Page 86 of Fury In Death

“It’ll be like before. It’s his pattern, but confirm. Seal up first.”

After she did the same, she approached the body, crouched down.

“Right hand’s not just broken,” she murmured. “It’s mashed to pulp. No getting a print off that.” She reached for the left, managed to connect it with her pad.

“Victim is confirmed as Carlos Cruz, mixed-race male, age fifty-six, of this residence. I won’t be arresting you tonight, Carlos.”

Even with more than a decade on the job, with the countless bodies she’d stood over, she had to pause, take a breath.

“The victim’s been severely beaten, face, body, extremities. From the angle of the head, the neck’s broken. I’m unable to ascertain if there are any defensive wounds given the condition of the body. Right eyeball partially dislodged from the socket. Several teeth missing or broken. And there’s no point in me listing the visible injuries.

“The body is flagged for Morris, and the investigator on scene believes Cruz was killed by the same individual who killed Lawrence Cruz and Ezra Dent. Racking them up fast,” she muttered, and took out her gauges.

“Time of death, eighteen-twenty. Two hours and”—she checked her wrist unit—“twelve minutes ago.”

She sat back on her heels a moment, then slid her sealed hands into the victim’s pockets.

“Cash, two thousand, six hundred, fifty-five. Sealed and bagged, wallet, vic’s ID, some business cards, two credit cards. Door swipes. Multi-tool. ’Link, or what’s left of one. Vic is wearing what appears to be a gold neck chain, to be removed and bagged at the morgue.”

She bagged it all, sealed, and labeled.

“Lieutenant.” Roarke spoke as she stood. “The cams shut down, remotely, the front door security comprised, remotely, using the victim’s code at sixteen-fifty-eight. Restored, same method, three minutes later. I have Cruz entering by the front door at seventeen-twenty-nine. Security and cams shut down again at eighteen-thirty-one, restored three minutes later.”

She started to speak just as the doorbell rang. “That should be the uniforms.” She took a step toward the door, then looked at her hands. “Shit, answer that, will you? I need to clean the blood off.”

She grabbed a wipe from her kit, used it, bagged it.

“Officers, I need a knock-on-doors. Start with the closest neighbors, then cover the block. I’m looking for a White male, age forty-four, brown and brown—though the hair color may have changed. Six feet, weight unknown. He would have entered this building at sixteen-fifty-eight, left it at eighteen-thirty-one. I want to know about any sightings of that individual, or anyone entering this residence this evening. I want to hear about anyone seen watching this building, asking about the resident of this building or the building in general.”

When she dismissed them, she turned back to Roarke.

“You could start on the e’s, the office.”

“I will. You’re pale.”

“You think you’ve seen it all until you haven’t. I think Whitney said that. He escalated with Cruz. Whether because Cruz caused the actual explosion or because whatever he’s taking is bumping up, I don’t know yet. But this one’s worse.”

She took another breath. “Do what you can with the e’s. I’m going to tag them for transfer to EDD. I have to wait for the morgue and the sweepers.”

“All right.”

She turned back to the room.

“Okay. You come in the front door, after compromising the security. You know he’s not home yet because you keep track. You keep careful track. You know when to expect him, so you wait. If he hadn’t come when expected, would you have waited?

“Oh, hell yes.”

She walked to the front door, took a couple steps.

“He comes in, and you’re on him. Have to put him down first, don’t waste the element of surprise. But he needs to know who you are, needs to know what he took from you. He doesn’t know you like the others, and you need him to.”

She followed the blood and the wreckage.

“You beat him, he tries to get up here. He’s dazed, hurt, angry. That blood there, that’s a good spurt. Maybe from the nose. Part of a tooth right there, and that bloody dent in the wall? That’s where you threw him.

“Victim’s five-ten and a solid one-ninety, but you picked him up, heaved him against that wall. I can see where the heels of his boots hit. So he drops, and . . .”

As she walked over and looked down, she saw the weapon behind an upturned chair.