“The ME will determine whether or not she was sexually assaulted,” O’Connor said, glancing up from the sketch she was drawing. “If I had to venture a guess, based on lividity and the stage of rigor mortis, I would place the time of death between eight and ten a.m.”
Donovan hummed a thoughtful note. “So after calling in sick,” he mused, “she decided to take a shower.”
“So?” O’Connor prompted.
The detective shrugged. “Just wondering why she’d bother showering first thing in the morning if she were that sick. Who does that? I know I wouldn’t have. I’d have kept my black ass in bed and watched TV all day.”
“Maybe she felt icky,” O’Connor suggested. “Maybe she had a fever, and it gave her night sweats. She wanted to wash off the grime.”
“Or maybe she had an overnight guest,” Donovan countered.
“You think this was a crime of passion?” Paulo asked, his gaze returning to Maribel Cruz’s brutalized corpse.
“It would explain why there’s no sign of forced entry,” Donovan said. “Maybe she played hooky from work to spend the day with her lover. They argued, things got out of hand. He snapped and killed her, then wrote stuff on the wall to make it look like some nut job butchered her.”
Paulo lifted his gaze from the dead woman to look at his partner. “Did the coworker tell you that Maribel had a boyfriend?”
“No. To her knowledge, Maribel wasn’t seeing anyone. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t.”
“True.” Although Paulo’s gut instincts told him that Maribel Cruz had not been killed by an enraged lover, he kept the thought to himself. For now.
Absently he watched as an evidence technician opened one of the nightstand drawers and carefully sifted through the contents. Paulo glimpsed a Bible, a checkbook, and some fashion magazines before the officer opened another drawer and pulled out the only item: a glossy brochure. The man stared at the cover for several moments, then showed it to the officer standing nearest to him. “Hey, didn’t I read somewhere that she moved to Houston earlier this year?”
The other man looked at the brochure cover and nodded. “Yeah, the story was in the Chronicle a while back. She used to be with some big dance company in New York.” He gave a low wolf whistle. “Fine as hell, ain’t she? New York’s loss is definitely our gain.”
“Tell me about it.”
By now Paulo had made his way over to the two officers. “Let me see that.” He had to practically pry the brochure out of the other man’s hand. Once he saw the cover, he understood why. Splashed across the front of the dance program was a photograph that captured Tommie Purnell leaping dramatically through the air, her dark hair flowing behind her, her slender arms raised above her head, her long, glorious legs gracefully extended. She wore a jeweled crown and a red corset with a gauzy, billowing skirt. She looked like a damned goddess.
In late February her dance company had made a stop in Houston as part of its national tour schedule. According to the brochure, Tommie had starred as a lead soloist in that evening’s performance.
Touching only the edges of the paper, Paulo flipped through the program until he came to Tommie’s biography page. Beneath her smiling photograph she had written: Great to meet you, Maribel! Don’t ever give up on your dreams. Best wishes, Tommie.
Paulo stared at the inscription, struck by the realization that both he and Tommie had met the murdered woman. Talk about six degrees of separation.
“Damn,” Donovan said appreciatively, peering over Paulo’s shoulder at Tommie’s photo. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “Hey, she wouldn’t happen to be the one you told me about a few months ago, would she? You know, the dancer you were trying to stay the hell away from?”
“Yeah,” Paulo muttered, regretting the impulse that had led him to confide in his partner.
Donovan grinned, shaking his head. “Lucky bastard.”
Before the other two men could ask about Tommie, a uniformed officer stuck his head through the doorway and said to Paulo, “Miss Phillips wants to know if you still need to talk to her.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“She’s ready to fly the coop. After what happened to her friend here, being in this house is spooking the hell outta her.”
Paulo nodded. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”
After the officer left, Paulo slipped the dance brochure into a plastic evidence bag and passed it to one of the crime-scene technicians, saying, “Run those prints through the system and let me know what you come back with.”
The man arched a brow at him, no doubt wondering what Paulo expected to learn from a brochure that might have been handled by any number of people.
Paulo didn’t bother explaining himself. He took one last look at the mutilated body on the floor, then walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen.
It was a large room that featured granite countertops, gleaming stainless steel appliances, and ceramic tile floors. No dishes cluttered the sink. Not a fork was out of place. It was as immaculate as the bedroom had been.
A slender, attractive African-American woman sat alone at the round oak table, cradling a glass of water. She was in her late twenties, with skin the color of caramel and shoulder-length dark hair. She wore an emerald silk blouse, gray cashmere slacks, and black snakeskin pumps that looked expensive.
She looked up as Paulo and Donovan entered the room. Her dark eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.
“Thanks for your patience, Miss Phillips,” Paulo said, briefly clasping her hand. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
“No, it hasn’t.” Kathleen Phillips shook her head, her eyes welling with tears. “I just can’t believe Maribel’s dead. What I saw in there…” She paused, shuddering deeply. “Who would do something like that to her? Who?”
“That’s what we hope to find out,” Paulo murmured, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. Donovan remained standing in the entryway, keeping an eye out for the medical examiner.
“I know you’ve already spoken to my partner,” Paulo said. “I just wanted to follow up with a few questions. Forgive me if they seem redundant.”
Kathleen nodded, blinking back tears. “I want to help anyway I can. Maribel was a good friend of mine.”
“How long had you worked with her?”
“Three years. We report to the same attorney in the labor and employment law division. His name is Ted Colston. I’m a paralegal. Maribel was Ted’s secretary.”
“Did she get along with her colleagues? Was she generally well liked? Respected?”
“Absolutely,” Kathleen said emphatically. “She was smart and very good at her job, and people liked her because she was friendly and outgoing. You could always count on Maribel to have a positive outlook on things, no matter what.”
Paulo nodded, unsurprised by the comments. No one ever spoke ill of the dead, even when it could be justified. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Maribel? Personally or professionally?”
Kathleen’s eyes widened. “You mean someone who would have hated her enough to do that to her?” she whispered, horrified.
“I’m sure you saw what was written on the wall in her bedroom,” Paulo said evenly. “It seemed personal. Can you think of any reason someone would have called Maribel a liar?”
Kathleen shook her head, lifting a trembling hand to the pearl choker at her throat. “I—I don’t know why anyone would have written that about her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” When Paulo said nothing, she added, “Look, I’m not saying Maribel was perfect, or that she didn’t have enemies. I’m sure there were people who didn’t like her, for whatever reason. But I just can’t imagine anyone hating her enough to…to—” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Her hand shook as she reached for the glass of water on the table and took a long sip.
Paulo waited several moments, giving her time to regain her composure before he continued questioning her.
“You told Detective Donovan that Maribel wasn’t seeing anyone. Was there an ex-boyfriend in the picture? Or someone she’d recently met at a party or nightclub? A guy she was just getting to know?”
Kathleen frowned, shaking her head. “Not that I know of. She would have told me about him.”
“Did she mention anything about someone hitting on her, coming on too strong? Or maybe she noticed a strange man staring at her in the grocery store or while she was out jogging?”
Kathleen smiled wistfully. “Maribel never went jogging. She always said she was too lazy and undisciplined for serious exercise. And it wasn’t at all unusual for men to stare at her in public. As you probably noticed, she was a beautiful woman. She was used to guys hitting on her all the time.”
Paulo didn’t doubt it.
“Garrett’s here,” Donovan said from the doorway, announcing the deputy chief medical examiner’s arrival.
At Paulo’s request, Kathleen recounted her discovery of the body, repeating what she had already told the first officer on the scene, as well as Detective Donovan. Afterward Paulo thanked her for her cooperation, gave her his card, and asked her to call him or his partner if she thought of anything else that might help. She gratefully accepted his offer to have an officer follow her home.
As Paulo and Donovan made their way back to Maribel Cruz’s bedroom to confer with the ME, Donovan said, “What did you think of Phillips?”
“I think she’s hiding something,” Paulo said flatly.
The younger detective frowned. “Like what?”
Paulo’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “I guess that’s for her to know, and us to find out.”
Chapter 3
As soon as Tommie returned to her loft after seeing Paulo off, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed her sister’s number. After three rings she was about to hang up when a deep, masculine voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Sebastien,” Tommie greeted her brother-in-law.
“Hey, girl.” His voice was tinged with laughter, as if he’d been enjoying some joke before he picked up the phone. “How you doing?”
“Can’t complain. How about you? How’s work?”
“Never a dull moment.”
“I’ll bet,” Tommie said wryly.
Sebastien Durand was a homicide detective in the San Antonio Police Department. The first time Tommie met him, he’d been investigating the murder of a dancer who had worked at the same strip club as Tommie. Although Tommie had been instantly attracted to Sebastien, she’d never stood a chance with him. He’d only had eyes for her sister, Frankie. Once Tommie got over her wounded ego—which hadn’t been easy—she’d realized just how right Frankie and Sebastien were for each other. Soul mates was the term that came to mind every time she saw them together.
“Hey, is Frankie—” The rest of Tommie’s question was drowned out by a child’s high-pitched squeal in the background. It was followed by the patter of running feet on hardwood and a woman’s exasperated voice crying out, “Boy, get your little butt back here!”
Tommie grinned. “Let me guess. Bath time?”
“You guessed it,” Sebastien said, laughing. “Marcos just made a jailbreak. Let me go rescue your sister so you can talk to her.”
Tommie opened her mouth to tell him she would call back later, but Sebastien had already put down the phone. Tommie heard more laughter in the background as he and Frankie chased their naked two-year-old son around the room. The sound of Marcos Durand’s childish giggles melted Tommie’s heart, bringing a tender smile to her face. The worst part about living in another city was not being able to see her nephew every day. She adored that little boy. With his father’s gray eyes and his mother’s thick curly hair, Marcos was already a little heartbreaker.
While Tommie waited for her sister to come to the phone, she slipped off her pointe shoes and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the bottle of merlot she’d offered to Paulo earlier.
As she retrieved a wineglass from the cabinet, Frankie came on the line, laughing and sounding out of breath. “I swear that child of mine is going to run track when he grows up. He’s so fast! I turn my back one second, and he’s off like a bolt of lightning!”
Tommie chuckled, rummaging around a drawer for the corkscrew. “Where is he now?”
“Sebastien’s getting him ready for bed.” Frankie heaved a gusty sigh. “Who needs membership to a gym? Chasing after Marcos every night gives me more than enough of a workout.”
Tommie grinned lasciviously. “I thought that was Sebastien’s job.”
Frankie laughed.
There was a time that such a joke would have made both women uncomfortable. It would have been laced with bitterness, delivered as a barbed attack. Thankfully, that time had passed. Both Frankie and Sebastien had forgiven Tommie for the abominable way she’d behaved early in their relationship. Her selfish, malicious campaign to sabotage their romance was something she would always regret. She knew their willingness to forgive and forget was more than she deserved.
“I didn’t mean to call during bath time,” she said apologetically. “Do you want me to call back later, after you’ve put Marcos to bed?”
“No, that’s okay. Sebastien’s got it covered. He’s reading him a bedtime story. Marcos will be out like a light in five minutes. Anyway, I’m glad you called.”
“You are?”
Hearing the wary note in her sister’s voice, Frankie laughed. “Of course. You know I’m always glad to hear from you. Mom and Dad are going to be jealous.”
Tommie frowned. “Frankie—”
“I know, I know. No lectures this time, I promise.” She paused. “But you could call them every once—”
“Frankie,” Tommie warned.
“All right, all right. I’d better back off before you stop calling me, too.”
“You said it, not me,” Tommie grumbled, popping the cork on her bottle. She poured the wine, watching as the chilled ruby liquid splashed into the glass.
Contrary to what her sister had said, Tommie hadn’t stopped calling their parents. She spoke to them on a regular basis, although, admittedly, they usually initiated the contact. It wasn’t that Tommie didn’t love her parents; she just didn’t have that much in common with them. Unlike Frankie, Tommie didn’t share the same interests as their father, a renowned archaeologist who’d been known to spend hours discussing the cultural evolution of ancient civilizations with his elder daughter. And since Tommie didn’t have a child, her mother couldn’t dispense advice on her favorite topics, which nowadays included ways to tackle potty training, finicky eating habits, and temper tantrums.
“As I was saying,” Frankie said, breaking into Tommie’s grim musings, “I’m glad you called because I need your advice. I’m giving a big presentation tomorrow, and I can’t decide which outfit to wear. I’ve narrowed it down to two pantsuits and a skirt suit.”
“What’s the presentation for?” Tommie asked, settling down at the breakfast counter with her glass of wine. Before Frankie could open her mouth, she added dryly, “In layman’s terms, please.”
Her sister chuckled. A tenured entomology professor at a private university in San Antonio, Frankie had a tendency to lapse into scientific jargon that often went way over Tommie’s head.
“My department is seeking a federal grant for a research study on arthropod-borne viruses,” Frankie explained. “Tomorrow we’re hosting a symposium that will be attended by lots of important people from the National Institutes of Health, the Smithsonian, the National Science Foundation, as well as a number of leading entomologists from around the world. I was asked to make the university’s case for funding.”
“Wow! That’s great, Frankie,” Tommie enthused. “Congratulations. What a huge honor.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got a lot riding on my shoulders, and I really want to make a good impression.”
“You will,” Tommie ass
ured her. “Hell, you could give that presentation in your sleep.”
Frankie laughed. “I don’t know about all that, but I certainly appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“It’s well deserved.” Tommie thought of the lecture she’d been invited to give at the University of Houston on Wednesday. Once upon a time she would have bragged about it, trying to one-up her sister because she’d spent years feeling inferior to Frankie and living in the shadow of her brilliance. But those days were behind Tommie. Time had changed her. Life had changed her.
The sound of hangers scraping across a metal rod could be heard in the background. “Okay, I’m standing in my walk-in closet,” Frankie announced. “I’m going to send you photos of the three outfits, and you tell me which one I should wear tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Tommie idly sipped her merlot while Frankie snapped shots using her cell phone camera.
Tommie had always been the clotheshorse of the family, while Frankie had suffered from being severely fashion-challenged, her taste in clothes ranging from conservative to downright god-awful. Four years ago, her wardrobe had consisted of hideous muumuus, shapeless tops, and baggy slacks that did nothing to accentuate her killer body. But all that had changed when she met Sebastien Durand. He’d done for her what no other man ever had. He’d looked beyond Frankie’s homely appearance to uncover the beautiful woman hiding beneath. In so doing, he’d given her the confidence—and motivation—to undertake a dramatic wardrobe transformation that would make fashionista Stacy London proud.
Although Frankie still regarded shopping as a mild form of torture, she’d come a long way. So Tommie wasn’t too surprised when she saw the stylish selections her sister presented to her for consideration. After deliberating over the photos for a moment, Tommie said decisively, “Wear the red skirt suit. It’s sassy and feminine, but still very professional. You look great in red, and the cut of the suit will really flatter your figure. Plus it’s not as conservative as the pantsuits.”
“Are you sure?” The worried note in Frankie’s voice was unmistakable. “Conservative might not be such a bad thing for this audience. These are scientific researchers and scholars, remember?”
Like No One Else Page 4
