by Rachel Lee
Forcing herself to take a mental step backward, she took in the overall impression of the victim. No prostitute, she decided. This woman looked too well-conditioned for that, and in no way blowsy. That helped, because it was likely she would be reported missing before too long.
She turned away again as humanity pushed aside objectivity, took a slow, deep breath, and forced herself to continue. She looked again, clinically. Something was wrong. "Lividity is noticeably uneven, greater on the left shoulder, arm, hip, outer thigh and calf, although victim was found on her back. Victim may have been…"
Switching off the recorder, she called to the end of the alley. "Ewing. C'mere a minute."
The patrolman approached along the path she had marked. "What's up, Detective?"
"I think the body was moved. Have Barnes clear the street around the end of the alley and photograph any tire tracks. Make sure he shoots my car, yours and his for negative comparison." She looked up at the overcast sky. The Florida air was thick with humidity. "And tell him to hurry it up. It looks like it's going to rain soon."
Ewing nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Karen then returned to her bag, tore off a long strip of waxy paper towel and laid it over the left side of the body, weighting it at each end with spare boxes of film. She carefully pulled the paper back a bit and studied the ruddy skin of the woman's left hip and shoulder. The dimples were faint but visible, fading down the arm and thigh. Atop the woman's thighs, Karen saw faint blood smears that mirrored those on her abdomen. She switched the recorder on.
"Remind the M.E. to check for carpet fibers. Victim was probably transported to the scene in a fetal position, on her left side. Probably in the trunk of a car."
Two hours later, Karen watched as the M.E. techs zipped up the black vinyl body bag and hefted it onto a stretcher. The crime scene techs had arrived a half hour ago, and she had long since determined that the homeless woman who'd stumbled over the body was too disconnected from reality to offer any useful information. There was little left for her to do, and she walked back to her Jeep Wrangler, took a long swig from a lukewarm bottle of water, and began to scan Ewing's and Barnes' initial reports for anything they might have caught that she had missed.
She was still reading when her cell phone rang. It was the familiar voice of Sergeant Laura Aranchez, the overnight dispatcher for robbery-homicide.
"You're going to hate me, Karen."
"Don't even go there, Aranchez."
Karen heard the sigh and knew what was coming before the woman spoke.
"Afraid so, Detective. Black female, Tampa Palms." Aranchez read off the address.
Karen fought down the anger. Yes, College Hill was important, but so was the single white female, mid-to late-twenties, whose mutilated body lay ten yards away in an alley. "I'm still working this scene, Aranchez. Can't they free up someone from the gang-banger?"
"The lieutenant says you're it," Aranchez answered. "And he wants you there an hour ago." There was a pause. "That address is Senator Lawrence's house."
Well, shit, Karen thought. That explains a lot. "I'm on my way."
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Karen surveyed the bustle of activity with more than a bit of disgust. It had taken her ten minutes to reach the Tampa Palms address, and the crime scene techs were already unloading their van as she pulled in. Death might be the great equalizer, but the rank of the living still held sway in the passage of the dead.
A middle-aged man in blue suit pants and a white dress shirt intercepted her on the way to the door and extended his hand. "Jerry Connally," he said, as if the name ought to mean something.
She shook his hand briefly and stepped aside. "Detective Sweeney, TPD. If you'll excuse me."
He didn't step into her path, didn't move at all, yet his posture said I'm not finished with you yet. She met his eyes. "What is it you need, Mr. Connally?"
"I'm special counsel to Senator Lawrence." He nodded over his shoulder. "You're aware this is his home."
Oh God, she thought. So it's starting already.
"Yes, I am. It's also a crime scene, and I'm the lead detective. And I've just been yanked off another homicide scene because they wanted me here in a hurry. So again, if you'll excuse me…"
He moved aside, as if to give her entry, but his posture was such that she paused and looked at him again. He reminded her somehow of a broody hen protecting a chick. It was as if he wanted to tower over her, tower over everyone and everything to protect his charge. She wondered if Senator Lawrence liked that…or if he was even aware of it. But something clicked in her mind, making a note she was hardly aware of.
Then she dismissed him with a glance and brushed past him into the foyer.
These were the houses of the rich, out here, and space was generous. The foyer was large, tiled in green marble that framed the sweeping rise of a staircase. The activity she was interested in, however, was in a room off to the right. She could see the criminalists poring over the scene like a hive of ants with a fresh kill. The kill lay on the floor, covered by a sheet. Arterial spray across one wall and the sofa, along with the huge puddle on the floor around the covered corpse, told a great deal of the story.
The room itself was very much not Florida. It might have been taken from the home of British nobility of the eighteenth or nineteenth century, except that it was dominated by cream and ecru. Cream everywhere. And blood. As least half the blood that filled an average human body. Red on cream. Screaming.
With the criminalists all over everything, there wasn't much she could do except ask to see the body and find out what they knew so far. She raised an eyebrow in the direction of Millie Freidman, the lead technician on the scene. Millie nodded, spoke a few words to one of her team members, and came over to her, taking care to stay within the taped-out pathway.
"What have we got?" Karen asked.
"Ugly. Very ugly. The senator's seventy-five-year-old nanny had her throat slashed."
Karen winced. Violence against the elderly always seemed so inexcusable. How much more harmless could a human being be?
"Yeah," said Millie, reacting to Karen's expression.
"Robbery?"
"It doesn't look like anything else was disturbed. I have some people checking the rest of the house, though."
"Any other wounds on the body?"
"None that I can find."
Karen nodded, feeling like a fifth wheel. "Who found the body?"
Millie showed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. "The senator's watchdog."
"Connally?"
"You got it."
Karen glanced at her watch. "This early in the morning?" She hated the very idea, but it appeared she was going to have to go talk to Jerry Connally.
One of the many reasons she was getting bone weary of this damn job.
* * *
He was careful not to show it, but Jerry Connally was as nervous as he'd ever been in his life. He was a man totally in control of himself and most of the world around him, but at this moment he felt his control might be slipping.
In law school he'd taken an advanced prosecution clinic. The professor had told him something he'd never forgotten. Criminals don't get caught because cops are brilliant. Criminals get caught because they're stupid. For every one thing they think of, the professor had said, they forget five others. And those five others bury them.
Jerry had tried to think of as many things as he could in moving Stacy's body. And he thought of himself as a smart guy. But that only meant that for every one thing he'd thought of, he'd probably forgotten two or three or four others.
The bottom line, though, was that Grant Lawrence was worth the risk. And if Jerry's neck ended up in the noose to save Grant's…that was just how things would have to be. Grant deserved no less.
He waited in the foyer for a few moments, glancing in the large, ornate mirror near the door to make sure he looked like himself and not like some criminal with something to hide.
<
br /> His open, Irish face looked back at him, unnaturally somber but otherwise normal. A little edginess, he assured himself, was okay under the circumstances. After all, he'd discovered a brutal murder. So it didn't matter that his tie was loose or his remaining hair disheveled. It fit the moment.
Then, shoving his hands in his pockets to still their sudden inclination to fidget, he stepped back outside. He didn't want to hear what the crime scene people were telling that detective. What was her name? Swanson, Swenson, something. Sweeney, that was it. Someone he had a feeling he wasn't going to be able to control all that easily. He might have to do something about that.
Just then she appeared at his side. Damn, he hadn't been paying attention. He offered a smile.
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
She regarded him with gray eyes that seemed devoid of any color whatever, save for the tiniest slivers of green around the pupils. Predatory eyes.
"I understand you found the body?"
He nodded.
"It's, what, 3:00 a.m.? What were you doing here?"
This part was easy. It was the truth. "The senator left a message for me last evening. I was out with my wife at the time. He needed some papers faxed up to his office, for a bill that's pending. We got home around 1:00 a.m. I got the message and came right over."
"Couldn't it have waited till morning?" she asked.
"Yes. It could have. But I was planning to take my kids fishing today. I wanted to wrap it up tonight so I'd have the day to myself." He sighed. "Best laid plans."
The woman seemed to look right through him. "I'm sure Abigail Reese didn't plan on getting killed, either."
It was at best a sarcastic remark, and he could have argued the point. But for the moment, at least, she held the power. Better to let that lie, wait for her to realize she'd stepped out of line, and be ready to take advantage when she apologized.
"Point taken, Detective."
But she didn't apologize. She didn't even seem to care that she might have crossed a line. Dangerous woman. She continued looking right through him and asked, "Weren't you afraid that coming into the house this late at night would wake the nanny?"
He shook his head, fists clenching inside his pockets. "Abby didn't have the best hearing. She wasn't stone deaf or anything, but I've come and gone before while she was sleeping."
"And you have a key, and you know the alarm code."
"Yes, exactly for purposes like this. The senator has an office at the back of the house."
She didn't say anything but simply turned to look at the brass dead bolt. Damn! He hadn't thought of that. There was no evidence of tampering. Shit!
She turned to him again. "Was the alarm on when you got here?"
He thought rapidly, then decided the truth was best on this one. "No."
"Did you find that odd?"
"Not necessarily. Abby sometimes forgets about it." That, too, was true. Grant had complained about it once, because he was concerned that she forgot it when his children were home.
"And you know that how?"
"Because the senator complained to me about it once."
She nodded, for the moment giving him the feeling she was accepting his explanations. "How did you enter?"
"Through the front door. As I always do."
"And then?"
"I turned on the foyer lights and headed back toward the office. But as I was passing the living room—" He broke off, and this time he wasn't pretending anything. His throat tightened, and his face stiffened with the memory. "I…smelled it."
She nodded again. She knew what he meant, apparently. "Then?"
"I turned on the lights, and…my God…" He couldn't continue. He honestly couldn't continue as he recalled those first few minutes when he had stared into an abattoir and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It had been so alien to his experience that for a while the images wouldn't even resolve into anything recognizable. And then…
He turned sharply away from the detective, forcing himself to draw steadying breaths, not wanting her or anyone else to see him break down. The ugliness. The horror. There were no words.
"Mr. Connally," said the woman behind him, "how long was it before you called us?"
2
Grant watched the water drip from his face into the sink. The bitter taste was still strong in his mouth, despite two rinses of mouthwash. The face he saw in the mirror had neither the energy of youth nor the wisdom of age. It was pale, drawn, eyes red-rimmed.
He drew a deep breath. He had to do something.
What would he tell the girls? They'd called Abby last night, before bed, just to say hi, they'd said. He couldn't remember a night when they'd been away from Abby and hadn't called her. It was as much a part of their bedtime ritual as hugs and brushing their teeth and him tucking them in. What would he tell them?
He had to get back to Tampa. That much was certain. Call his parents. That was the next step. Tell them what had happened and ask them to take the girls. One thing at a time, he told himself. One thing at a time.
His father's voice was thick with sleep.
"Dad," he began, and stopped. Saying that one word broke the last wall of reserve. Sobs tore from his chest.
"Son? What's wrong?"
"Abby…Abby."
His father knew. His father had always known. "Oh, son. Oh."
In the background, Grant heard his mother stirring, asking what was wrong. "Dad, can I bring the girls home?"
The answer was immediate and reassuring. "Come home, son. Bring the girls. Your mother and I will start getting ready now."
"I loved her," Grant said, his voice breaking.
"We all did, Grant. Bring the girls. We'll be ready."
* * *
Jerry Connally shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Detective. I mean, I know it's the wrong thing to do, but I looked through the house first, to see if he—I'm guessing he's a man—was still here. I could tell she was dead, but I checked anyway."
"Before or after you checked the house?" Karen asked.
"I think before. I'm not sure." He paused. "It's funny. I've seen in a hundred TV shows where someone finds a dead body and panics and does something stupid. I always thought it was a bad plot device. And I guess I went and did the same damn thing."
"So you approached the body?"
"Yes. I tried to find a pulse." He looked down at his hand and shuddered. He met her eyes. "You check the pulse in the neck. That's where it's strongest. Easiest to find. I…"
Karen watched his ashen features. It wasn't hard to see what had happened. Looking at a horrific wound was bad enough. Touching it would turn even the strongest of stomachs. She merely nodded and let him talk.
He seemed to study the floor for a moment. "I guess I checked her and then the house. Those footprints would be mine. Some of them, anyway. Maybe some of his, too. I just don't know, Detective. I wish I did."
He was a man transformed, Karen thought. Either he was a hell of an actor or the scene really had horrified him. Neither would prove his guilt or innocence. But the emotions rang true.
"You checked the house and then called?"
She saw the pause flicker over his face. Something he was keeping back. Something he wasn't sure he wanted to say. "I think I tried to call Senator Lawrence first. I don't know what time that was, but my cell phone records would show it."
"You called the senator before you called us?"
He threw up a hand, a gust of breath escaping him. Even to Karen's alert gaze, there was no question that this was a man in distress.
"I may have. Detective, I'm not real clear on the order of events. I remember hardly being able to comprehend what I saw. I remember checking the house. I remember checking Abby to see if she was still alive. And when I knew she was dead…All I could think of was Grant and his children. They love that woman. They've loved her all their lives. And when I knew she was dead…well, it's possible I thought of telling him first."
His ga
ze suddenly fixed on her, intense with emotion. "What difference does it make, Detective? The woman was dead. Abby was dead."
Karen refused to give him even a moment to collect himself. Instead she pressed him. "It made a difference in how fresh the crime scene was. We might have found the killer in the vicinity."
He shook his head, his eyes growing hollow. "Like I was even thinking of that. A woman I'd known for years was dead, brutally killed. And people I love were going to be torn up by it. Do you think I was even thinking about what you might need?"
Then he turned and walked away, making it clear he was done with her.
Karen paused, thinking, then decided to let him go. There were questions yet to be asked, but something about Jerry Connally…Some instinct told her he wasn't the killer. She pushed away the niggle at the back of her brain that insisted Connally was withholding something and went back into the house. Unlike many cops, she had never believed that the most obvious suspect was the likeliest one in a case like this. She wasn't going to allow herself to get misled. She would find the killer, but she wasn't going to close off any avenues by making assumptions.
Karen found Millie dusting a heavy glass ashtray. Millie glanced up. "From the floor by her feet. Looks to have prints. Probably the vic's." She turned it over. "There's a bloody smear on the bottom, but that's from the carpet fibers."
"So okay," Karen said. "She's in her nightgown and a bathrobe. The ashtray doesn't have bloody fingerprints. Only smears from the carpet. Sounds to me like she's asleep or falling asleep, hears something, grabs an ashtray from her bedroom, comes down and surprises the killer."
Millie nodded, her trained eyes sweeping the room. "That would fit, yeah."
"So what was the killer doing when she came downstairs? Burglary? So far as Connally can tell, nothing's missing." Karen nodded toward a lacquered end table where a sectional serving dish held jelly beans and other candies. "That's silver. There's other stuff right here. Even if the perp panics after he kills her, why not grab stuff that's right here in the room?"