Читать книгу Like No One Else - Maureen Smith - Страница 8

As Paulo emerged from Tommie Purnell’s building that evening and climbed into an unmarked police cruiser, his mind wasn’t on the crime scene he’d been summoned to a few minutes ago. Instead his thoughts were dominated by the woman he’d just left behind.

Tommie Purnell was as stunningly beautiful as he remembered, with flawless brown skin, long dark hair streaked with honey, sultry dark eyes, high cheekbones, and full, lush lips. She also happened to be sexier than any woman had a right to be—five foot eight inches of voluptuous curves poured into the body of a centerfold. A walking wet dream.

From the moment Paulo met her four years ago, he’d been ensnared by the sensuality she exuded like powerful pheromones. Everything about her, from her smoky voice to the way she moved, was primitively erotic. Dangerous.

Every unmarried man at the wedding, and even some of the hitched ones, had wanted to fuck her. None more so than Paulo. He’d had the privilege of escorting Tommie down the aisle and holding her in his arms as they’d danced together at the reception. And he’d been the envy of every bachelor gathered in the crowd when he’d caught the garter belt, giving him the perfect excuse to run his hands up Tommie’s shapely thigh, to feel the hot silk of her skin. When he looked into her glittering eyes, he’d known that beneath her haughty facade, she had wanted him as much as he’d wanted her. But no matter how sexy she was, and no matter how powerful the attraction between them, Paulo’s gut instincts had warned him that Tommie Purnell was trouble with a capital T. And considering his track record with women, which included a brief, disastrous marriage that had ended in divorce and an affair that had resulted in unspeakable tragedy, the last thing Paulo needed in his life was to become involved with a temptress like Tommie.

Since her arrival in town seven months ago, he’d purposely kept his distance. He knew that seeing her again would only remind him of how much he wanted her, and how completely wrong she was for him. Besides, he hadn’t come to Houston looking for romance. He’d come here in search of a fresh start, to get his life back on track.

If only he could have stuck to his guns and stayed the hell away from Tommie.

The sight of her in a tight black leotard that outlined her firm, voluptuous breasts, and black leggings that molded those impossibly long legs of hers, had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof. When their gazes locked in the mirror, Paulo knew that nothing had changed. The chemistry between them was as potent as ever. If his cell phone hadn’t rung when it did, there’s no telling whether he would have stopped at just kissing her.

Paulo scowled, forcefully shoving all thoughts of Tommie to the back of his mind as he reached his destination, a meticulously landscaped neighborhood located minutes away from Houston’s Galleria. Even before Paulo turned onto Woodland Drive, a quaint, tree-lined street flanked by large one- and two-story brick houses, he saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A car from the sheriff’s department was already parked at the end of the street, discouraging unauthorized persons from turning into the block. Three vans from local television stations and several other vehicles were staked out along the intersecting road. The reporters and cameramen taped live footage of the scene while the onlookers stood outside their cars gawking at the unfolding drama.

Paulo maneuvered around the police cruiser barricading the lane and nosed into a narrow spot beside the ambulance. He unwrapped a piece of Nicorette gum and stuffed it into his mouth, then reached for the door handle. He climbed out of the car and stepped into the clear, crisp night, grateful for the cold snap that had settled over the city, however temporarily.

As he started toward the single-story redbrick house that was swarming with activity, he saw neighbors hovering in doorways and clustered on front lawns and sidewalks. He felt the weight of their stares as he strode up the front walkway, lined on both sides with carefully tended beds of azaleas and begonias. A white BMW was parked in the driveway, and the house had been roped off with yellow crime-scene tape.

The uniformed officer standing guard at the front door nodded a greeting to Paulo and lifted the tape high enough for him to duck under.

“You the first on the scene?” Paulo asked as he signed the obligatory security logbook.

The officer nodded. “Call came into dispatch about an hour ago. I was the closest, lucky me.” He grimaced, shaking his blond head. “It ain’t pretty in there.”

“It rarely is.” Paulo stepped into the spacious foyer and glanced around the tastefully furnished living room. A cream sofa and love seat, along with a brown leather chaise longue, were arranged around a limestone fireplace that soared to the second-story ceiling. Vibrant watercolors depicting scenes of a bustling Mexican village hung on the walls.

The place was already crawling with crime-scene investigators, detectives from the sheriff’s department, and staff members from the coroner’s office. Measurements were being taken, the rooms dusted for fingerprints or shoe prints, a vacuum used to suck up any unseen trace evidence. A videographer panned the rooms of the house, throughout which bright lights had been set up.

Another uniformed officer greeted Paulo by name, then ushered him down a long, wide corridor. The air was redolent with the stench of blood and violent death.

At the end of the hallway they reached the master bedroom. A young woman’s nude body lay spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of blood. She’d been stabbed multiple times across her throat and chest. Blood from the deep, savage lacerations had leaked onto the oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting beneath her. On the wall above the queen-size bed, the word LIAR had been scrawled in blood.

“Jesus,” Paulo muttered under his breath.

After fifteen years in homicide, he had acquired enough toughness and objectivity to work even the most gruesome crime scene without an ounce of queasiness. But that didn’t mean he’d grown immune to the sight of a dead body, that he didn’t feel a twinge of sorrow or anger over the senseless loss of a life. The day he stopped feeling anything was the day he’d quit.

A photographer was busily snapping shot after shot, his flash strobing the grisly scene. Two other technicians were moving carefully around the room, lifting latent prints and searching for trace evidence while the lead forensics investigator, crouching near the victim, took measurements around the body.

Norah O’Connor’s bright red hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her thin, freckled face was set in a grim expression as she concentrated on her task. Hearing Paulo’s muttered oath, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You got here fast. Donovan says he just called you a few minutes ago.”

“I was nearby,” Paulo said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Where is he?”

“My guess would be the kitchen, interviewing the witness.”

“The witness?”

O’Connor nodded. “The victim’s coworker. She’s the one who discovered the body. She said she came over here after work to check up on the victim, who had called in sick today. She was concerned about her. Apparently they were good friends.” O’Connor grimaced. “Needless to say, she’s pretty shaken up.”

“No wonder.” Out of habit Paulo sketched a quick sign of the cross over his heart before entering the room. Watching where he stepped, he approached the body and sank to his haunches on the opposite side of O’Connor.

The victim was moderately tall, at least five-eight, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long black hair was in disarray, as if she’d put up a struggle with her assailant. Dark brown eyes stared sightlessly upward. Her dusky skin was now pallid in death. Although her face was bloated, Paulo could tell she’d been beautiful.

As he studied her, he felt a whisper of recognition. He’d met this woman before. But where? And when?

“You know the victim?” O’Connor, ever observant, had detected the flash of recognition on his face.

Paulo frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You might,” a voice spoke from the doorway.

Paulo looked up as his partner, Julius Donovan, stepped into the room. Tall, bald, dark as Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee with the lanky build of a small forward, the detective had been named after his father’s favorite basketball player, Julius “Dr. J” Erving. To his father’s dismay, Julius had never developed his namesake’s aptitude for basketball, preferring activities that appealed more to his cerebral nature, such as solving crossword puzzles and reading science fiction. He’d graduated from college with honors and accepted a lucrative job as a securities analyst for a major brokerage firm. But after just two years, he’d made a drastic career change, deciding to serve his community by becoming a cop. After nearly four years on the force, he’d established himself as a smart, tenacious investigator with good instincts, even if he tended to be a bit overzealous at times. Paulo not only liked the kid; he had a lot of respect for him. Which was something he couldn’t say about everyone he worked with.

Paulo warily regarded the younger detective. “What’re you talking about?”

Julius Donovan, wearing pleated trousers and a dark sport coat that hung loosely on his narrow frame, advanced farther into the room. “The victim’s name is Maribel Cruz. She’s twenty-nine years old.” He paused, then added pointedly, “She worked as a legal secretary at Santiago and Associates.”

Paulo stared at him, his gut clenching. “Shit,” he muttered grimly.

Norah O’Connor glanced up from measuring blood spatter to divide a speculative look between the two men. “Why is that significant?”

Donovan frowned, bemused by the question. “Why? Because Sanchez is re—” He broke off abruptly at the hard look Paulo gave him.

Very few people in the department knew that Paulo was a member of one of Houston’s richest, most powerful families. And he preferred to keep it that way. Although he’d been in law enforcement long enough to be considered a seasoned veteran, he was still a relative newcomer to the Houston Police Department. The last thing he needed was to be ostracized or harassed by his peers just because some of his relatives happened to be worth a fortune.

“The victim worked for the largest law firm in Houston,” Donovan amended, recovering quickly from his near admission. “Isn’t that significant enough?”

O’Connor pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “I hope you’re not suggesting, Detective Donovan, that Miss Cruz should receive preferential treatment in this investigation simply because of who her employer was?”

“Of course not. But it doesn’t matter. Even if we don’t make a big deal out of it, the media will.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” O’Connor retorted. “Anyway, why did you say Sanchez might recognize the victim?”

Donovan’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “She was a beautiful woman. Sanchez knows a lot of beautiful women.”

Paulo smiled briefly, but he was remembering the first time he’d met Maribel Cruz. It was two years ago, shortly after he’d moved to Houston. His cousins, Ignacio and Naomi Santiago, had coerced him into attending a fund-raiser dinner hosted by their law firm. The black-tie function had been attended by prominent businessmen, politicians, civic and community leaders, as well as many of the firm’s employees, among them Maribel Cruz, who’d flirted shamelessly with Paulo throughout the evening. If he hadn’t already promised to be on his best behavior that night, he and the sexy legal secretary probably would have wound up in the sack later.

And now she was dead. Brutally murdered in her own home.

Paulo swore under his breath, lifting his gaze from Maribel Cruz’s savaged remains to look at his partner. “Has the ME arrived yet?”

“On his way.”

“Has anyone talked to the neighbors?”

“I’ve got uniforms canvassing the neighborhood. Problem is, most of these folks work during the day. The odds that one of them saw anything are slim to none.”

“Has the family been notified?”

Donovan nodded. “Her parents and siblings are flying in from Brownsville. Your fam—er, Maribel’s employer was generous enough to pay for their airfare and put them up in a nice hotel downtown. They should arrive later this evening.”

Paulo nodded, recalling that it was his cousin Naomi who’d introduced him to Maribel that night. Naomi had spoken very highly of Maribel, which was another reason Paulo had decided she was off-limits. It was one thing to indulge in meaningless one-night stands with women he’d picked up at a bar or a wedding, women he’d never have to see or hear from again. But screwing around with his family’s valued employees was just asking for trouble.

Donovan said, “I’ve asked the coworker, Kathleen Phillips, to hang around a little longer. I figured you’d want to ask her some additional questions.”

Paulo nodded distractedly. His gaze had returned to the bloody word inscribed on the wall above the bed. Liar. What the hell did it mean? Was it an indictment of the victim? A message from the killer? A calling card?

Following the direction of his gaze, O’Connor said, “We’ve already taken a sample of the blood to determine whether it belongs to the victim. But I think we can assume it will be a match.”

Paulo nodded in agreement. “Looks like the blood was brushed on the wall. No visible fingerprints.”

“None that I can tell,” O’Connor said.

“How’d the perp get inside?”

Donovan answered, “Phillips said the front door was unlocked when she arrived. No sign of forced entry. No indication that the lock was jimmied or that any of the windows had been tampered with. But they’re still checking around the house, going over the backyard.”

“No security alarm?”

“She never had it activated.”

Paulo frowned. “How long had she been living here?”

“Phillips said Maribel bought the house three years ago. She remembers because she attended the housewarming party.”

Paulo nodded, his gaze shifting back to the body. “She must’ve put up a fight,” he muttered. “Defensive injuries on her hands and wrists.”

“I noticed those, too.” Donovan hitched his chin toward the dried blood on the wall nearest to where he stood. “I figured the perp made the first cut around this area. After that the blade was bloody, and when he swung again drops flew off and hit the wall.”

Nodding, Paulo added, “She turned, trying to run or avoid another blow. He pursues, stabs her from another angle. And that’s how the blood spatter ends up on the bedspread.”

“Sounds about right to me,” O’Connor murmured.

Rising to his feet, Paulo looked around the large room, mentally cataloging every detail. It was clear that Maribel Cruz had spared no expense when it came to decorating her bedroom. The terra-cotta walls were trimmed with fancy crown molding and appeared to have been professionally painted. The polished furnishings were made of carved cherry, the kind that had to be specially ordered and took weeks to be delivered: a huge armoire that looked antique, a dresser, a pair of matching nightstands, and a four-poster bed covered with a cream-and-chocolate satin spread, now bloodstained. Two thick pillows were bunched together against the headboard; the top pillow still bore the indentation made by the victim’s head overnight. Other than the bloody, rumpled bed, the room was meticulously neat.

“Anything missing?” Paulo asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Not that we can tell,” Donovan confirmed. “If robbery were the motive, the perp left behind a lot of expensive items. A flat-screen television. A stereo system, computer, laptop, iPod, and some other electronic gadgets. And those paintings in the living room look like originals.”

O’Connor shook her head. “Santiago and Associates must pay its secretaries very well. Clearly I’m in the wrong line of work.”

Paulo knew for a fact that the employees at his family’s law firm were generously compensated, but of course he didn’t mention that.

Donovan continued. “Her purse is still here. ID, credit cards, cell phone, seventy dollars in the wallet—everything seems to be accounted for. For now, anyway.”

Watching where he walked, Paulo made his way across the room and stepped through an open doorway that led into the master bathroom. The marble countertops were lined with cosmetics and hair and facial products. A pink nightgown lay in a puddle of silk near the shower. Paulo peered inside the glass stall. It was bone dry.

He turned as Donovan appeared in the doorway. “Does the coworker know what time Maribel Cruz called in sick to the office this morning?” he asked.

Donovan flipped through the pages of his notepad. “It was around seven-thirty. Phillips says Maribel called her right after leaving a voice mail message for their supervisor. Maribel told her she was coming down with a bad cold and planned to spend the day in bed resting. Phillips said she sounded terrible, so she decided to check up on her when she got off from work.”

“She live nearby?”

“About fifteen minutes away.”

“That her Beemer in the driveway?”

“Yeah. Maribel always parked in the garage.”

Paulo nodded, glancing inside the bathroom again. After several moments he murmured, almost to himself, “She was about to take a shower. She’d just removed her nightgown when she heard a noise in the other room. She poked her head around the bathroom door, then took a few steps out. And that’s when he pounced.”

“That would explain why she was nude,” Donovan said. “Unless, of course, the killer intended to undress her anyway.”

“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.”