Before She Dies (4 page)
“I’m not saying this woman was a witch. But that doesn’t mean the killer didn’t believe she was a witch. He could have put salt in the corner to seal the room.”
“How would you know something like that?”
“I’ve heard tales from my grandmother.”
“She grew up in Russia.”
“Where superstition reigns.”
She opened her mouth to argue but then stopped. They’d seen a lot of crazy shit over the last eighteen months as partners.
Rokov turned to Paulie. “Any other observations?”
Paulie snapped three more pictures before he straightened. “There are ligature marks on her neck, and the underside of her hair and her collar are damp with what appears to be water.”
“Cause of death?”
“Ask the medical examiner.”
The tech was always careful not to weigh in with an opinion. His job, he’d often said when prompted for a comment, was to collect data. He left the fancy figuring up to the detectives.
“Identification?” Sinclair knelt by the body and stared into the woman’s face half cloaked by her hair.
“No ID. No jewelry. And there are red marks on the side of her neck. Looks like he got her with a stun gun several times.” Paulie knelt down and examined the hair draping her forehead. He snapped more pictures and then gently moved the hair back. “Have a look at this.”
Sinclair squatted and glanced down. “She’s been tattooed with the word
Witch
.” The bold letters covered most of the delicate forehead skin, still puckered red and raw from the tattoo needle. “Shit.”
Witch
.” The bold letters covered most of the delicate forehead skin, still puckered red and raw from the tattoo needle. “Shit.”
Rokov’s half-baked theory had been correct, but it gave him no pleasure. “She have any other tats or markings?”
“Not on the exposed areas. But there could be other body art under the clothes.”
“I can’t imagine anyone willingly doing this to themselves,” Sinclair said. “But we’ve seen all kinds of oddities.”
Rokov glanced around the room. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off in frayed strips, and the ceiling was soiled with a dozen watermarks. All the furniture had been stripped out, and a shadow imprint on the back wall suggested there’d been a bar at one point. A thick coating of dust covered the room. “Footprints?”
“Two distinct sets,” Paulie said. “The first I identified as Barrows. He was kind enough not to trample all over the floor, which left me with clear impressions of the second set.” Paulie pointed to the window. “The best impression is over by the window, and I’ve marked it with a cone. I’ve got an electrostatic dust print collector. It will pull an impression.”
Rokov moved toward the footprints carefully to mirror Barrow’s path. “It looks like a size eleven or twelve.” He studied the grooved pattern. “Sneakers?”
“That’s my guess, but it will take time to narrow the brand.”
“The impressions are clear and defined. He walked carefully and with precision.”
Paulie shrugged. “You know I don’t make impulsive calls.”
“I’m not holding you to it,” Rokov said.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll have a report by tomorrow.”
Rokov studied the impression. “Inside back right heel looks worn. He’s favoring the foot.”
Paulie snapped more pictures. “Could be an injury or he could have had a wart at one time, and it changed the way he walks. Doesn’t mean he noticeably favors the foot now.”
“So he moved her here,” Rokov says. “Positions her, stakes her, and then moves to the window to stare at what?”
“The river. The full moon. It was a clear night last night. He stops to enjoy the full moon. Maybe he heard a sound.”
“If he’s got a thing about witches, the moon makes sense,” Rokov said. “The full moon has a lot of power in some circles. Stands to reason he’d be drawn to the moon.”
Sinclair rose. “We need to figure out who she is. I’ll head downstairs and put a call into Missing Persons and see what they have.”
“Good.” Rokov turned to Paulie. “Does she have defensive wounds? Did she fight for her life?”
“I’m going to bag her hands. Hopefully, the medical examiner will find something under her nails.”
Rokov knelt by the victim’s right hand and studied the crude stake that had pierced the flesh of her palm. It would have taken tremendous force to drive the wood through flesh. He wondered if she’d known her attacker. Most murdered women knew their killers. Lovers. Husbands. Boyfriends. Love could turn vicious instantly.
“I wanted you to see her before I pulled the stakes. If I can pull them out now, I can roll her over.”
“Need a hand?” Rokov said.
“I got it.” Paulie slid on workman’s gloves over his surgical gloves and grabbed a hold of the stake. “The floor boards are rotted.” He pulled hard, and the stake wriggled free of the floor and the victim’s palm. Carefully, he moved to the other side and repeated. Then it was on to the feet. The last stake proved stubborn and it took assistance from Rokov to free it.
Paulie laid the stakes out and photographed them. Then very carefully, he turned the body on its side. The victim’s jacket was embossed with the word
Magic.
He checked the jacket’s label. “Tanner’s.”
Magic.
He checked the jacket’s label. “Tanner’s.”
Rokov recognized the retailer. “Tanner’s is a shop in Old Town. It has a solid reputation of making custom leather jackets.”
Rokov pulled a notebook from his pocket and wrote down the detail along with the dozens of others he’d noted since he entered the room.
“Okay. You keep doing your thing here,” Rokov said. “Sinclair and I will beat the streets. Maybe somebody saw something.”
Outside, Rokov found Sinclair by the car on her radio. She looked pale but determined. “Thanks. If you get a match, give me a call.”
“No matches.”
“Not yet. But she might not have been missing twenty-four hours yet.”
“Her jacket is unique. The seller is located in Old Town. I’ll double check, but I think he opens at ten.”
“Good.” Sinclair rubbed the back of her neck. “Last night was a Monday night in late October. The streets would have been packed with tourists taking ghost tours and hitting the bars.”
“The retail shops would have been closed by ten, but the bars would have been open until twelve, one, or two.”
“Give or take a few hours, she died last night about one.”
“Yeah. There’s O’Malley’s on the corner. It’s as good a place as any to start. Maybe someone saw someone here.”
Rokov waved to Barrows, Sinclair nodded, and the detectives made their way across the parking lot. Quick strides got them across the street to O’Malley’s.
The pub was on the corner of Union and Prince in a three-level town house that had been built a hundred-plus years ago. Built of old brick, the building had a large glass window with gold lettering and green café curtains. The historic look appealed to tourists.
“This is ground zero for the city’s tourist industry,” Sinclair said. “The press is going to eat this up.”
Rokov glanced back at the murder scene. “They’ll be here within the hour, and the story will be on the news by lunch.” He worked hard to push aside circumstances that he could not control. But when it came to the press, his success rate was mixed. “The only way to diffuse the story is to solve the case as quickly as possible.”
“A closed case would be a great way to start the week.”
Rokov glanced inside O’Malley’s, and when he saw the flicker of movement in the back, he pounded on the front door with his fist. For a moment, the bar’s interior went silent, and then footsteps sounded inside.
A tall, lean man, sporting a black five o’clock shadow, stopped about twenty feet short of the door. He wore a white apron over T-shirt and jeans. A bar towel hung carelessly over his right shoulder.
“We’re closed until three,” he shouted.
The man was already turning toward the kitchen when Rokov tapped on the glass and held up his badge. The barman turned, his face dark with frustration.
“We have a few questions,” Rokov said.
The man hesitated and shook his head, as if the cops were the last complication he’d expected or needed. Finally, he moved toward the door and unlatched the deadbolt. Bells jingled above as the door opened, and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke rushed out to greet them. “Someone filing a complaint?”
“Should they?” Sinclair said.
The barman shifted his gaze to her and let it roam slowly and freely up her frame. He didn’t smile, or leer, just absorbed every detail of her. Sinclair arched a brow but didn’t flinch.
“You got a name?” Rokov said.
“Richardson,” he said, pulling his gaze from Sinclair. “Duke Richardson. I own O’Malley’s.”
“So is there a reason someone would file a complaint?” Sinclair repeated.
“And you are?” Richardson said.
Sinclair pulled out her badge. “Detective Sinclair. This is my partner, Detective Rokov.”
“Big guns,” Richardson said. “I’m guessing you’re not here for me, then.”
“Why’s that?” Ten years on the force had taught Rokov never to trust anything at face value. He’d solved more than a couple of crimes by pure chance. Once as a traffic cop he’d pulled an SUV because of a broken taillight. The driver, a thin man with a plaid shirt, had been nervous and unable to stop fidgeting. Rokov had called the plates into dispatch, learned there’d been no priors, but the guy had just been too damn squirrelly. He’d asked the guy to get out of his car. The man had opened the door abruptly, trying to drive it into Rokov and knock him into traffic. Rokov had dodged the assault, stumbled, and righted himself just as the guy pulled a gun. Rokov fired and killed the man with the first shot. Turns out, the assailant had murdered his wife and was fleeing the state.
Rokov still had moments when those tense seconds came back to him in a flash. He could recall each detail as if the film had been put in slow motion. The way the guy’s eyes had shifted to the left. The way his own hands had trembled very slightly as he’d gripped the handle of his gun tighter. The way the assailant had reached under a newspaper on the front seat and pulled out a Berretta. Rokov could remember the sound of a horn blaring as a car passed behind him, the rust-colored stain on the man’s jeans and the sweat beading on his upper lip. It had felt like a lifetime but in reality was mere seconds.
Without realizing it, he had already eased his hand to his belt and draped his fingers over his gun handle.
Duke glanced at Rokov’s hand and then held up his own. “Hey, I don’t want trouble.”
Rokov’s own heart raced and for a moment he said nothing. He’d not been shot but he still had lingering moments of stress related to the incident. Charlotte had been shot, and yet she insisted she was just fine. No fucking way she’d walked away unscathed.
Rokov cleared his throat and lowered his hand. “We have a few questions. There was a problem across the street last night.”
Duke folded his arms over his chest. “I was open until midnight. Slammed until a half hour after that. I never got more than a few feet from the bar. What happened?”
Rokov let the question pass. “See any customers that might have aroused your suspicions?”
“Yeah, a lot of them.”
“Particulars?” Sinclair said.
Duke shrugged. “A couple. One dude had to be cut off, and I called a cab for him. He didn’t appreciate either gesture and told me so in so many four-letter words. And a gal, tall, dark. She sat at the corner of the bar and drank until about midnight. She didn’t say much, but just sat and stared.”
“Either of them use a credit card?” Rokov said.
Duke shrugged. “The chick paid cash. Twenties. But the dude used plastic. Name was Matt Lowery.”
“You remember the name?”
“Sure. I took his keys. I tried to take his license, but he screamed identity theft. So I wrote down his address and gave the license back to him. Planned to mail the keys back to him this morning with a note telling him to stay clear of O’Malley’s.”
“You take keys often?”
“When I have to be sure. I don’t mind anyone coming here and enjoying a few drinks, but no one is going out of here hammered with car keys. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“You said you got an address for Mr. Lowery?” Sinclair said.
“Sure.” He turned and moved toward the bar and retrieved a padded envelope. “You can deliver his keys. Chances are he’s still sleeping it off.”
Whoever had positioned the victim had not been drunk, but that didn’t mean he’d seen the killer. A long shot, but a shot. “Just give me his address.”
The bartender scribbled down the address on an order pad and handed it to Rokov.
“He give you any other reason to remember him?” Sinclair said.
“Talked to himself. Was a real pain in the ass. But he didn’t break any laws.”
Rokov took the slip of paper. “Queen Street. Just a few blocks from here. What time did he leave?”
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