"No, thank you."
The detective settled himself on the ottoman in front of the
sofa. "Is there someone we should call?"
"My—" The tears came abruptly. One second her eyes were
dry; the next, tears were overflowing her eyelids and streaming down her cheeks. Her nose began to run. Lawson motioned for a policewoman to bring her some Kleenex and a
box was brought immediately.
She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. "I was about to say
you should call my sister. You see, we are—were—very close." Grimly, he nodded. "Your parents?"
"Deceased."
"Other siblings?"
"No," she s
aid, clearing her throat. "
Just us."
The detective frowned his regret. "I know this is tough, Ms. Lloyd. You'll be asked to identify the body."
She swallowed thickly but nodded her understanding.
"The neighbor who found her identified her immediately. And you bear a remarkable resemblance to her."
"What happened to her, Detective?" She couldn't remember his official rank, but he didn't correct her.
Her first impression of Lawson was that he was square in shape. He had a boxy torso that had been squeezed into a jacket that was an inch or two too short and a size too small. His flattop haircut made his head look square. His neck was thick, his eyebrows a straight bushy line across his forehead.
In early life, he'd probably been an athlete. A football lineman or a wrestler. His bulky appearance made him look mean. His eyes were world-weary and a bit cynical. But his manner toward her was kind and sympathetic.
"I won't spare you, Ms. Lloyd. It was a brutal attack. She was killed with a sharp object, probably a knife."
"She was stabbed?"
"Repeatedly."
A low moan escaped her. She crossed her arms over her middle and bent from the waist, rocking slightly back and forth. She pinched her eyes closed, forcing out fresh tears.
"I'm sorry," the detective murmured. "Are you sure you wouldn't like somebody here with you?"
She nixed the suggestion with a strong shake of her head. "Was she raped?"
"The ME is examining the body now. It's being photographed. Once it's transported to the morgue, a complete autopsy—"
"Detective," she interrupted, "was she raped?"
"I honestly can't tell you. It doesn't appear that she was sexually assaulted, but please understand that at this point in time, we can't be positive."
"Thank you for your honesty."
Lawson shifted his weight on the ottoman and removed a notepad and pen from his breast pocket. "Are you willing to answer a few questions?"
"Of course. I want to help any way I can, but does it have to be right now?"
"The sooner we can establish a motive, the sooner we'll know where to begin looking for a suspect."
"How would I know what the killer's motive was?"
"We'll look first at your sister's routine, her friends, acquaintances, work habits, and so forth. Then work from there."
Nodding understanding, she blotted her eyes, blew her nose, and, with a small hand gesture, indicated for him to proceed.
"Did she have any enemies that you know of?"
"No."
"Jealous ex-husband?"
"She'd never been married."
"Jealous ex-lover or boyfriend?"
"No."
"A former employee, spiteful coworker?"
"She got along with everyone."
"As far as you know."
"Mr. Lawson, if she'd had an enemy, I would have known about it."
"She told you everything?"
"Yes."
"Even details about her personal life?"
"I can't be sure she told me everything, but she couldn't have kept a deep, dark secret from me, any more than I could have kept one from her. We could gauge each other's mood after exchanging a single word, even over the telephone. I would have sensed if she was worried about something or someone. We had this... telepathy. I could virtually read her mind. It's a phenomenon common to twins."
"I've heard that. Did she ever mention a stalker?" She sighed. Wasn't he listening? "No."
"Anyone who made her uneasy? Gave her unwanted attention?"
"No."
"And you can't think of anyone who might have held a grudge against her?"
"Nobody."
He tapped his pen against the pad and gnawed the inside of his cheek.
"What?" she asked.
He shifted his weight on the ottoman. "Well, we don't think it was a random attack. No ordinary break-in or burglary. Nothing seems to be disturbed or missing, although later you can help us determine that by walking through the rooms and checking. We also found a ruby necklace on the nightstand beside the bed. It's lying in plain sight. Not something a burglar would overlook."
"It was a gift from Jem. He brought it over just last night." "Jem?"
The detective's ears seemed to peak. He exchanged a significant glance with the other officers standing nearby listening.
"Jem Hennings." She shook her head in dismay. "I can't believe I haven't mentioned him before. I completely forgot him. I wasn't thinking—"
"Who is he?"
"The man she was seeing."
"Boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a number where he can be reached?"
She cast an alarmed glance around the group of policemen.
"Yes, but ... but Jem couldn't possibly be involved."
"He should still be notified, though. Right? And if he was
here last night, we certainly need to talk to him."
She provided the name of the stockbrokerage firm where Jem Hennings was employed. "He gets there early, before the market opens in New York."
"Then he should be there by now." Lawson dispatched Caltrane to place the call. "Just get him over here. Don't tell him what's happened."
She watched as the uniformed cop withdrew, cell phone in hand. Coming back to Lawson, she said, "That's awfully cruel, isn't it?"
"What happened to your sister was awfully cruel, Ms. Lloyd. That's another reason I don't think burglary was the motive. If caught in the act, a burglar might panic and lash out quickly. He has a knee-jerk response, and somebody winds up dead. No premeditation."
She glanced toward the bedroom and said quietly, "This wasn't like that? You think it was premeditated?"
He nodded grimly. "I think your sister was. .. targeted. And it's more than a gut instinct. Evidence indicates it." "What evidence?"
Caltrane entered and, speaking for the first time, said, "Hennings is on his way."
Lawson nodded an acknowledgment to the officer's announcement, but his eyes never left hers. "How involved were your sister and Mr. Hennings?"
"They were dating exclusively."
"How long had they been seeing each other on this exclusive basis?"
"Let's see ..." She did a mental calculation. "Almost a year."
"And the relationship was intimate?"
"Are you asking if they slept together?" she asked testily, and when he nodded, she said, "They had a sexual relationship, yes. Is that relevant, Mr. Lawson?"
"It could be. What kind of guy is Hennings?"
"What kind? Successful. Overachiever. Nice-looking." "Ethnicity?"
She looked at the detective with puzzlement. "I'm not sure. Hennings is Irish or English, isn't it? Frankly, I don't see the relevance," she said with a trace of impatience.
"And you're sure that Hennings was the only man your sister was seeing?"
"What are you getting at?"
"In your opinion, is Hennings the jealous sort?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Why? Detective Lawson—"
She broke off when she heard the wheels of the gurney squeaking along the floor of the hallway. She never remembered standing, never recalled taking several halting steps before gripping the back of an armchair for support. The body had been placed in a zippered bag and then strapped to the gurney.
"I want to see her."
Lawson advised that she let the coroner take the body downtown and prepare it for formal identification.
"I want to see her," she repeated.
After a long hesitation, Lawson gave his reluctant approval. He stood close to her and she moved toward the gurney, which was now crowding the entryway. Lawson nodded to the medic, who unzipped the bag only far enough to reveal the face.
It was so still and pale, it could have been formed of wax. It also could have been her face, except for the brown flecks on the very white skin. Those spatters puzzled her for a moment, and then she realized that they were dried droplets of blood.
Reality hit with the impetus of a freight train.
She felt her knees giving way. "I'm going to be sick."
CHAPTER 7
"
Ms. Lloyd?" A policewoman tapped softly on the powder
room door. "Are you all right?"
All right? Am I all right? Hell, no, I'm not all right. She didn't speak her sarcastic thoughts aloud. The woman's intentions were good. "I'm okay," she called. "I'll be out in a moment."
She'd had the dry heaves, but the nausea had passed now, and she was left feeling only hollow, emotionally as well as physically. She bathed her face and neck with cold water, rinsed her mouth out, and washed her hands. She looked ghastly, but she couldn't think of a single reason why it mattered.
When she opened the bathroom door, the policewoman smiled sympathetically. "Can I get you anything?"
"Yes. Detective Lawson."
The policewoman accompanied her back into the central room, where the detective was kneeling down in front of a window. Another cop was explaining to him that footprints had been found outside. "We'll dust. Impressions have already been made of the footprints. We're getting soil samples, too."
"The drinking glass in the kitchen?"
"Already bagged."
Lawson nodded as he stood, favoring what appeared to be arthritic knees. The policewoman got his attention. "Ms. Lloyd has asked to speak to you."
"Sure."
As he approached, she geared herself for the argument she knew was coming. "I want to see the bedroom."
He shook his head. "I don't think that's advisable."
"You mentioned evidence that indicates Gillian was targeted. If I see what you're talking about, I may be able to shed some light."
"We'll have photographs."
"Why wait on them?"
"It's not pretty."
"And I'm not a shrinking violet. I know it'll be bloody. I saw blood splashes on her face. And you said she was stabbed repeatedly. I know what to expect."
"Not entirely." He lowered his gaze for a few seconds before apologetically meeting hers again. "I haven't mentioned this before because you had enough to deal with."
What could he have possibly omitted? How much worse could it get? She stared him down, silently demanding that he hold nothing back.
"There's some writing on the bedroom walls."
"Writing?"
"Apparently he— Based on the size of the footprints we found outside the window, our suspect is male. Looks like he dipped a washcloth in your sister's blood and scrawled some... well, some obscenities on the walls."
Her stomach rose and fell like an ocean swell. But she was resolved to see the worst of it. If she didn't, then years from now her imagination would still be painting the scene for her. She wanted to see it as it actually was, not an image her mind conjured up. It must be real to her, not an abstract. She must see the scene in order to cope with it and, she hoped, eventually file it away in a compartment of her heart and subconscious. If she didn't confront it now and deal with it, she would never be able to lock it away. The frightening unknown would remain with her always, haunting her forever.
"I must see where and how my sister died, Detective."
The crime scene unit had completed their work. They had packed their gear into a van and departed, officially relinquishing the scene to the homicide detective. It was at Law-son's discretion who went in and out of that room now.
The seasoned investigator peered deeply into her eyes, and apparently her steady gaze conveyed her determination. He sighed like a man conceding an argument he was destined to lose.
He motioned her down the hallway, then paused on the threshold of the bedroom and waited for her to catch up with him. She stepped into the room, braced for the worst.
Actually, it was almost easy to view the scene with detachment. Because nothing in her life prior to this moment was relatable. She had no point of reference for comparison. The carnage was so horribly foreign to her experience that she couldn't connect with it on any level.
It was as shocking to her system as plunging into frigid waters. The quality that made it stupefying was the same quality that provided protection. It wasn't painful because all sensation was instantly frozen. Upon seeing her sister's deathbed, her senses froze. That's the only way her sensibilities could have sustained this assault on them.