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on one side as he regarded the position of the pillow on the floor and the bloody fingerprints. “Suffocation? Okay, roll her over, boys.”
He checked her eyes again. “Mmm. I’ll see better in the lab.” He examined her chest.
“What you looking for, doc?” Jose asked.
“See these buttons at the top of her nightdress? If she was suffocated they might have damaged her skin as they were pressed against her. I’ll bag her hands. She has long fingernails. Might have caught the killer herself.”
“Could she have killed her husband and then overdosed?” Brannon suggested.
“Doubt she was capable. And why not take all your tablets? None of these bottles are empty. And there’s no blood on her. Thought the guy was stabbed?”
In the other bedroom Caldwell grimaced at the number of flies and put on his mask. He went through the same methodical examination of Vasily.
“Interesting. I hope the crime scene technicians aren’t in too much of a hurry.”
Interesting meant not straightforward. Brannon recognized Caldwell’s language. Although elaborate and fascinating forensic evidence was an increasingly popular feature of TV shows, it only turned out to be critical in relatively few cases. Since you couldn’t know which ones they’d be, every procedure had to be followed to the letter. Still, Brannon felt in his gut that old-fashioned police work would most likely solve this case. Find the motive—money, love or power and you were partway there.
The ME left and CSIs arrived, swarming over the house like robotic white locusts. Dressed head to toe in protective gear, they checked everything with painstaking precision. Armed with the tools of their trade, they tweezed, vacuumed and patiently lifted evidence into specialized containers. Nothing was left untouched, even the garbage. Wood’s Light showed semen traces in several places in the bedroom where the man’s body had been found. Lumi-light revealed previously invisible blood tracks on the floor in both bedrooms and the bathroom. Someone had attempted to remove incriminating evidence.
It was Brannon’s job to find that someone.
11
Katya played a slow, easy piece by Grieg aware she was being watched by one diner in particular, a good-looking, dark haired man with hooded eyes and a hard smile who sat at a table with an older bald guy and two young blonde women who appeared to be twins. They were drinking expensive champagne. The women were fawning over the older guy but not the good-looking one. No one on the table tipped her.
Too much to expect Viktor Petrenko to be dining here. What would she do if he walked in? Panic fluttered through her and her bow slipped. She forced herself to concentrate. She’d already annoyed Dimitri by not buying shoes. She didn’t want to get sacked for making diners wince.
When it was time for her break, she went to the staff room. The television was on but muted. A Russian newspaper lay on the table and she read as she ate mushroom pelmeni . Some instinct made her glance up and she saw Vasily and Irina smiling at her from the TV. Her fork fell from her hand. The item was over before Katya could make her legs move.
Had her name been mentioned? Were the police looking for her? She shook too much for her to play. She muttered apologies to the maitre d’, told him she was sick and paid for a cab to take her back.
In the hotel, she flicked to Fox News and waited with her fists clenched and heart racing. When the photograph of her aunt and uncle filled the screen, she stopped breathing. The news reporter stood near the house, yellow crime scene tape flapping behind her.
A friend had found them.
The deaths were being treated as suspicious.
No mention of her.
Sleep took an age to come and though Katya tried to escape to somewhere happy, her dreams dragged her to her own private hell, where she struggled to escape dozens of pawing hands. She woke entangled in the sheet, soaked with sweat, and didn’t close her eyes after
He checked her eyes again. “Mmm. I’ll see better in the lab.” He examined her chest.
“What you looking for, doc?” Jose asked.
“See these buttons at the top of her nightdress? If she was suffocated they might have damaged her skin as they were pressed against her. I’ll bag her hands. She has long fingernails. Might have caught the killer herself.”
“Could she have killed her husband and then overdosed?” Brannon suggested.
“Doubt she was capable. And why not take all your tablets? None of these bottles are empty. And there’s no blood on her. Thought the guy was stabbed?”
In the other bedroom Caldwell grimaced at the number of flies and put on his mask. He went through the same methodical examination of Vasily.
“Interesting. I hope the crime scene technicians aren’t in too much of a hurry.”
Interesting meant not straightforward. Brannon recognized Caldwell’s language. Although elaborate and fascinating forensic evidence was an increasingly popular feature of TV shows, it only turned out to be critical in relatively few cases. Since you couldn’t know which ones they’d be, every procedure had to be followed to the letter. Still, Brannon felt in his gut that old-fashioned police work would most likely solve this case. Find the motive—money, love or power and you were partway there.
The ME left and CSIs arrived, swarming over the house like robotic white locusts. Dressed head to toe in protective gear, they checked everything with painstaking precision. Armed with the tools of their trade, they tweezed, vacuumed and patiently lifted evidence into specialized containers. Nothing was left untouched, even the garbage. Wood’s Light showed semen traces in several places in the bedroom where the man’s body had been found. Lumi-light revealed previously invisible blood tracks on the floor in both bedrooms and the bathroom. Someone had attempted to remove incriminating evidence.
It was Brannon’s job to find that someone.
11
Katya played a slow, easy piece by Grieg aware she was being watched by one diner in particular, a good-looking, dark haired man with hooded eyes and a hard smile who sat at a table with an older bald guy and two young blonde women who appeared to be twins. They were drinking expensive champagne. The women were fawning over the older guy but not the good-looking one. No one on the table tipped her.
Too much to expect Viktor Petrenko to be dining here. What would she do if he walked in? Panic fluttered through her and her bow slipped. She forced herself to concentrate. She’d already annoyed Dimitri by not buying shoes. She didn’t want to get sacked for making diners wince.
When it was time for her break, she went to the staff room. The television was on but muted. A Russian newspaper lay on the table and she read as she ate mushroom pelmeni . Some instinct made her glance up and she saw Vasily and Irina smiling at her from the TV. Her fork fell from her hand. The item was over before Katya could make her legs move.
Had her name been mentioned? Were the police looking for her? She shook too much for her to play. She muttered apologies to the maitre d’, told him she was sick and paid for a cab to take her back.
In the hotel, she flicked to Fox News and waited with her fists clenched and heart racing. When the photograph of her aunt and uncle filled the screen, she stopped breathing. The news reporter stood near the house, yellow crime scene tape flapping behind her.
A friend had found them.
The deaths were being treated as suspicious.
No mention of her.
Sleep took an age to come and though Katya tried to escape to somewhere happy, her dreams dragged her to her own private hell, where she struggled to escape dozens of pawing hands. She woke entangled in the sheet, soaked with sweat, and didn’t close her eyes after
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