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“No obvious indications,” Dr. Kelly replied without looking up. “But if it had occurred six weeks ago, she’d likely have healed by now anyway.”
“When we’re done here, I’ll check the database to see if she ever reported a sexual assault or laid a complaint against a former lover,” Hanson said, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands against either nausea or disgust.
“I’ll get her phone for someone to go through. Hopefully, they’ll be able to find evidence of whether she was dating anyone.”
The autopsy concluded without any further surprises. Sasha Sloane had bled out as a result of having her throat cut. No foreign DNA was found on her body, but traces on her hands indicated that they may have been wiped down with a chemical cleaning agent.
Hanson and I ran our respective errands and reported back to our desks.
“Sloane never reported any crimes,” Hanson said, his breath gusting from him as he dropped onto his chair. “She had one speeding ticket, a couple of parking fines, but other than that, she hadn’t had any interaction with the police as far as I can tell.”
“Damn.” So that was a dead end. “Tech is working on the phone, but they haven’t found anything immediately obvious. Let’s eat, then go back to her apartment. Maybe we missed something.”
“Eat?” Hanson scowled. “Who the hell could eat after the horror show downstairs?”
I rolled my eyes. “Have a donut. It’ll make you less cranky.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m off donuts.” He puffed out his chunky chest, obviously proud of himself. “Debs and I are on a diet.”
“Good for you.” I had no doubt it was all Deborah’s doing. She was trim and fit. Her husband, not so much.
I ate my noodles at my desk while Hanson chowed down on a homemade salad. We cleaned up after ourselves and Hanson drove us to Sloane’s apartment in one of the pool cars. As had been the case yesterday, there were no parking spots directly outside the building, so we parked a couple of blocks away and walked.
As we passed the coffee shop, I couldn’t help glancing inside. Fortunately, West wasn’t among the patrons, nor was the mysterious blonde. Hanson nudged my arm and harrumphed in an unspoken show of support.
We took the elevator to the third floor. There was no one stationed outside today but crime scene tape was wrapped around the door handle and spread across the doorway. I used my pocketknife to slit the tape and inserted a key into the lock.
The apartment was a wreck. It was a good thing thecrime scene technicians would have taken plenty of photographs prior to searching the place because they hadn’t left it in the same shape they’d found it. Fingerprint powder coated most surfaces and the drawers and cupboards had been opened, their contents strewn about.
I grimaced. Gathering evidence was a critical part of building a case, making an arrest, and getting a successful prosecution, but it often felt like a second violation of the victim when their personal space was treated so carelessly.
“I’ll start in the bedroom,” I told Hanson, wanting to preserve what little of Sasha Sloane’s privacy I could.
“I’ll take the dining area.”
I nodded and went through to the bedroom. As with the living area, it was a mess. I went through her dresser, sifting through the contents, taking note of anything interesting, and checking for false bottoms on the drawers and anything out of place.
When I’d finished with her bedroom drawers, I went through the closet, checking the pockets of each item of clothing and feeling along the seams to make sure nothing had been sewn into their lining. I got down on my belly to look under the bed and inspected her blankets the same way I had the clothes.
I grabbed one of her pillows and stilled. Something inside was firmer than it ought to be. I pulled the pillow out of its case and examined the surface, noting a rectangular shape, with a small slit cut into the pillow. Carefully, I slid my hand inside and withdrew a mobile phone.
Since the tech team already had her phone, this must be a second one.
A secret phone.
4
WEST
I lit the three candles in the center of the table, hoping the romantic ambience would soften Joanna. I poured red wine into a pair of glasses, and switched off the lights in the living area, leaving the kitchen lights on to create enough visibility for us to eat. The door opened, signaling Joanna’s arrival, and I slid a tray of pizza into the oven.
She stepped inside and paused, no doubt taking in the fancy table setting and the soft Italian music playing in the background. I strode around the kitchen counter and pulled out one of the chairs, then presented it to her with a flourish. She approached hesitantly and dropped her bag on the ground at her feet.
“What is this?” she asked.
I hid my grimace. Part of the reason for this whole setup was to avoid further questions by romancing my wife until she no longer had the wherewithal to be suspicious. We were off to a great start. She used to go along with my romantic plans with a sweet, indulgent smile. Now, she didn’t trust me.
“Dinner.” I guided her to the chair, and she lowered herself onto the seat, her eyes narrowed. “I’ve prepared pizza. It’s cooking now.”
