Faye Kellerman: The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

Marge hung up her cell and rocked on her feet, her five-foot-ten frame swaying from side to side. “Techs should be here soon, Pete.”

“ To do what?” Decker snarled. “Sweep the floor?”

“They can dust. Check out the drains-”

“Crime wasn’t committed here.”

Marge shrugged. “An empty house is a good place to lure a victim.”

“No spatter anywhere, no wet spots on the floor… it’s not the crime scene.” Decker raked his fingers through his hair, a combination of copper and silver. “I mean, I’m not positive, but I’d bet a winning lottery ticket on it.”

That was Decker’s experience talking: thirty years as a cop, most of them with Homicide, and the last ten as a detective lieutenant.

She said, “Hardly any bloat on the face.”

“She’s fresh, probably dumped last night. There’s no heating inside, and the cool night air probably helped to preserve her.”

“The face looks Hispanic, maybe Mideastern.”

“Yeah, she’s out of her element in this solidly middle-to-upper-class area. The residents are by and large white. She also has a front tooth rimmed in gold. That’s not white American dentistry.”

“A housekeeper?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. It would have been nice if there had been clothes on her. You can tell a lot by a person’s clothes.” Decker smoothed his ginger mustache. “This isn’t some gang-banger’s crime. A group of Latinos carrying a body and entering a house would stick out in this neighborhood. This feels like a white man’s crime. Some guy screwing the maid, and when she threatened to tell the wife, he panicked. I bet the perp lives nearby and knew the house was empty.”

“There’s no forced entry,” Marge added.

Decker thought a moment. “Maybe it was someone in real estate who had a key to the place. Who’s out canvassing the neighborhood?”

“Wanda Beautemps and Lee Wang,” Marge said. “Scott Oliver is talking to the people who were in the house when the body was discovered. We got an angry mob out there, Loo. They’re furious that the open house was canceled.”

Decker smiled. “Go tell the agent that I want a list of everyone who has a key to the place and a list of every Realtor who has shown the house.”

“I think it’s a brand-new listing.”

“Good. That’ll make our jobs easier.”

“Petechiae in the eyes, deep bruises around the neck that look like finger impressions… no overt ligature marks.” The investigator was a woman in her fifties named Sherelle Holland. She and her partner wore black uniforms covered by black jackets with CORONER’S INVESTIGATOR in yellow lettering on the back. Sherelle had slid the body out of the blue plastic bag and onto the coroner’s white plastic sheeting while the police photographer snapped pictures. “There’s a contusion on the right side of her head.”

“Blunt-force trauma?” Decker asked.

“No, more like she just hit her head. It’s certainly not deep enough to cause her death. There aren’t any bullet or stab wounds. Manual strangulation would be the logical guess. There’s lividity… rigor is just starting to set. Ordinarily, I’d say less than twenty-four hours, but it’s cool outside.”

“Anything under the nails?”

“At a quick glance, it looks like she fought back. Or maybe the blood is hers.” Sherelle started bagging the hands. “We’ll clip them. Once we get her onto the table, the doc can tell you more. Any idea who she is?”

“No.”

Sherelle shrugged. “Maybe she’s a real estate agent. People are getting pretty angry about the housing situation.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant. You’ll need it.”

Decker called over a tech from the CSI unit. “You can evidence the garbage bag. Turn it inside out and see if you can’t find something. This is desperation time.” He signaled to Oliver, who was checking himself out in a full-length door mirror. He was over fifty, with mostly dark hair and a gut that hadn’t gone to fat, but he was as vain as a schoolgirl. Decker didn’t like Oliver because his own daughter once had. That was way in the past, and Cindy was now happily married to a more age-appropriate guy, but some things remained stuck in one’s craw. “What’s going on, Scottie?”

Oliver tore himself away from the mirror and walked over to Decker. “Not much. Just calming down a bunch of freaked-out people.”

“Did the agent recognize the corpse?”

“Never saw her nor any other corpse in her life. Her name is Sarah, and I offered to take her out for coffee to calm her down after this is all over.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Decker said.

“I’m just that kind of sensitive guy.”

“She’s not only young enough to be your daughter, she’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”

Oliver smiled. “What can I say? Some people can’t adjust.”

Decker wasn’t sure if Oliver was referring to Decker or himself. “Did Margie or you get a list of brokers from her?”

“Not much of a list, Loo. She told me this was only the second time the house has been shown.”

“When was the first showing?”

“Two days ago… last Sunday.” It was Marge Dunn who responded. She checked her notes. “From two to five. Sarah Atacaro, that’s the agent for this showing, told us that the only ones with keys were her, her boss, and the owners, who are now in Denver.”

Oliver added, “This was Sarah’s first time inside the house. She was just helping out her boss, Adele Michaels, who was in San Diego for a wedding.”

“Get Michaels on the phone. We need to talk to her.”

“I already did,” Oliver told him. “She’s en route, and the cell reception was iffy. For what it’s worth, she told me she’d checked out the house yesterday afternoon in anticipation of today’s showing, and she was adamant that there were no dead bodies anywhere. I think it would have been something she’d remember.”

“Did she specifically remember checking out the broom closet?”

“She said she checked out everything.”

“All right. Then, assuming her information is correct, that would mean the body was placed no more than a day ago. Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything?”

“Nothing that would point us in the direction of the murderer.”

“I doubt the killer just stumbled on the house. He must have known that the house was going to be empty between Sunday and today.”

“Someone in real estate.”

“That’s what Marge and I have been thinking. We have pictures of our vic now. Why don’t you show them around? Maybe someone’s housekeeper didn’t show up for work. And if the two agents were the only ones with a key, let’s recheck the doors and windows for pry marks. Maybe we missed something because this wasn’t the crime scene, and as sure as hell, the body didn’t walk in on its own accord.”

The cigarette smoke didn’t bother Decker, but Marge was less tolerant and kept fanning her face. Eventually, Adele Michaels got the hint and stubbed out the butt with her foot. They were in the house’s backyard outside the kitchen door. The body was gone, but a pall remained.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you guys. The body wasn’t here yesterday afternoon.” Adele’s voice was deep and hoarse. A face-lift had stretched her leathery skin over cheekbone implants. “I checked every closet and cabinet. I turned on and off every tap, flushed every toilet, and opened and closed every window. The house was in tip-top shape.”

“And you have no idea who she is?” Marge asked again.

“No, for the tenth time. I don’t know who she is. Why would you think I’m holding back on you?”

“Just trying to prod your memory,” Decker said.