“Trying to imagine where there might be prints I haven’t found.”
“Any luck finding that wine bottle?” Hal asked.
“Yes. We found it in the dumpster. It was in a paper bag and dropped down the garbage chute. Not surprising,” Roger said. “Get the glass out of the house so you don’t accidentally cut yourself later.”
“Prints?” Hal asked hopefully.
“Only the victim’s.”
No surprise. He didn’t allow himself to react. This was just the start. There were lots of opportunities. Whoever had been here had made a mistake.
Schwartzman said Spencer never made a mistake. Hal didn’t believe that, but even if he did, Spencer wasn’t here. He had never left South Carolina. This killer had made a mistake. There was something he hadn’t thought of, some place he’d touched inadvertently. They just had to find it. “And on the other wineglass?” he asked. “The one in the cupboard?”
“Wiped clean.”
That meant whoever killed her drank wine with her. “How about DNA?” Hal asked.
“None.”
“And we’ve got the victim’s prints in the house. How about others?”
“Victim’s and several that belong to the neighbor, but those were only found on two of the houseplants.”
“She said she takes care of Stein’s plants when she’s gone.”
“I figured,” Roger said. “We’ve got one other set on the front door and bedroom knobs, as well as on the bedroom wall by the light switch. We assume those are the sister’s, but we’ll need the comparison to be sure.”
“Anything on the bouquet of flowers?” Hal asked.
“It’s a tough surface for prints, but we’ll check. As far as the flowers themselves, there was nothing exotic and no packaging, so it’s going to be difficult to track where they came from. They’re too similar to the kind sold at every grocery store. But,” Roger said, moving to his computer, “I did cross-reference this bouquet with the one Schwartzman received. Both included calla lilies and Gerbera daisies. But they’re different species, so the bouquets aren’t from the same source.”
“Not from the same source,” Hal repeated.
“The lab is compiling a list of growers, so we can try to track where they were sold. It’s not going to be a short list.”
Now Hal was frustrated. No way to narrow in on the flowers that came from Spencer. Nothing to help them locate the place where this bouquet came from. “So we don’t have anything yet.”
“Precisely why I’m staring at every surface in the house. There have to be prints here somewhere.”
“I thought we determined the perp was wearing gloves,” Hal said.
“He was, but I doubt he would walk into her house in gloves. Seems like she’d notice.”
Hal agreed, thinking through the killer’s steps. He would have come through the door without gloves. She would have opened it for him. “Doorbell?”
“Clean,” Roger confirmed.
Okay, not the door. They’d had wine. The lab had already collected the glasses and the bottle. Then, somehow, he’d incapacitated her and gotten her to the bath. “You heard cause of death, right?”
“I got a call from Schwartzman. Drowning.”
“So what about that? Awkward to drown someone wearing gloves. Did you try the areas around the bathtub?”
“Clean.”
“Linen closet?”
“Just hers.”
Hal took two gloves from Roger’s box and pulled them on, ignoring how they cut into his wrists.
The cabinet doors were open above the oven and dishwasher. Four aqua-colored dinner plates, four matching salad plates, mugs, and bowls. In the next cabinet, four lowballs, four highballs, two wineglasses. With the one that had been on the counter and the one that was wiped clean, it made a set of four. Hal lifted one of the plates and studied it. No scratches. No nicks. No water damage. He turned it over.
“Looks new, right?”
Hal motioned to the cabinets. He thought about the mismatched bar glasses in his own cabinet. Maybe a half-dozen plates, all but one chipped. Fine cracks from going through the microwave. “All of it. New and basic. Who lives with only four plates?”
“Someone not planning to stay long.”
“Right. I’m going to talk to her sister today. I’ll ask her.” Hal pulled open the silverware drawer and found it as sparsely stocked as the cabinets. He opened drawers. A corkscrew, which he showed Roger.
“Good thought,” Roger said, retrieving an evidence bag from his case.
Other than the corkscrew, the victim had a single spatula, a salad serving set, a ladle, and a large serving spoon. The food cupboard contained only a few cans of soup, trail mix, granola bars, crackers, and a small box of cereal. Another bottle of the same wine. In the refrigerator were some vegetables and a couple of takeout boxes, yogurts, Diet Coke, and water.
Hal pushed the refrigerator door closed. It was as if someone had walked down the housewares aisle at Target and bought the first twenty items that came to mind. Maybe she ate most meals at work. But it was more than that. The house felt impersonal, like an extended-stay hotel room rather than a place where someone lived.
She’d been here for months, not for a couple of weeks. Where was the wear and tear? It felt wrong. “Huh.”
“Maybe they had her working all the time. She ate at work.”
Naomi Muir, one of the crime scene techs, emerged from the back of the apartment. She said hello to Hal.
“Find anything?” Roger asked.
“Nothing. No personal papers. No pictures other than the ones that are displayed. The desk drawers are literally empty.”
“Maybe someone removed things?” But Hal had a strange feeling that this wasn’t what it appeared to be.
Victoria Stein didn’t live here, not in the sense that most people lived in their homes. The more he looked at it, the more certain he felt. There wasn’t even enough dirt. Maybe she kept this place as some sort of facade.
He wanted to circle back to the neighbor and ask how often she actually saw Stein.
“No,” Naomi said. “The dust has settled evenly on the surfaces. No voids to suggest anything was removed.”
“So maybe the job thing wasn’t a permanent transfer,” Roger said, thinking aloud. “Or maybe she didn’t want to move everything until she was sure the job would work out. Hedging her bets.”
“Maybe so,” Naomi said. “but if I was moving across country, I’d pack my iPad and my computer.”
If Stein was living here, then he would expect to find more of her personal things. Certainly a computer. “You didn’t find a computer?”
“No. And not just no computer,” Naomi continued. “There’s no box or case, no extra cords, no modem, or Internet hookup. There is no evidence that she had a computer here at all.”
“How about her phone?” Hal asked.
“Can’t find that either,” Naomi said. She lifted a plastic bag. “I found a wallet. Social Security card, driver’s license from South Carolina, and one credit card.”
Everyone knew you didn’t carry your Social Security card in your wallet. He thought about his own wallet. He’d learned the hard way out of college that he couldn’t afford credit card debt. He never carried a balance, but he still had three different cards. Plus the debit card for his bank. “One credit card,” Hal repeated.
“Bank of America.”
“Even I’ve got more than one credit card,” Hal said.
“Right. I’ve been through the whole place. There’s nothing else. No secret hiding places, no wall safe.”
“You mind if I take that?” Hal asked, motioning to the bagged wallet. “I’d like to run her through the system and see if I can find out anything else about her.”
Naomi glanced at Roger, who nodded.
“Thanks,” Hal said. “I’ll get them back to you for fingerprinting.” He opened his notebook and made a note.
“There’s more,” Naomi said.
“Such as?” Hal asked.
“All the furniture matches.”
Hal studied the dining room table with its curved legs and rounded edges. The wood stained the color of molasses. The same curves and stain were on the coffee table and the end table. “Huh.” Hal set down the notebook and crossed to the dining room table. There, he got down on his knees and crawled under.
Hal studied the underside for some sort of sticker but found none. He crawled back out and proceeded to the living room. He turned the coffee table over and searched beneath it. Nothing there either.
“Maybe she bought it as a set,” Roger suggested. “You looking for the manufacturer?”
“No.” The signature in the lower-right corner of the painting in the dining room was a C followed by a series of letters that were so flattened into a line, he couldn’t make them out. Then a large sweeping W followed by more indecipherable letters. He pointed to it. “Who’s the artist on that painting?”
Both Naomi and Roger turned toward it.
“I’m afraid my art history is a bit rusty,” Roger said. “I’m really best with the Renaissance period.”
Hal waved at him. “Read me the signature already.”
Roger chuckled and moved to the painting, where he squinted at the corner.
“Capital C, then stuff you can’t read followed by capital W and more illegible letters?” Hal asked.
“Yes,” Roger confirmed. “That’s exactly it.”
“Naomi, help me get this off the wall, would you?”
Together, Hal and the tech took the painting off the wall. “Where now?” Naomi asked.
“Let’s turn it around,” Hal directed, backing into the living room. “And set it against this wall.” When the painting was down, Hal scanned the back of the canvas. There, on the lower-left corner was a small gold plaque that read K&Z INTERIORS.
“What is it?” Roger asked.
“K&Z Interiors,” Naomi read to him. “You’re interested in the interior designer?”
The bedroom furniture had the same bland consistency, each piece part of a set you might find in an upscale hotel. “I don’t think it’s an interior decorator.” Using his iPhone, he Googled the company.
“What is it?”
He read aloud from the website, “K&Z Interiors, the nation’s premier staging company, helping you sell your home faster, at a higher price.”
“A staging company?” Roger repeated.
“I’ve heard of those,” Naomi said. “They decorate houses before they go on the market.”
“But maybe in this case, it’s not for sale,” Hal said, taking down the contact number for the company.
“So, you think Victoria Stein rented the furniture?” Roger asked.
“I’m wondering if she didn’t rent the whole place,” Hal said. “It’s like Naomi said. Look around—there’s nothing personal. No books or knickknacks from work or trips. No family photos except for the ones of her and her sister.”
“Which is sort of weird, too,” Naomi added.
“Right. No friends or parents.”
“No boyfriend,” Roger added.
“That makes sense with what I’m finding in the rest of the place,” Naomi confirmed. “Come look at this.”
Hal and Roger followed her back to the bedroom, where she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. It was nearly empty.
“Underwear?” Hal asked.
“Six pairs of underwear?” Naomi said. “Assuming some dirty laundry, maybe seven to ten pairs. Enough for a week.” Next she lifted one bra from the drawer. “Two bras,” she said. “Assuming the victim was wearing one.”
Hal and Roger said nothing.
Naomi laughed. “Guys, no woman owns only ten pairs of underwear and two bras.” She waited, and when neither spoke, she added, “Especially two bras.”
“Maybe this isn’t her primary address,” Hal said. “Like she wanted it to look like she lived here, but she didn’t. I’ll ask the sister.” He made notes on the questions he had for Terri, then turned back to Naomi. “What did we find on her employer? Maybe they can shed some light on what she was doing out here.”
“Uh . . . ,” Naomi said, looking apologetic.
Hal had a sinking feeling. “What?”
“There are no pay stubs either, and her key ring only has two keys on it. The one to the building door and the one to her front door.”
“No key card to her work?” Hal asked.
Naomi shook her head.
“So maybe she wasn’t here for work,” Roger suggested.
Nothing in the condo was what it had originally seemed. Hal rolled off the latex gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. “I’ll make some calls.”
“We’ll finish our sweep here and let you know if we find anything else,” Roger told him.
Hal called Hailey, but the call went straight to voicemail. “Something’s up with Victoria Stein. I’m going to get the sister to come into the station as soon as possible. Call me.”
From the car, Hal dialed Terri Stein again. That call, too, went straight to voicemail.
He thought of Schwartzman, of her ties to South Carolina. She didn’t recognize either of the sisters—not their faces or their names.
That, too, was a dead end without more information. With nothing left to do, Hal drove in the direction of the department, hoping he could dig up something to shed some light on this case.
As it was, Hal was sitting in a dark closet, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Maybe Victoria Stein wasn’t who she said she was.
What kind of person lived with only the thinnest veneer of a life? She supposedly had a job but no computer, no Internet, no personal files, not even any identification other than a driver’s license and a Social Security card.
It made Hal wonder if they’d somehow stumbled into another agency’s turf. Hal found the number for his contact at the bureau and gave him a call.
10
San Francisco, California
Midday Thursday, Schwartzman returned to her office from the morgue in search of a bandage for the nasty paper cut she’d managed to give herself opening a suture kit.
She almost never worked in the office but instead used the little metal desk in the autopsy room.
She was startled to see a strange woman in the chair across from her desk. Although the room was warm enough, she looked cold in a dark-orange wool coat with the hood up. It was a sort of peacoat with large wooden buttons that made her seem more like a large child than an adult.
Schwartzman rifled through a drawer for a Band-Aid. “Can I help you?”
The woman looked up at Schwartzman, her eyes wide, and pressed the back of her hand to her red nose. Fresh tears trailed down her face.
“Let me get someone to help you.” Schwartzman had work to finish up. A victim of a gang shooting had been in the drawer two days, and last night had brought her a stabbing victim, as well.
She moved to the hallway, looking for someone who might show the lost woman out. The woman began to cry, big, silent, rocking sobs. When she came back into the room, Schwartzman noticed her slouched white boots and a pair of dark-yellow tights.
The ensemble made her look like a piece of candy corn, propped upside down.
The woman dried her eyes. “I’m waiting for the medical examiner.”
Schwartzman ripped open the Band-Aid and wrapped the stretchy fabric around her index finger. “I’m the medical examiner.”
“Oh . . .” The woman sat upright, and the hood slid off her head. Her straight dark hair was cut above her shoulders in uneven layers that made the damaged hair look like dark-colored straw.
“But if you’re inquiring about a case, you need to talk to the investigators. Homicide is on the fifth floor.” She turned to leave when the woman called after her.
“Did you do the—”
Schwartzman looked back.
The woman pulled the handkerchief away. “I’m Terri Stein. Victoria
is my sister.”
Schwartzman froze in the doorway, studied the woman more closely. Her hair was darker than it had been in the photos at the victim’s house. Shorter. She was not familiar. The realization seemed both obvious and surprising. Even if Spencer had sent Terri, she wouldn’t have been someone Schwartzman knew.
But more than that. She looked wrong. He would have hated the hooded coat, the odd layering of her hair, the flashy dangling earrings. Victoria was Spencer’s type, not Terri.
Spencer wouldn’t have chosen her.
Schwartzman realized she hadn’t spoken. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Can you talk about it?”
She didn’t want to be there alone with Victoria’s sister. She didn’t know what questions to ask, what to say. “I’m afraid not,” Schwartzman said. “The lead inspector is Hal Harris. I can call him.”
Terri sat forward on the chair. “They said she drowned.”
Schwartzman had left that information with Hal yesterday, but since then they had been trading voicemails and had yet to connect.
“Drowned? In her own bathtub,” Terri said, pressing her fist against her teeth.
“So you spoke to Inspector Harris.” Had Hal sent her here? To see if she was familiar in some way? Had she missed his call? She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.
“In lavender water,” Terri went on. Her gaze seemed to look right through Schwartzman.
Schwartzman wasn’t used to the relatives, but she understood grief. “I am very sorry.”
Terri watched her.
Schwartzman felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as though the woman was waiting for some other type of confession. Something about Spencer? She couldn’t think. “We should be able to release the body for burial soon. Within a couple of days, I would think.” Schwartzman leaned down and pulled out a form. “If you’d like to complete this paperwork, I can call you when we can transfer the remains.” She slid the form across the desk, but Terri made no move for it. “We need information on which funeral home you’ve selected. If the remains are going out of state, you’ll need to make arrangements for that ahead of time.”
“How did he drown her with lavender water?”
Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) Page 9
