of disgust shadowing her face. I wondered if she’d been thinking he’d come to me right after.
A wave of nausea washed over me.
She pointed to Kate’s neck, circled with angry red abrasions and contusions. She spoke directly to me: “You can see the external damage to the structure of her neck. I have no doubt that it’s worse internally.” She pointed to a thumbprint-size impression on the side of Kate’s larynx. “These impressions are from his fingers.”
“Whose fingers, Dr. Brown?” I asked.
It was a breech on my part, one she didn’t respond favorably to. She shot me a hard look. “Her murderer’s.”
“Assuming the person is a he.”
She ignored me, speaking in terse ME-speak. “The wounds are consistent with hand strangulation.”
Strangling someone to death is not like shooting them——bam, bam, you’re dead. It takes about four minutes for a person to die from strangulation. Foureternal minutes. I couldn’t imagine Jazz being that angry or cruel.
Carly asked me, like the curious innocent she wasn’t, “What kind of killer would do this, Doctor?”
Not my Jazz.I didn’t respond.
She turned her attention back to the body. “The bruises indicate alot ”——the word emphasized for my sake——“of unnecessary force.” She pointed to Kate’s eyes. “She’s got the telltale petechial hemorrhaging consistent with strangulation.”
An image of Jazz’s hands flashed before me. I blinked it away.
Just breathe, Bell. Think.
I tried to act like a pro——as if the man I loved weren’t the one who could have done this. “Carly, the urine on the floor by the door? Is that from the victim?”
“The crime lab will be able to tell us later, but it’s common for a victim’s bladder to void during this kind of violent act.”
“Could she have been murdered over by the door, then moved to the bed?”
“She shows signs of lividity, although it’s not fixed, which means she’s probably been in this position for the short time she’s been dead. Whether she died in this bed or not, I can’t say.”
A burly, balding, brown-haired man entered the apartment, ambled over to us, and stood by my side. His pasty white skin provided a sharp contrast to his curly dark hair. The poor soul needed vitamins or some sun. He had all the appeal and energy of a crumpled paper bag. He rocked back on his heels and regarded me curiously. Then he nodded and thrust out his hand, attached to an arm that looked like a pale ham hock. “Detective Bobby Maguire,” he said, sounding as bored and irritated as a teenager. “And you are?” His bushy eyebrows curved up like twin question marks.
I shifted Amos’s box to my left hand and offered my right. He shook it harder than was necessary.
Carly spoke up. “This is Dr…. uh, Dr. Amanda…”
“I’m a forensic psychologist,” I said, as if that would give me permission to be there.
Carly chimed in, “She’s worked another case with me. I wanted her to see this.”
He shot an incredulous look at me, pajama girl. “What’s your name again?”
“Dr. Amanda…” Saying Brown, when that was both Carly and Jazz’s last name, seemed a bit like overkill. No pun intended.
“Dr. Amanda what?”
I gave him a tight, professional smile. “Dr. Amanda is fine, Detective.”
He returned it with his own fake grin. “I didn’t realize the medical examiner’s office sent out forensic psychologists on death investigations.”
Carly, still busying herself with the body, spoke with arresting authority: “I said she’s withme. ” She grinned at him to charm the sting away. “I didn’t say she was from our office.”
He shrugged. “I see. Interesting outfit for a death investigator.”
“Hey!” I said. I had absolutely nothing to put behind that. While my mind whirred, searching for data to fill in the blanks, my favorite sleuth came to mind with a lightbulb-ov
er-the-headbing . “Have you ever watchedColumbo on television, Detective Maguire?”
Maguire had to be at least fifty, just the right age to remember the popular show well. He nodded.
“He had his own special uniform.” I raised my arms with a flourish, drawing attention to both Amos’s box and my clothing. “Pajamas and sparkly shoes are my version of Columbo’s trench coat.”
I put my hands on my hips, firmly gripping the handle on Amos’s box while the poor thing flopped around inside. “Maybe this is what makes me comfortable so I can give my brilliant assessments. Maybe it helps me to ask important questions that will help you catch the nutjob who did this. Questions like: Why is she in the bed instead of over there by the door, where the urine is?”
I got a blistering stare from him, but after a moment his gaze softened in what must have been recognition. “Are you two related? You look like you could be sisters.”
“Sir,” I said, my hands still on my hips, but resisting the urge to rock my neck sistah-girl fashion. I moved closer to him in what I hoped he’d find an intimidating half step. “Are you suggesting that all black women look alike?”
Detective Bobby Maguire showed no sign of being put off by my question. He pointed a stubby finger at Amos’s temporary dwelling. “What’s in the box you’ve got there?”
I thought it best not to do the whole sugar-glider routine. “Detective Maguire, I’m sure you want me out of your way so you can work. If you’ll excuse me, I really have to concentrate.”
He smirked. “Don’t let me interrupt, Dr. Amanda. I’m just the lead detective here.”
I turned back to Carly. “Why would she be in the bed if she was killed near the door?”
Carly looked away, but Maguire didn’t. “You don’t know for certain she got killed near the door,” the detective answered.
“Right.” I looked back at him. “She just peed on the floor because she wasn’t wearing her Depends.”
“You don’t know if it’s her urine, and even if she did get killed by the door, it’s not so hard to believe he could have moved her.”
Bobby Maguire annoyed me. “Why would he put her in his bed?” I asked.
“Maybe he was sending some sort of message.”
“What kind of message? It wasn’ther he wanted in his bed.”
“How do you know that? Do you know Lieutenant Brown?”
I panicked and raised my voice. “I know him.”
“Do you?” Maguire asked. The question reeked with innuendo.
“She was his ex,” I said, wanting to kick myself for making it crystal clear that not only did I know Jazz, I knew him well. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “‘Ex’ means it’s over.”
“Not always.”
“Why pose her like that?”
The detective sighed. “Maybe he wanted her to look sexy.”
He knew good and well the message had nothing to do with Kate Townsend being sexy.
“Do you find anything about that pose sexy, Detective?”
Carly nudged me, clearly peeved. “I think you made your point, Be——Doctor.”
“That pose,” I said, ignoring my sister’s prodding, “is humiliating. It’s a message, all right, and not the kind made by a person in the heat of a crime of passion.”
Maguire didn’t bother to mask his diminishing patience with me. “What do you mean, Dr. Amanda?”
I walked back over to the door with him following. Carly stayed by the bed. I said, “Let’s say,hypothetically, Jazz did strangle Kate. How would things have progressed?”
Maguire said nothing.
“We’ll assume Kate came here for…something.” And I assumed it wasn’t to be strangled to death. As a matter of fact, I knew what she had come for. The thought made my breath try to heave out of my lungs again, while my knees decided to get to know each other better. She had wanted what I wanted: Jazz. And in a way that was so personal, so intimate. It stripped my very soul to think that she had once had what I wanted.
It took every bit of professionalism, biofeedback training, minor acting skill from one high school play, and a quick, silent prayer for mercy to hold my body in check. I couldn’t let Maguire and Carly see me fall apart. And maybe I needed to hold myself together for Kate.
Who was I kidding? I needed to be strong and see this through for Bell. What in the world had I gotten myself involved with? Or rather, whom?
Heaven help me!
“They argued. He wanted her to leave, which brought them here by the door. Maybe she didn’t want to leave. It got physical,” I went on.
Maguire chimed in, “Maybe she’s the one who wanted to leave, and he tried to stop her with the little choke hold cops know all about.” He shrugged.
I didn’t like his take and kept rolling with my own not exactly stellar spin. “Maybe in the struggle, he grabbed her by the neck and started choking her.” I held my hands out, shaking them as if strangling someone, but I could hardly stand it. I couldn’t picture Jazz doing it. Notmy Jazz. “The action took place right here.” I took a deep breath. “She was dying. Her bladder emptied involuntarily.”
I stopped. Shut my eyes against the image assaulting my mind. I saw Jazz’s hands——the same hands that had delicately caressed my face this very night. Hands that had outlined my lips after I kissed him.
“No,” I said aloud without intending to. He couldn’t have. The thought of him doing the kind of violence evident at this scene drained me of energy. “Kate slumped to the floor.” I became less aware of everything and everyone around me, except Maguire studying me as if he suspected me as the prime suspect. But the scene compelled me.
Dear God, what happened here?
My pulse drummed in my head, and my knees began to tremble. “She was dead,” I said.
Bobby scratched his head, looking more bored than confused. “He’d drag her over to the bed.”
“Are there drag marks on her heels?”
Carly cradled one of Kate’s heels in her hand. “No.”
“Then he picked her up and took her to the bed,” Maguire said.
I was buffeted by an image——tender and golden——of Jazz sweeping me off my feet and into his arms on the night I met him. I could see him picking her up, just as he’d done to me.
“Why put her in his bed? There’s no good reason for it,” I said.
Maguire quipped, “So she can rest in peace.” The two uniforms who had previously guarded the door snickered.
“Something else doesn’t make sense,” I added.
“What’s that, girl Columbo in shiny shoes?”
“Why would he cover her from the waist down with the sheet if he posed her like that? I mean, I’ve known of murderers who have closed their victims’ eyes or turned their heads. It’s an effort to relieve the guilt. They don’t want the victim’s stare to accuse them. But that pose…it begs for attention.”
“Maybe he posed her ’cause he’s a slime bag——make that amurdering slime bag, Dr. Amanda. Your theories are interesting and all, but you’re a shrink, not a homicide detective. It looks pretty clear-cut to me. Maybe they gave each other a little sumthin’-sumthin’ now and then. It ain’t unusual between exes. Things got crazy. He killed her, panicked, and left.”
I looked at him with what I hoped were a whole basketful of cocker-spaniel puppy eyes. To no avail. “Detective Maguire, I just want to help you figure this out.”
“You don’t work for me. And I don’t need you.”
“Why would a veteran homicide detective leave a body right in his bed? He’d have more than enough knowledge of how to hide his crime.”
“Like I said, he panicked.”
“Or someone else killed her and wanted it to look like Lieutenant Brown did it. Maybe your perp was the person who called the police.”
“Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Kate Townsend called.”
I tried to wrap my brain around that. Dead women don’t call 911. Maguir
e didn’t offer any sympathy for my obvious confusion, so I had to ask, “How could the victim call?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he beat her up first, left, then came back to finish her off before we got here. Maybe he was still here when she called.”
“How long did it take your uniforms to get here?”
“Apparently, it tooktoo long. Look, lady——”
“Doctor.”
“Doctor.” He frowned. “I don’t know about your success rate as a profiler, but I’ve been a homicide detective for fifteen years. To me, it looks like the lieutenant snapped and murdered his ex. Now, if Dr. Brown is done with the body, I’d like to get my crime scene processed.”
Carly grabbed my arm. “Thanks for your insight, Dr. Amanda.” She focused her attention on Maguire. “Do you have any more questions for me, Bobby?”
“Nah. I’ll see ya down at the morgue.”
Carly yanked me away and marched me out of the loft. When we were outside and some distance from the detectives and CSIs now starting their work, she loosened her grip on my arm and let me have it. “That was a bit much, Bell.”
“It doesn’t look right, Carly.”
“No, itdoesn’t look right, because there’s a dead woman in there. You made some good points, but that doesn’t mean Jazz didn’t do it.”
“He wouldn’t have left her that way.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? You don’t knowwhat he would have done.”
“Jazz is a gentleman. He opens the door for me. Walks me to my car. He puts his hand on my back to guide me. Carly, he stands up when I come to the table. Every single time.”
“You’re still in love with him, Bell.”
“Think about it, sis. Every scene leaves clues, both physical and behavioral. Bobby Maguire, you…You both read physical clues.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at me.
“Okay, you don’t just read physical clues, but you have to admit, you’d be more inclined to lean on what the physical evidence says. Right?”
Carly sighed. “And that’s a good thing. Physical clues aren’t subjective.”
“I read behavioral clues. The crime scene is pointing to a killer who isnot a gentleman.”
Death, Deceit & Some Smooth Jazz Page 4