Every Kind of Wicked (A Gardiner and Renner Novel Book 6)

Streetlights blocked out the stars and reflected off the ice. Maggie drove the city car to West 29^th as slowly as the traffic around her would allow, and still it fishtailed slightly at two different corners. She gave herself plenty of time to brake often and carefully in order to tuck it in at the curb in front of the small plaza. The shops on the first floor were empty and dark, dim lights glowing only for security. The second floor, by contrast, had lights on in nearly every window.

Jack waited on the sidewalk, hunched into his jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Too bad the tea place isn’t open,” she said by way of greeting, and pulled her camera bag and her crime scene kit out of the trunk.

“Only if you like a lot of jasmine.”

She had no idea what that meant but didn’t bother to ask. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

She followed him though the narrow hallway and up a stairwell. The second floor held all the activity the first floor lacked, with a uniformed patrol officer and Riley standing outside an open door and random neighbors either peeking or openly watching from their own doorways. One used an oversized cell phone to film the authorities’ milling around. Riley greeted Maggie by waving at the open door and saying, “In there.”

She set her cases down to attach the external flash to her camera. Without a word the patrolman and Riley stepped back from the doorway so they wouldn’t be in the shot when she photographed the door with its numbered placard. Then she stepped into the opening.

A table lamp gave the room a cozy glow. Maggie swept the camera slowly from side to side, snapping a photo of each section of the apartment. A tidy living area, couch, end tables, framed pictures, a table with a few dishes and pieces of mail on it, an armchair, a vase on the windowsill with silk flowers, a counter framing the kitchen. Everything neat and orderly, nothing out of place, other than the dead woman in the middle of the floor, lying faceup with a patch of red staining the center of her chest.

But Maggie ignored the body until she finished her preliminaries, and continued to take photographs of the kitchenette, the bedroom, the bathroom, a smaller second bedroom that served as a combination office and repository of spare items. Nothing anywhere raised a red flag. No visible traces of blood in the kitchen sink or the bathroom with its snow-white shower curtain, towels, and tile walls. If the killer had cleaned bloody hands in that room, he had to be a complete genius at leaving no signs of it. The medicine cabinet contained nothing stronger than Midol, the wastebasket had no pile of empty bottles, the refrigerator had one half-full bottle of Moscato. No evidence of an unhealthy or self-destructive lifestyle, no illegal activities that might beckon danger in.

She returned to the body. Jack and Riley had moved back into the room, discussing what they needed to do next. Apparently neighbors had not seen anything, heard anything, noticed anything, had not seen Jennifer Toner since the day before. In many neighborhoods this would be the de rigueur answer, but these people seemed sincere. It made Riley propose aloud that Jennifer had been killed before her neighbors returned home from work. Maggie would see if rigor mortis bore out that theory.

But first she took more focused photos of the dead woman on the rug, being sure to take close-ups of her face and hands. The victim wore jeans and a thick-knit white sweater, the entire middle of which had turned to a dark red. Maggie assumed there must be a wound in there somewhere, but couldn’t see the defect in the heavy knit yarns. Nothing on her feet but warm socks. Her face tilted toward the sofa, her skin unmarred, eyes open and an expression more of disappointment than fear or anger. Her left arm lay by her side, her right folded up with fingers resting against her right shoulder. The fingernails were clean of blood, filed and painted with a snowflake decal at the end of each one, still perfect.

Jennifer Toner had not seen it coming. Or she had, and had not put up a fight.

Maggie bet on the former.

“This was Gardiner’s case,” Jack observed. “I’m not complaining, but why are we here?”

Riley said, “Gardiner already started his vacation and Will took his family skiing for the weekend for his kid’s birthday. He called in but I told him we’d handle it, since this victim had that weird connection to our victim.” He filled Maggie in on their visit to Jennifer Toner’s apartment, including a summary of Rick and Will’s visit before that.

“So she’s got a drug-addicted brother,” Jack said.

“Who just became suspect number one,” Riley pointed out. “But only because we don’t know of anyone else involved in her life. Evan Harding would make a good suspect, since she got in his face. Unfortunately he was already dead.”

Maggie cheated a little on the don’t-touch-the-body-until-the-ME-investigator-arrives rule by tugging on the woman’s jaw with firm, latexed fingers. Then she poked one of the fingers. Rigor had begun. That meant it had been, on average, between two and six hours since death. She couldn’t make the guess any more specific without testing rigor in other areas of the body, and she couldn’t do that without moving it more than her bend in the rule would allow.

Still crouched by the body, she said, “Sounds as if this Dr. Castleman might have a motive, too. Maybe she got in his face.”

Riley said, “If she found him. As of this morning, she hadn’t.”

“Perhaps she had more success after we left,” Jack wondered. “We might be able to tell if we could find her phone.”

Maggie prodded the woman’s hips, then the edge of the one butt cheek she could reach. “Unless it’s in her left rear pocket, it’s not on her.”

She stood up. Nothing more could be done with the body until the ME staff arrived. She got her clipboard and made a rough sketch of the room, then examined the door. No signs of prying or breaking around the molding or the dead bolt.

“Was the door open?” she asked the detectives. “When you arrived?”

Jack said yes. “A neighbor found it ajar, poked her head in, screamed, and called us.”

So Jennifer Toner had either left her door unlocked or had let her killer inside, and then he ran out without closing it all the way. Maggie used fingerprint powder on the knobs, even though the cops had already used the outer one. Nothing. She rarely, very very rarely, got a usable print from a doorknob. Or a light switch, even the wide, flat kind—annoying, because those were two items you could be sure someone had touched.

After that Maggie took a flashlight and examined every surface in the room, holding the flashlight at an angle to look for dust that had been disturbed or an item that didn’t seem to be where it belonged. The mail on the table matched that address and Jennifer’s name. A dish held soggy Cheerios in a tablespoon of milk. Jennifer had been reading a romance novel, perched precariously on the coffee table next to a laptop which, when opened, showed a blissfully password-free home screen.

“Sweet.” Riley sank into the sofa next to the Jack to look at it. Maggie had to smile at the sight of the two men so close together and so intensely focused on the same thing. They reminded her of old pictures of little boys lying on their stomachs in front of a TV set, entranced by an episode of The Lone Ranger.

But then Riley said, “She doesn’t send e-mail to her brother. At least not recently. Girlfriends, a guy she is—she was—going to meet for dinner tomorrow night . . . we’ll have to check him out . . . Amazon order notifications, Friends of the Library newsletter.”

Maggie continued her sweep. The armchair had a few tiny stains along one armrest, too orangey to be blood, more like enchilada sauce. The credenza held an array of items between two heavy bookends—Atlas holding up globes enameled in blue and green. Maggie lifted one a millimeter or two to judge its density. Too bad Jennifer hadn’t been close enough to grab one and smash it into her attacker’s temple. That might have made him think twice about his next actions.

Behind her, Riley said, “There’s a second e-mail account.”

“Looks like work stuff,” Jack said. “Library events, work schedule, shipments.”

“Let’s try search history.”

Maggie listened absently as she continued examining the apartment, something that was technically the detectives’ job but since, usually, ninety-nine percent of a person’s home had nothing to do with why they’d been killed, they could always use help. Among the books and manuals and photos between the bookends there were pieces of old mail, a birthday card from someone named Jerome and a mini-calendar from the previous year, with social events and appointments written in below pictures of kittens. Maggie flipped through it very quickly, not seeing what could be learned from appointments now well over a year old. Besides, the minuscule layer of dust over the credenza had not been disturbed.

Except at the end nearest the door. There, the motes had been swept aside and something else left behind.

A swath of red-brown color ran from the side edge to the front edge, forming a sort of triangle with the corner. It had been lost against the woodgrain-patterned laminate of the credenza, until the sharp beam of the flashlight caught it.

“I have some blood over here,” she said aloud.

The detectives, too engrossed in the victim’s e-mails, ignored her. The presence of blood at a murder scene could hardly be considered earth-shattering.

But blood so far away from the body held out certain possibilities. Obviously the victim hadn’t staggered over and put out a hand to steady herself, since her fingers were unstained and she hadn’t left any drops on her pants, socks, or the floor in-between. She’d gone down and stayed down after the fatal blow.

Most likely the killer had gotten some blood on his hand and then used it to steady himself on the credenza. Then he either wiped it off or used the other hand to turn the doorknob, so it stayed clean.

Maggie looked closer, then got a magnifying loupe out of her crime scene kit.

At the end of the smear the blood formed a pattern, a rounded set of tiny lines. Each line swooped and swayed and split into two and sometimes came to a stop altogether.

A fingerprint. The killer had left his fingerprint, in blood.

His blood would be good, giving them two forms of positive identification—a latent print match and DNA. But hers would be better, pinning him inside that room at the time of the murder.

She swabbed up a sample from the beginning of the streak, where there were no visible ridges, so they could get a DNA profile without disturbing the pattern she needed to photograph. She’d collected swabs from the small pool at Jennifer Toner’s side as well, not that anyone who viewed a photograph of the scene could have any doubt as to whom that blood belonged. But surely if she didn’t, some attorney, at some point in the future, would ask why she hadn’t.

Then she needed to photograph the print. Lifting it as she usually did when prints were developed with black powder would not be possible. Blood would not transfer to the tape adhesive like powder, and powder wouldn’t stick well to the dried blood. Ideally she should take a jigsaw and cut a wide square around the print—the laminate surface didn’t suggest a valuable antique and Jennifer would no longer care. Maggie could also take the whole credenza—something she hadn’t ruled out, but she would try other methods first before stacking up random furniture in the lab, or risk disturbing the print while wrestling the large item out of the building and into a city vehicle.

Usually she dyed blood prints with Amido Black, a stain that turned even the faintest bloodstains to a deep purply black. But against the walnut-colored laminate, making the print darker would not help. A fluorescent dye like Luminol or Bluestar would increase the contrast but might also wash away part of the ridges and the glow only lasted for a second. No, she’d start with basic photography, no dyes, no filters, and see how it went.

The two detectives moved on to Jennifer’s browsing history, while Maggie set up her tripod and detachable flash.

“She wasn’t lying,” Riley said to no one in particular. “She had been hunting for this Phillip Castleman on Ohio eLicense, Healthgrades, and RateMDs. The state Attorney General’s Office—I bet she checked out how to file a complaint with the medical board.”

“Why?” Maggie asked as she worked. “What was she complaining about?”

Jack told her how the victim had believed the doctor had turned her brother into an addict. “Of course just because she didn’t think her brother needed medication didn’t mean he didn’t.”

Riley said, “True. Big sisters are always hot on toughening you up.”

Maggie attached the flash cord to her camera and watched Jack for any reaction. Did he have a big sister? A little sister? Any siblings at all? An ex-wife somewhere? A child?

Sometimes she wondered. Most of the time she didn’t let herself. Curiosity might teach a harsh lesson in this case. “She said he had been cashing large checks from this doctor?”

“Yes. That’s the weird part. The brother should be paying the doc, not the other way around.”

“Medical fraud.”

Both detectives stared at her.

“There’s a million ways to do it. Usually doctors file insurance claims for procedures they didn’t do or exams they didn’t make. They say they did a complete physical when the patient was in and out in five minutes. They’ll say a patient is diabetic or has cancer, bill for meds and equipment that was never ordered or used. Often the patient doesn’t even know about it.”

Jack said, “Okay. But then why is Toner cashing the checks?”

She positioned her tripod carefully, propping a piece of cardboard under the camera mount because the worn-out item couldn’t keep the heavy camera from falling against the tripod pole. “Laundering money? The government’s been trying to cut down on medical fraud for years. Maybe there’s a red flag if a doctor gets outsize reimbursements. But if the patients are paid individually it’s spread out.”

“So the doctor files the forms for the patient, and the patient gives the money back to the doctor.”

Riley said, “He’d have to really trust his patients.”

“He’s got their pills,” Jack said. “A reliable, steady supply. And they want those more than they want money. Spread it among enough patients, even if one does a runner here and there, it’s still lucrative and low-risk.”

“It’s only a guess,” Maggie said, and focused on the bloody fingerprint.

Jack said, “We need to find Marlon Toner.”

Riley said, “Will said she spoke to him. We could probably get a damned sight closer to him if we could find her damned phone. Why do our victims never have their phones?”

“Because the killer knew it might connect them to the victim. Killers,” Jack amended. “Or because Toner and Harding were killed by an addict and a mugger respectively, and a phone can be sold on the street for a couple of bucks. To them it would be like leaving a ten-dollar bill on the floor. What are you doing?”

Maggie realized he was speaking to her. “I think I have a usable print.” In the silence she heard them wondering what would be interesting about one particular fingerprint in a person’s home, so she added, “In blood.”

Jack left Jennifer Toner’s browser history with Riley while he used Maggie’s flashlight to see the tiny lines of the dried blood. She didn’t have to point out that the victim couldn’t have left the print; his quick turn to the body and back again meant he had figured that out.

Jack didn’t exactly peer over her shoulder as she photographed the print, but he stayed close. A fingerprint hit could solve their case for them before bedtime, if she were so inclined to go back to the lab and get the print into the system that day.

She was so inclined, but first she had to get the photograph and the laminate did not make a good surface. Even its low gloss reflected the camera’s flash. Without it the photo came out too dark, with it the bright light blanked out the print’s ridges. It took a good deal of trial and error to get the angle, the lens, and the flash level working in harmony.

While she toiled, the Medical Examiner’s Office investigator arrived, a different man from the lean one she’d met that morning. This one was larger and more talkative, his white cheeks rounded and flushed with cold like Jolly St. Nick—all well and good, except the credenza happened to be the item of furniture closest to the door and he managed to jostle her tripod four times before he got himself settled to examine the body. She worked fast while the detectives brought him up to speed, and from what she could see in the small screen on the back of the camera, the print appeared legible enough.

The investigator confirmed her estimate of the rigor mortis timing and thought Jennifer had been dead since midafternoon. He also didn’t make any comments they hadn’t already made—the victim had no defensive wounds and had died relatively quickly, without even enough time to clasp her hands to her chest. When he pulled the sweater up, they could see a deep red, gelatinous blob where a wound sat underneath her left breast.

“Gunshot?” Riley asked.

The investigator examined the sweater, then the skin. “Possible, but I don’t think so. No singeing of the edges. I’d guess a knife. Probably went straight to the heart.”

“Professional,” Riley said.

“Or lucky. I see a lot of deaths from single stab wounds. All they have to do is see a movie where the assassin steps up close and drives a stiletto up and under the rib cage. Shred the ventricles or aorta and unless you’re actually standing inside the emergency room when it happens—and probably even then—you’re dead. There’s no chance.”

“Is that what you think it was?” Maggie asked. “A stiletto?”

The investigator paused and rethought, in light of the intensity of her question, examined the wound again. “It’s very small, and . . . more circular than linear.”

“Like something round and thin. Like an ice pick.”

He gazed at her. “Yeah. Why?”

Jack said, “Because we had a guy this morning with the same kind of wound.”

“Huh. Really.”

“Is that unusual?” Maggie asked.

“Well, yes. Most stabbing are knives. Wide, thin blades with or without serrations, double-edge or single-edged. Something like this . . . yes, it’s unusual. Where would you even find an ice pick in this day and age?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of industrial tool?” Maggie asked.

“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “What’s this lady got to do with your guy this morning?”

Riley said, “We haven’t the slightest idea.”

The investigator turned the body over, with Maggie’s help. Some blood had pooled on the floor and soaked into the sweater, but not much. Jennifer Toner’s heart had stopped beating too quickly.

No wounds in the back—and no cell phone either. Riley grumbled.

The body snatchers came and loaded up the earthly remains of Jennifer Toner, while Maggie decided against taking a Sawzall to the credenza. She had a series of photographs and the DNA swabs. There wouldn’t be much more she could do with the credenza at the lab.

Leaving a crime scene always made her uncomfortable. Had she done everything? Seen everything? Collected everything that needed to be collected? There could be no do-overs. Once they released the apartment, they couldn’t come back without getting a warrant and, more importantly, creating serious chain-of-custody issues down the road since none of them would be able to swear to the integrity of the scene in the meantime. But on the other hand, they couldn’t stay there forever, nor did Maggie want to. It had been a long day and she still had presents to wrap.

Yet on still another hand, two people who had encountered each other only the night before were now dead. Murdered. That could be coincidence, yes, but . . .

“What now?” she asked the two detectives.

“We need to find Marlon Toner,” Jack said.

“I can’t believe no one in this building has video surveillance,” Riley said. “A bubble over the cash register, a nanny cam, anything.”

Jack said, “He had the best motive. Sister was nagging him about his drug habit and threatening to run down his source. We can do a warrant request to get her phone history from her carrier.”

Maggie said, “What about Evan Harding?”

“I think he’s got an alibi,” Riley said. “Ah, I crack myself up.”

“I mean in his case. What’s the, er, next step there?”

Jack said, “We find out what that key opens. Though since the killer didn’t take it or even seem to look for it, it was probably some stash he was hiding from his girlfriend and had nothing to do with his death by random mugging. We’ll wait for her to come in and ask for it, then maybe we can get some more information out of her. Only two places along Bolivar had video surveillance and they both had to call their tech guys to retrieve it, so maybe that will bear fruit tomorrow—I mean today.” The clock dials had passed midnight, and now that she knew it Maggie could feel the weariness flood into her.

“Other than the girlfriend and Ralph, the guy seemed to have no enemies, no friends, no dealings or relationships at all. So,” Jack summed up, “we’re open to suggestions.”

“I wish I had some,” Maggie said.