SEE HER DIE (6 page)

Elizabeth dribbled ranch dressing over her salad, noting that Gloria did not. Her friend was extremely calorie-conscious. Elizabeth supposed it paid to be when you spent twelve hours a day behind a desk. Gloria had made the comment on several occasions that the asses of her female coworkers got wider every day. Gloria had no intention of following that trend. The one good thing about Elizabeth’s line of work was that she got plenty of exercise.

She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’d almost forgotten again. “How’s your niece?”

Gloria appeared taken aback by the question. “She’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned she was having some trouble a couple of months ago, and I keep forgetting to ask how she’s doing.” Gloria seemed put off by the subject. The two of them usually talked about everything. Her niece, apparently, was as touchy a subject as Ned.

“You know how it is when you’re eighteen and a freshman in college,” Gloria said dismissively. “You think nobody knows anything but you. Since her father’s death last year, she’s sort of withdrawn from everyone, especially her mother. It hasn’t been easy, but she’s managing.”

Elizabeth remembered that terrible night Gloria had called. Her brother-in-law, an NYPD fireman, had been killed in the line of duty. His wife and daughter were devastated. Not long after that, Elizabeth’s father had died. God, that had been a lousy month.

“I’m glad she’s doing better,” Elizabeth said, feeling bad for bringing up the subject, yet knowing she’d feel guilty if she hadn’t. “It’s tough to lose your father, especially at that age.” At any age, Elizabeth thought. She still missed hers.

Gloria picked at her salad. “She’s all my sister has left.” Her tone was somber. “We have to protect her at all costs.”

Elizabeth paused, a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. Her friend’s swift mood changes were disturbing. So unlike Gloria. “Of course you have to protect her,” Elizabeth agreed gently. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Gloria smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Just keep me up-to-date on what’s going on with your fed.” Her faint smile widened to a genuine grin. “And remember, if things get too hairy, you can always seduce him.”

Elizabeth almost choked on a cherry tomato. “Yeah, right,” she muttered when she’d stopped coughing. “I don’t think MacBride is seducible.” She remembered vividly his steely gaze and precisely controlled responses. He wasn’t the kind of man a simple girl like her could get to... even if she wanted to.

“Oh, honey, that’s the country girl in you talking,” Gloria scolded, the words and the tone so very Gloria. “They’re
all
seducible. Trust me.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Elizabeth refused to analyze the warm glow that accompanied the ridiculous suggestion. Gloria had no business putting ideas like that in her head. An affair with another man she couldn’t trust was the last thing she needed. Especially since this one suspected her of murder.

And had seen her naked having sex with another man.

Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her hair. How would she ever face MacBride this afternoon? She had to find a way to keep him from getting to her.

Chapter Four

“I’ll have to see your ID, sir,” the guard posted in the entry hall of the penthouse announced as Mac stepped off the elevator.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t flashed his ID in the lobby before he boarded the only elevator in the building that went all the way to the top floor. Rather than informing the rookie of that, Mac fished in his pocket for his badge and showed it again.

The rookie cop, whose badge read Ledbetter, flushed. “Sorry, sir, but a reporter managed to get inside last night before the homicide detectives got here and we’ve all been instructed to double-check IDs.”

“No problem.” Mac ducked beneath the police tape that marked the penthouse apartment off-limits to anyone other than authorized NYPD personnel. He hadn’t needed Officer Ledbetter to tell him the perimeter had been breached sometime shortly after the discovery of the body. The morning’s headlines had shouted that loud and clear. It only made bad matters worse that the breach had occurred before the arrival of the crime-scene techs. No telling what the eager reporter had contaminated in his haste to get the story.

Mac paused long enough in the doorway to slip on gloves and paper shoe covers. As he prepped for entering the crime scene, he noted the handles of the elegant double doors separating the posh Upper Eastside penthouse from the entry hall were sooty with fingerprint powder. It would take days if not weeks for the techs to sort through all the prints lifted from a place this size. The socialite who owned the place had a reputation for hosting grand parties. Most of Manhattan’s upper crust likely waltzed through these doors at one time or another.

The whish-whish of paper shoe covers echoed from farther down the hall. Mac surveyed his surroundings as he made his way in the direction of the sound. A grand dining room and great room flanked the hall on either side a few feet beyond the main doors. A small powder room and guest bedroom lay on the right beyond the formal rooms, then the hall took a slight turn to the left and opened up into an extravagantly appointed sitting area that bordered a massive master suite.

This was where the murder had taken place.

Mac paused, his gaze landing on the spray of blood fanned across the wall above the headboard. No matter how many crime scenes he’d examined in his ten-year career, the initial sight of spilled blood always shook him.

The victim would already be in the capable hands of the medical examiner, but telltale signs of the final battle for life she’d waged were clear to all who entered.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which displayed a magnificent Manhattan view, brilliant sunlight poured into the room, gleaming on the plush, sand-colored carpet. Despite the two techs working vigorously, collecting everything from fibers on the carpeted floor to dust on the glittering chandelier, the room felt vast and empty. The stark white walls framing the space were marred only by the blood that had trickled down like garish streamers toward the rumpled bed.

Judging by the blood spatter pattern the victim had been dragged from the bed for the final affront levied by the intruder. The tousled condition of the silk and satin covers indicated she hadn’t been in bed alone. He thought about the undamaged doors, handles and lock assembly he’d viewed while slipping on his gloves and shoe covers and decided that
intruder
wasn’t the right word. Whoever had done this had been allowed in by the victim. Since the front doors were the only means of entry and windows were not a likely avenue since they were on the thirtieth floor, he had to assume the victim knew her killer.

The bloody tracks on the carpet suggested the unknown subject had left his victim dying and walked, naked and bloody, to the en suite for a shower before leaving.

“Agent MacBride?”

Mac turned toward the familiar voice coming from the doorway behind him and bit back a curse. Detective Brannigan. The last person he wanted to see. He hoped like hell the guy wasn’t the lead on this homicide too. He enjoyed giving Mac a hard time entirely too much. Mac got it. No one liked having another agency horn in on a case, even if the order to play nice came from the top brass. The detective needn’t worry, Mac had no desire to get in NYPD’s way on these homicides. His goal was to find the link to the Gentlemen’s Association.

“Officer Ledbetter told me you were here.” Brannigan glanced at the bloody wall as he moved into the room. “I’m lead on this investigation. What interest do you have in this case?”

Damn.

Brannigan resented like hell that the Harrison case had been taken from him. He wasn’t going to be happy about Mac’s presence here, period.

“Vanessa Bumbalough was one of Harrison’s patients. She also attended his funeral.” Mac surveyed the enormous room once more. The techs had paused in their work to listen to the exchange.

“That’s correct,” Brannigan said. The fury that burned in his eyes belied his even tone. “But I can’t see how those details tie into her murder.”

Mac thought about the condition of the room. The overturned bedside table, the twisted bedcovers, the blood. Then he considered the rest of what he’d seen in the grand penthouse—immaculate, every little thing in place. The victim had known the unsub, no question. In the lull the techs turned their attention back to the task of collecting any evidence they’d missed on their first sweep, which would have taken place late last night shortly after the discovery of the body.

“Were there any witnesses?” Mac asked rather than responding to Brannigan’s comment regarding the victim’s connection, or lack thereof, with Harrison.

The middle-aged detective shook his head. “No one saw or heard anything. The doorman insists no one other than residents entered the building yesterday. He checked the log.”

“I assume there was more than one doorman during the twenty-four hours prior to the body’s discovery.”

Brannigan shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “There were four and we interviewed all of ‘em. Doormen and anyone else who worked on the premises in the last forty-eight hours.”

“The other residents?” Mac knew he was pushing his luck now. Brannigan was more than a little ticked off.

“We’re working on that right now. It takes time to cover this many apartments.”

“Of course.”

“We’re also talking to the people she worked with,” Brannigan went on as if he felt the need to prove himself. “With all the hoopla surrounding her splash onto the fashion scene, it could’ve been a competitor.”

Mac looked around the room again. “Maybe.”

In a tone just shy of seething, Brannigan said, “And maybe it was a jealous lover. We’re still looking for the guy who accompanied her to Harrison’s funeral. From what we’ve learned, she recently dumped her longtime lover for him. We haven’t located the jilted lover, either, but we will.”

Mac nodded, affirming the detective’s conclusions. “That would be the most logical avenue to follow.”

Brannigan shifted his considerable bulk from one foot to the other. “I suppose you want details about the murder.”

Mac lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Are there any that weren’t in the newspaper this morning?”

Brannigan’s hostile retort snagged the attention of everyone in the room. He glared at the techs, who immediately returned to the task at hand. “We got that little mystery solved,” he grumbled, a bit more courteously. “One of our new guys has a cousin who’s a reporter. That won’t happen again.”

Vanessa Bumbalough had been found in a skimpy negligee, tied to her bed and with her throat slashed. All that information had been in the paper.

“There was one thing,” Brannigan said after a moment and with obvious reluctance.

Mac waited, trying not to let his exasperation show. Brannigan would give him the details in his own time and Mac would drum up as much patience as necessary. One way or another he was bringing the Gentlemen’s Association down. Ned Harrison and anyone related to his life and death could prove relevant to that end.

“The reporter didn’t get a chance to see
this
,” Brannigan explained smugly, “before he was ousted.”

“What would
this
be?” Mac asked when the detective hesitated for the dramatic effect.

“The victim was gagged—with a pair of panties.”

Mac went on alert. Harrison had a pair of panties shoved into his mouth to silence him. Frustration and no small amount of anger twisted Mac’s gut. “With the vic’s link to Harrison you didn’t feel the need to pass this information along before now?” Hell, he wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t read this morning’s paper.

“The size and brand suggest they belonged to the vic. There’s a whole drawer full just like’em,” Brannigan said, ignoring his question. He rocked back on his heels, seemingly pleased that Mac was pissed. “The killer shoved them so far back in her throat she’d have choked to death even if he hadn’t slit her throat.”

“What makes you think the killer is male?” There was more. Mac could feel it. Brannigan’s whole demeanor was far too cocky. It was fairly obvious the victim, like Harrison, had engaged in sexual activity prior to her death. Had the ME confirmed?

The detective shrugged nonchalantly. “The ME mentioned he thought the victim had been sexually assaulted but wouldn’t confirm. She had sex, we just don’t know if it was consensual.”

When Mac had gleaned all he could from the scene and tolerated all of Brannigan’s gloating he could stomach, he made his way back to the elevator and down to the lobby. He checked his cell as he settled behind the wheel of his sedan. He still had time to drop by the morgue and take a look at the body before the meeting with Elizabeth Young.

If, as Brannigan suggested, Bumbalough had been sexually assaulted, he wanted to know details. Had she first consented, then changed her mind? Or was the act a flat-out rape from the get-go? If she hadn’t resisted, that would lend credence to the idea that she knew her attacker.

One thing was certain, if the victim’s killer was male and there was a connection to Harrison’s murder that could very well let Elizabeth Young off the hook.

Mac guided his sedan into the flow of traffic and thought about that scenario for a moment. Maybe it wouldn’t let her off the hook. Maybe she and the killer were a team. Of course, connecting Harrison’s murder with this one, even though the victim was one of his patients and had attended his funeral, was a stretch. Except for the panties.

Could be coincidence. But Mac’s instincts were humming. He had a feeling the two were connected. He mentally ran through the similarities. The victims had been restrained, both had been gagged with panties, and now there was the possibility that both had participated in sexual activity prior to death.

Coincidences? Maybe.

Too soon to tell. But he would find out. Because whether Brannigan liked it or not, Mac wouldn’t let it go until he knew for certain whether the two cases were connected.

~*~