Joan Pickart - Body of Evidence

Assuming the vultures aren’t already circling, Colin said to himself. The media seemed able to scent society murder like sharks scented blood in the water.

“ Wilson ’s going to meet you there.”

Colin frowned. “ Wilson?”

“The new hire. And your new partner.”

Well, that’s the capper on my day, Colin thought. Not only did he have a case involving one of the most socially prominent families in the state, let alone Chicago, but now he had the new pet dumped in his lap.

He hadn’t joined in the general grumbling about Wilson sliding into a coveted detective slot, even though there were cops on the street who’d been trying for years to get the assignment, while she had only a couple of years on a department a small fraction of the size of Chicago PD. The fact that Wilson had computer skills sadly lacking in the division had kept him from jumping on that bandwagon, but that didn’t mean he thought it was a good idea.

So now he had not only a rookie detective but practically a rookie cop on his hands, on a high-profile murder case. A very high-profile murder case.

“Problem, Waters?” Portman asked, making Colin realize he’d been silent a little too long.

“Just dodging some traffic,” he improvised. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“This is a big one, so you do that.”

As if I don’t know that, Colin muttered to himself. “Yes, sir,” he said aloud.

It was going to be a very long day.

“You look,” Colin said frankly, “like hell, buddy.”

“I feel worse,” Josh Benton said, his voice sounding grim as he ran a hand over his black hair.

Benton was only six years older than Colin, but there was an eon of weary experience in his eyes. Wondering if someday the eyes he saw in the mirror would look like that, he handed Benton his own cup of black coffee.

“You need it more than I do.”

“Can’t argue that,” Benton agreed and took it. “It’s been a long night.”

“Want to sit down and bring me up to speed?”

“No.” At Colin’s startled blink, Benton grimaced. “If I sit down, I may never get up.” He eyed Colin. “But you might as well sit. It may be the last rest you get for a while.”

“Yeah, I get that feeling. Where are we at?”

“The maid, Miriam Hobart, found him at about one this morning. She’s pretty upset, she’s worked for the Gardners for more than ten years.”

“Signs of a struggle?”

“Yes. He fought, all right. There’s some oddly shaped bruising to the face, severe blow to the back of the head that we’re guessing is from a fall against a table. That one could have been fatal, if you ask me. Stab wounds, small but deep, any of which could also have been fatal.”

“Knife?”

“More like an ice pick. And there was a collection of picks at the scene.”

Odd thing to collect, Colin thought, but said only, “Forced entry?”

“No. Some valuable stuff missing, but a lot, including a chunk of cash, weren’t taken.”

Colin frowned, but said nothing. He knew Benton would have the same questions he did. They both had enough experience to know what those facts could signify.

“Where do you want us to start?”

“Us?”

Colin stifled a sigh. “Yeah. The boss informed me I have a new partner. We’re supposed to meet up at the scene.”

Benson studied him for a moment. “The propeller head?”

Colin rolled his eyes at the slang for computer geeks. “How’d you guess?”

“She’s the only one unassigned, and you’re the only one partner-free,” Benton said with a shrug.

“And I was kind of liking it that way.”

“At least she’s not hard to look at.”

Not a great recommendation for a cop, Colin thought, but he left it at that. And Benton apparently agreed because he went right back to business.

“We’ll have photos as soon as they’re dry, and the preliminary crime scene reports. There’s a son, Stephen, age twenty-three. Lives at the Gardner estate. Mother is Cecelia, widowed. If you even glance at the society pages of the paper, you’ll know her on sight.”

“If you watch five minutes of the evening news, you’ll know her on sight,” Colin said wryly. “Who else?”

“Family, only an older brother, Lyle.”

“Who’s been notified?”

Benton grimaced. “The mother. In person, by two captains, sent by the commander himself.”

Colin grimaced in turn; as a reminder of the horsepower of the victim, it was potent, but it was also a loss to the investigation. On a murder case, a detective always tried to be the one to deliver the grim news, not out of any ghoulish enjoyment, but to see the reactions of the family, who frequently weren’t all that sorry to see the dearly departed depart.

“If she was surprised, they said it didn’t show. Shock, maybe.”

Since Benton didn’t elaborate, Colin assumed no one had reported any other reaction that triggered more suspicion than usually fell upon the family of a murder victim; Benton was among the best at his job, despite that world-weary look in his eyes, and he wouldn’t leave out anything crucial.

“Canvas of the building?” Colin asked.

“We had patrol start it, but you’ll need to follow up.”

Colin nodded. “Anything else?”

Benton nodded. “There are security cameras in the lobby and in the hallways. The super, a guy named Carter, said the recording equipment is in the basement. We put in a call to the security company, they should be getting there about now. They’re sending a Mr. Bergen.”

“We’ll get on that right away,” Colin said; a videotape of the elevators and hallways could wind this case up in a hurry. But he knew better than to hope for such a tidy package; this was murder, and murder was almost always messy. Very messy.

Darien had to park so far from the address she’d been given on the Gold Coast that she should have changed to her running shoes. But she hadn’t wanted to delay, not when the district commander himself had given her this assignment.

After a dash to the right address, she paused for a few seconds to gather herself before she went inside. She knew she should be feeling appropriately solemn-someone’s loved one was dead in the worst imaginable way-but some small part of her couldn’t help being excited at working on her first murder case. She’d have to be careful that it didn’t show; she knew that much, that inappropriate rookie enthusiasm could brand her forever.

She also couldn’t dwell on the fact that the sexiest guy in the division would be her partner.

The March sun didn’t provide much warmth, but it turned the stone of the upper stories of the building a golden cream that nicely set off the amber tint of the windows. Thirty stories or better, she thought, and she was headed for the top. Of course. If the victim was the kind of high-roller the commander had said, it would only figure he’d live in the penthouse.

Telling herself that she hadn’t gotten this far to give in to doubts and qualms now, she straightened her spine and stepped inside. Still, the lobby caught her off guard with its expanse of gleaming marble. Springfield might be the state capital, but it had a population of about one twenty-fifth of Chicago and for a moment she again felt like the small-town girl lost in the big city.

No, she thought. That man lying dead upstairs is lost. And it’s my job to help find out who did this to him.

Steady now, she strode across the marble floor to the bank of elevators, trying to thaw her fingers as she went. A uniformed officer stood outside one of them, and she quickly found out it was the private elevator to the penthouse. She showed her ID and after the officer examined it as if he doubted it was real, she stepped inside the car. It, too, was elegantly appointed with gilt and marble, and she told herself to expect more of the same when she reached the penthouse. Considering the size of the building, she could guess how big the place must be.