She wouldn’t guess how long the autopsy would take. She’d start with the clothes. Hailey and Hal had taken the only piece of jewelry. She bagged the Tory Burch flats, an eight and a half—the same size she wore. Next she checked the two small square pockets on the front of the yellow dress. Finding them empty, she carefully removed the dress and bagged it to go to evidence. Under the dress, Victoria Stein wore a simple white lace bra and matching underwear.
The bra was underwire, surprising since Spencer disliked underwire bras. The panties were a traditional cut rather than a thong. Spencer also disliked thongs.
She bagged the two pieces separately, checked that everything was labeled correctly, and set the stack of evidence on the counter by the door to take to the lab later.
With Victoria Stein undressed, Schwartzman started the recorder and announced the victim’s details. “Name: Victoria Stein. Age: thirty-three. Height: five-seven.” An inch shorter than Schwartzman. “Weight: one thirty-five. Race: Caucasian. Hair color: brunette.” She studied the victim’s hair at the roots. The hair was dyed, recently. The color job looked expensive. She bagged several strands for evidence.
The expensive hair matched the expensive apartment. Her nails had been recently buffed and were painted an almost nude pink. Spencer would approve.
Schwartzman drove him from her mind. Returned her focus to the victim.
There was something about her overall appearance that didn’t quite add up. She noted that the skin on her hands and face showed more signs of skin damage than Schwartzman usually saw on wealthy women her age. She noted the inconsistency.
Before searching for evidence to determine cause of death, Schwartzman examined the body for signs of external injury, as well as any markings on the skin. While Stein had no tattoos, which were useful for confirming identity, she did have several distinct markings. On the backside of her left forearm was a small nevus, or birthmark, and there were several noteworthy moles on her chest and shoulders. Schwartzman documented each one individually, using a small ruler to show its size.
Behind Stein’s right knee was another birthmark, this one a hemangioma. The hemangioma—sometimes called a raspberry—was the result of blood vessels that clustered in utero and never fully dissipated. Schwartzman documented several small scars, mostly on Stein’s right hand. Along with the scars, the victim’s right hand was slightly larger; both suggested she was likely right-hand dominant. People tended to cut and scrape the dominant hand more often than the nondominant.
One other scar was just inside her right pelvic bone. An appendectomy scar should have been lower and more centrally located. The jagged edge suggested some sort of trauma, but the scar appeared to be at least a decade old. She documented it with film, then made a final check for anything else she might have missed.
“Eyes: blue-gray. No signs of petechiae.” She had not been strangled. Even though she had done it at the scene, Schwartzman checked the mouth and nose for injury or obstruction again, using a small penlight covered in a plastic sleeve. “Nasal and tracheal passages are clear and unobstructed.”
She lifted the camera off the table and took a series of pictures of the face and head, then flipped through the images. The camera was designed to pick up any signs of perimortem bruising, but the images showed no evidence of injury or struggle. Next she fingered the skull for any sign of contusion. Again nothing.
Schwartzman completed her external exam and performed a rape kit, although there was no evidence of recent intercourse and even less to suggest that she’d been raped.
She drew blood for toxicology, collected fingernail scrapings, and inspected the victim’s mouth for signs of anything that might be caught between the victim’s teeth.
Schwartzman had solved a case in Seattle the previous fall by using a piece of tissue found lodged between a victim’s lower central and lateral incisors. They were able to match the DNA to a rapist recently paroled. The power she’d felt when she got that call was indescribable, the flash of invincibility like a drug.
She was born for this job.
Now, using a small prod with a camera on the end, Schwartzman explored farther up the victim’s nose into the sinuses. Once there, the camera projected onto the screen beside the autopsy table.
Schwartzman used a keyboard command to capture the images for her file. Victoria Stein’s sinuses showed evidence of bleeding. Schwartzman stared at the screen, studying the image.
Drowning.
Victoria Stein had been trying to breathe. The effort built up the pressure in her sinuses, making them bleed.
Schwartzman gently palpated the victim’s stomach. The muscle was slightly enlarged, the liquid contents gurgling beneath Schwartzman’s touch. Another indication of drowning. She pulled off a glove and lifted the digital recorder. “Evidence of bleeding in the sinuses suggests victim may have drowned.” She paused. “External exam now complete.” Schwartzman set the recorder down and replaced the glove she’d removed with a fresh one.
Just another case, she told herself. The fact that the victim looked like her was irrelevant. There were plenty of victims who shared her coloring—brunettes with light eyes. Plenty who were tall and thin as she was, even some with an aquiline nose like her own and others who had been born with a nose like hers and then had the hump surgically removed.
These were merely coincidences, a game of odds.
The more victims she processed, the more likely she was to run into ones who shared her attributes. The key was to treat Stein like any other victim. She drew the camera out of the sinuses and discarded the disposable protective cover.
Schwartzman proceeded with the Y-incision, cutting from the edge of the collarbone to the breastbone, pressing the scalpel through the skin, fat, and muscle of the chest. Once the two diagonals were cut, she ran the scalpel down the abdomen to the pelvic bone. This allowed her to open Stein’s chest like a heavy textbook, using the scalpel to slice away the connective tissue and remove the flesh to expose the victim’s peritoneum.
Other than the stomach itself, which was distended and full, Stein’s chest cavity was normal. She would remove the stomach to collect its contents, but first she wanted to see the lungs and heart.
The morgue had a pair of metal rib cutters, but they were difficult to use. The handles were uncomfortable and small, requiring too much torque to cut through bone. One of her first outings in San Francisco had been to buy a pair of red-handled pruning shears at the garden store. Using them now, Schwartzman snapped through the outside edge of the ribs until they were a single piece she could lift up and remove to expose the chest organs. Her focus was on the lungs, which were enlarged and distended like the stomach, again consistent with drowning. Using a large bore needle, Schwartzman collected several samples of the fluid from the lungs to be sent to the lab for testing.
As she injected the fluid samples into the evidence vial, she detected the faintest smell of lavender emanating from the contents of the lungs. She stepped back from the table as she fought her gag reflex.
Lavender was the scent Spencer loved for their home. It had been in every drawer, every closet, every bathroom. Soothing. Peaceful.
She, too, had liked the smell of lavender early in their marriage. She had used a lavender spray to help fall asleep. But then the smell became pervasive, a reminder of feeling trapped, and she found it kept her awake rather than helped her sleep.
When had that happened? She couldn’t recall when she had started to dislike the scent.
Schwartzman removed her gloves and retreated to the metal desk and chair across the room. She rarely stopped mid-exam, but at that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to continue. She pulled a bottle of Pellegrino from the refrigerator and twisted off the top. She took three or four long drinks and willed her stomach to settle.
It’s just a smell.
A dead body was full of them.
She didn’t recall smelling lavender at the victim’s home. She made a note of it, then lathered h
er hands with grapefruit lotion, taking a couple of minutes to inhale the clean citrus scent.
With a fresh set of gloves, Schwartzman returned to the body. With the major cavities opened and cleared of fluids, it was time to remove the organs. She weighed each one and took samples.
The heart was normal, weighing just over eight pounds, within the averages for a healthy woman her size. The kidney, glands, pancreas, spleen, also normal. An examination of the uterus showed that Victoria Stein had never had children and was not pregnant.
Finally, Schwartzman collected the contents of the stomach into a clean container. The red wine was identifiable by its vinegar smell and the pinkish tint it gave to the rest of the contents. There was some greenery that suggested a salad, small red pieces that were too firm to be tomatoes, so probably red pepper, and maybe a dozen very small seeds similar to lavender.
The contents were less diluted than Schwartzman had expected—Stein had ingested more wine and less water. If Victoria Stein had been conscious during her drowning, she would likely have swallowed a great deal of water during her struggle.
Stein had been intoxicated, and possibly also drugged, and then drowned.
With her examination complete, Schwartzman rinsed the body with water so it would be ready to go to the funeral home and stared at what remained. The quiet, pensive face above the angry Y Schwartzman herself had created. The wall clock showed it was close to six. Fatigue from lack of sleep had settled its talons into her neck and shoulders. She would call Hal with the results on the way home.
Her cell phone rang from her pocket. Schwartzman removed her gloves and pulled out the phone. “Schwartzman.”
“Is this Annabelle Schwartzman?” asked a cheery voice.
Schwartzman wished she hadn’t answered. “It is.”
“This is Cassie calling from Dr. Khan’s office. We received the results from radiology on your most recent mammogram.”
The word radiology got her attention. “Yes?”
“They would just like to take another look. Are you available to come in tomorrow morning? We have availability at eight forty-five if that works.”
They wanted her to come back. Tomorrow. “What were the findings?”
“Pardon me?”
“What did radiology find that makes them want to take another look?”
“Oh,” Cassie said, as if she was trying to sound upbeat. “There was some asymmetry in the scans.”
“Asymmetry,” Schwartzman repeated.
“That only means that the tissue is different from last time.”
Her oncology experience was limited to med school and residency. Too long ago. “Does this happen often?”
“It does happen,” the nurse said, and Schwartzman sensed the forced cheer on the other end.
“They’ll do another mammogram, then?”
“Yes. And probably an ultrasound, as well. So the eight forty-five appointment will work, Ms. Schwartzman?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Perfect. And remember—no deodorant as it can interfere with the scans.”
“Right.” As she replaced the receiver, her gaze returned to Victoria Stein, lying on the autopsy table.
Lavender. Why drown her with lavender water?
The thought was quickly swept aside by another.
Her doctor wanted to do another mammogram. It was nothing, she told herself. Asymmetry.
She would put this all aside for the night. Have a hot bath and sleep hard. Sleep for twelve or fourteen hours. Or twenty. Maybe a day.
With or without her early morning doctor’s appointment, she would not sleep past seven o’clock, no matter how tired she was. Her body always woke her.
Waking first was a tactic she’d employed to keep the peace with Spencer. Although he’d rejected any idea she had about working, he was bitter and angry when he rose before her. She slept with the alarm clock under her pillow, muffled so it wouldn’t wake him, rising so she could be dressed and make coffee before he got up at seven thirty. Even weekends, when he often slept past nine, she was up, terrified that the one day she would sleep in would be the one when he woke early.
The idea that she could choose to stay in bed for twelve hours used to feel like real freedom.
Nothing felt free now.
9
San Francisco, California
Hal arrived back at the victim’s apartment Thursday morning with two cups of black coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Roger had called him an hour before to say he was coming back to the scene with some of his techs to do another sweep.
Hailey was working a gang-related shooting, so they had split up with plans to meet back at the station in the afternoon to compare notes.
Hal had failed to catch up with Terri Stein yesterday other than receiving a text to say she was getting in touch with their family and dealing with funeral arrangements. She had said she’d meet him at the station later today. There were a lot of gaps he hoped she could help him understand.
As it was, they knew very little about the victim. The apartment offered no clues about where Victoria worked, who she spent time with. Most pressing in Hal’s mind was the question of where they’d grown up. If the town where Stein was from was so close to the place where Schwartzman’s ex was, did Terri or her sister know Spencer MacDonald?
Hal parked in the red, threw his department pass on the dash, and got out of the car with two coffees in one hand and the doughnut box in the other. The coffee burned through the cups as he walked, so he moved quickly to the apartment building door and used the “Handicap” button to open it automatically.
He’d been up much of the night—two nights, actually—thinking about this murder. Stein was found Tuesday evening, and he still hadn’t been able to interview the sister.
It was more than the link to Schwartzman that was bugging Hal about Victoria Stein’s murder. As much as movies liked to make murder out to be random, it wasn’t. At least not the vast majority of the time.
Sure, victims got caught in the crossfire of gang wars. Those deaths were almost always random—people in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the kind of death that Victoria Stein died was almost always personal. If Schwartzman was right, the death was a warning to her.
What kind of warning was it meant to be? That he would do the same to her? If what? If she didn’t come back? If she did? There was no clear message in Stein’s death. But the staging, the care with the victim, these details spoke to an organized killer. How had Spencer found himself a partner willing to kill on his behalf?
Or were they looking at the Schwartzman connection too closely? Maybe the connection was somehow looser. Either way, it did not feel random.
In his time in Homicide, Hal had worked only a few murders that were truly random. One of those was still unsolved. In five months of intense investigation, Hailey and Hal had turned over every rock around the victim. On nights he couldn’t sleep, Hal poked around the Facebook pages of the victim’s family and friends, always hoping something would jump out at him. In seven years, nothing had.
Hailey and Hal had dozens of cold cases between them, but that one stuck with him because it was impossible to understand why someone had shot the victim. You live a high-risk life—gangster, thug—you can expect a bad outcome. Hal liked to believe in karma that way, although he’d seen plenty of examples where karma fell short.
That victim hadn’t had any risk factors. He was ordinary. Hal felt ordinary, too. Of course, he wasn’t. Being a cop bumped him into a high-risk category. Homicide inspector, higher. With guns available to every hoodlum with a few hundred bucks, it was amazing they didn’t get shot more often.
Other than being a cop, though, Hal was a normal guy. He liked sports; he liked beer. He enjoyed the company of his girlfriend, who was also a cop, and he didn’t like the idea that normal guys got killed. Worse, he really didn’t like the idea that they got killed and the killer got away.
Victoria Stein’s murder was
starting to feel like that.
She, too, seemed pretty normal. She didn’t fall into any obvious risk categories. For one, she was affluent. No obvious signs of drug use. An abusive relationship almost always came with telltale signs—old bruising, scars. He’d spoken to Schwartzman the night before, and Stein had none of the telltale marks. The one unusual scar Schwartzman found in the autopsy was on her pelvis. It was more than a decade old. That didn’t fit with a pattern of abuse. He thought of Schwartzman. Had she shown the signs of her abusive marriage? Perhaps Spencer had controlled Schwartzman in other ways.
But Victoria Stein wasn’t killed by Spencer. Hal had confirmed yesterday that Spencer hadn’t left South Carolina in months. Whatever had happened to her, the violent death appeared at odds with her life.
Appeared. Which meant there was something he didn’t yet know about her life.
After signing in with a patrol officer at the front desk, Hal rode the elevator to Stein’s floor. Hal found Roger in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at the cupboards.
Hal set Roger’s coffee on the protective paper that covered the counter and placed his own down beside it.
“Thanks.” Roger lifted the coffee and popped the top off. He raised the cup and blew on the hot liquid before taking a small sip. “Hot.”
“I know, right? They must get that stuff to boiling before they pour it.”
Roger raised a brow at him. “Okay, smart-ass.”
Roger was one of the most earnest people Hal knew. During the time after Hailey’s husband was killed, Roger had seen Hal at his worst—angry, under too much pressure. But Roger was always there. Steady and affable, serious and reflective when the situation called for it.
He didn’t let emotions or demands from the brass affect how he did his job. He was objective, careful, kind. Always. One day, over beers, Hal would have to tell Roger how much he appreciated him. For now he was grateful for their familiar banter.
Some days, messing with Roger was the only levity in Hal’s day. “What are you staring at in here?” Hal asked.
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