The Deadly Embrace (15 page)

“Has anyone taken her internal temperature?” asked Liza.

Drummond nodded. “You’ll have it for the autopsy.”

Taggart looked down at the grotesquely distorted face. In his fourteen years as a homicide detective, he had seen hundreds of violent-crime scenes, and many had delivered a serious jolt to his nervous system. But, in spite of the old truism that a cop eventually became desensitized to violent death, it wasn’t true, at least for him. He felt only deep sorrow that a woman so young had to die. Slumming angels, General Manigault had called girls like her. Like they were disposable refuse.

One of the technicians came toward them from the bathroom. He was carrying a white dress.

“I found this in the trash, sir,” he said.

When Drummond held up the dress, Liza saw that both of the shoulder straps were torn. There was a brown-edged burn hole on the bodice, and the dress smelled of stale cigar smoke.

Stepping around the corner of the bed, Liza leaned close to the crimson-stained pillow. J.P.’s dull eyes stared back at her. The puffiness around both eyes as well as her reddened lids suggested a recent bout of crying.

Liza looked at each of the fingers holding the pistol. Two of her manicured nails were cracked, and one of them was broken. She remembered how careful J.P. had been with her nails and makeup.

There was some slight skin discoloration around her left wrist, and a definite bruise on the nipple of her right breast. Liza noticed more discoloration above the subcutaneous tissues on both knees.

“These could be possible defensive injuries,” she said, “although it’s possible the bruising might have occurred earlier.” She pointed at the deep-purplish-blue area on J.P.’s breast. “It takes several hours for capillaries to bleed sufficiently for the blood vessels to rupture this way.”

Seeing the two parallel scratches along the inside of her left thigh, she added, “And we need to determine whether she might have been assaulted. We’ll know better after a thorough examination at the autopsy.”

“Anything else?” asked Taggart.

“I’m a little surprised at the small blood loss. It’s less than I would have expected from a gunshot wound,” said Liza.

“You never know with head wounds,” said Taggart, coming around to the other side of the bed.

The drawer of the nightstand by the headboard was partially open, and he could see the base of a framed color photograph peeking out from it. Using the heel of his hand, he drew the drawer open farther.

Smiling up at him were the faces of a young man and woman. The man’s arm was tucked possessively around the woman’s waist. He wore the uniform of a West Point upperclassman.

The young woman was gazing up at the handsome cadet with almost reverent awe. She was wearing a frilly white cotillion gown, the epitome of voluptuous innocence. It was a young Janet Barnes.

“Any idea who this man might be?” he asked, picking up the photograph by the edges and showing it to Liza.

“I think it’s her husband, Lloyd,” she said. “She told me he was captured by the Japanese at Corregidor.”

“What a war,” said Taggart disgustedly, laying the photograph down on the bed.

“So you’re suggesting she might have been sexually assaulted somewhere else,” said Drummond, “and then returned here, where she either committed suicide or was murdered.”

“It’s only a possibility at this point,” said Liza, “but, yes, it could have happened that way.”

One of the English bobbies who had been guarding the front door came up to Drummond.

“We found the milk delivery boy, sir,” he said. “He is waiting out in the front parlor.”

“We’ll be right in.”

Turning to Taggart, Drummond said, “When I arrived here, there was a fresh bottle of milk lying in the box on the stoop. I asked for the delivery boy to be tracked down as soon as possible.”

“Good work,” said Taggart, as he and Liza followed him into the living room.

A diminutive man in white overalls stood next to the policeman, looking around the room with curious eyes. He was no longer a boy. His face was marked with several livid scars, one of which tracked straight across his mutilated nose. His right ear was missing.

“This is Reg Dockery,” said the policeman. “He delivered the milk to this address on his regular round this morning.”

“Thanks for coming in,” said Drummond with a weary smile. “Do you remember what time you reached this house?”

“Right… it was about three-thirty… same as usual,” he said in a harsh Cockney accent. He was keeping his head canted to one side so that he could hear Drummond with his good ear.

“Did you happen to notice anyone entering or leaving this house when you were making your rounds?”

“Just the lady,” he said.

“The lady?” repeated Drummond.

He nodded. “Never talked to her, but she got dropped off out in front when I was picking up the dead bottles.”

“By a taxi?” asked Taggart.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “but don’t ask me what kind it was, ’cause I don’t remember. I was looking at the lady.”

Across the living room, Liza found the control thermostat for the apartment’s heating system. It was pushed all the way to the highest setting.

“This was at approximately thirty minutes past three in the morning?” said Drummond.

“Right,” said the Cockney.

“Any particular reason you remember her?” asked Taggart.

“She wasn’t wearing no coat,” said Reg Dockery, cocking his good ear toward Taggart. “Just the fancy white dress… And it was bloody cold out.”

“Is that all?” asked Taggart.

“She was crying,” said Dockery. “Crying like there was no tomorrow.”

“Do you think you could identify her if you saw her again?” asked Drummond.

“For sure,” he said. “She was a real looker.”

Drummond turned to the policeman standing next to him and whispered, “Cover her with a sheet… up to the neck.”

“Yes, sir,” said the policeman, heading into the bedroom.

“Mr. Dockery, I should prepare you for the fact that the woman in the bedroom is dead,” said Drummond. “From violent causes.”

“That’s all right, sir. I fought with the Desert Rats at Tobruk. That’s where I got this,” said Dockery, pointing proudly at the wreckage of his face. “I seen plenty of dead Jerries. Our chaps, too.”

“All right, then,” said Drummond, leading the way back into the bedroom.

The little man walked straight up to the edge of the bed and looked down into J.P.’s face. Without flinching, he turned to the others and said, “I never seen this woman before in my life.”

Taggart joined him by the side of the bed and picked up the photograph of J.P. and her husband from the silk coverlet. Still holding it by the edges, he held it up to Dockery.

“Yeah… that’s her,” said the little man.

In the living room, Liza was drawn to the grinning visage of a familiar figure sitting on the mantelpiece over the fireplace hearth. It was a moon-shaped head of Winston Churchill. Drawing closer, she saw that it was actually a pincushion, the famous Churchill head fashioned in tan leather and stuffed with some kind of soft material.

Sticking out of it in all directions were hatpins, at least a dozen of them. They were about six inches long, the heads mounted with gemstones, some gold, some filigreed silver. A Churchill voodoo doll, she thought, grinning at J.P.’s humorous touch.

“We need to know as soon as possible whether this death was self-inflicted,” said Taggart, coming to her side. “I want you to schedule the autopsy immediately… and no mistakes this time.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “May I use the phone over there?”

Drummond nodded, saying, “It was already dusted for fingerprints.”

While she attempted to reach the SHAEF hospital administrator, Drummond motioned Taggart to the chairs in front of the fireplace. He removed his notebook and said, “You might be interested to know that I interviewed three senior members of Admiral Jellico’s staff yesterday. All of them professed to know nothing about Lady Dunbar’s death. None of them have ever heard of a man named Noel. One of them, a Mrs. Helen Bellayne, stated that Lady Dunbar was a frequent overnight guest at her home.”

“I’ve met Mrs. Bellayne,” said Taggart.

“Yes… very lovely woman. Apparently, she is related by marriage to Lady Dunbar,” went on Drummond. “She lives in a once-imposing home in Belgravia.”

“Once-imposing?” asked Taggart.

“Fortunes come and go,” said Drummond.

“I’ve never had one come,” said Taggart.

“Pity… Me either… Incidentally, I had the strong impression she was hiding something… never deciphered what it was.”

“Who isn’t?” asked Taggart.

“Well, perhaps you can try to crack that safe,” said the grinning inspector.

“I’ll make an appointment to speak with her.”

“So what is your view, Sam?” asked Drummond. “Are we looking at a homicide or a suicide here? And if it’s homicide, is it the work of the same killer?”

“I don’t know,” said Taggart. “The first murder scene was as gaudy as any I’ve ever investigated. This one actually looks like it could be suicide, but I don’t believe it. As you said, it’s too big of a coincidence that two women working side by side are both suddenly dead.”

One of the crime technicians came out of the bedroom.

“We’re finished in there, sir,” he said, handing Drummond a tally sheet of articles they had found in searching through the apartment. “Do you have any instructions for the body yet, sir?”

Liza put her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and said, “They can fit in an autopsy right now at the SHAEF pathology unit.”

“Good,” said Taggart. “Let’s move her.”

They stood up and headed back into the bedroom.

“I’d like to have a look at the gun,” said Taggart, as the technicians prepared to move J.P.’s body onto a rolling gurney.

He saw that the dead woman’s fingers were only loosely clenched around the butt of the pistol. Using his handkerchief, Taggart gripped the gun by the barrel and slid it free. He held the muzzle up to his nose.

“Recently fired,” he said. “I’m surprised no one heard the shot.”

“The spinster upstairs was probably the only one who could have heard it, and she’s practically deaf,” said Drummond. “My men talked to the three tenants on the opposite side of the house. None of them heard anything unusual last night. To be on the safe side, I’ve sent men to question everyone in the adjoining houses, too.”

J.P.’s body was gently shifted onto the gurney. After they covered her with a sheet, the orderlies strapped her down and rolled the gurney outside to a police ambulance. Gazing down at the pistol again, Taggart saw two initials engraved into one of the ivory butt plates.

“E.K.,” he said aloud.

“Strike a chord?” asked Drummond.

“Everett Kilgore comes to mind,” he said.

“General Kilgore?” asked Liza.

“The same, I imagine,” said Taggart.

“I’m going in the ambulance with J.P.,” said Liza, almost protectively.

“Fine,” said Taggart. “I’m heading back to the office. Call me there as soon as you’re finished.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then stopped to turn around once more as she reached the door.

“Did they happen to find any of her jewelry?” she asked.

Drummond put on his glasses and perused the tally sheet he had been given.

“No,” he said.

“She had nice things,” said Liza. “Very good jewelry. She usually put it on when she was leaving the office to go out for the evening. If you haven’t found any, then it raises the possibility of a robbery motive. That or she had a good hiding place.”

Taggart and Drummond looked at one another.

“I’ll try the kitchen,” said Drummond with a raised eyebrow.

Liza was mystified when Sam replied, “The bathroom for me.”

As they headed in opposite directions, she shook her head and went out to the ambulance.

The bathroom was still filled with the lingering aroma of fragrant soap and good perfume. Unlike in Joss Dunbar’s apartment, there were personal possessions everywhere Taggart looked. A douche bag was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. In the drawers of the glossy white cabinet, Taggart found soft, flimsy lingerie, silk stockings, bras and panties in every hue and shade. The drawers of her dressing table yielded an assortment of makeup, hair curlers, and beauty aids, along with a second douche bag.

The medicine chest was full. Several of the prescribed medications had been issued from a U.S. Army pharmacy and were made out in the name of Everett Kilgore. A safety razor sat on the top shelf, next to a mug of soft soap and a whisker brush. Taggart noticed that it was missing its blade. He emptied the various jars and bottles on each shelf into the sink. There was nothing inside them except the labeled contents. Drummond joined him as Taggart was unscrewing the ceiling fixture. It yielded three dead flies.

“No joy here,” Drummond said. “I’m chagrined to report that there is no jewelry hidden in the kitchen, and no hiding places to have secreted a jewelry box or anything else. I tend to doubt she ever set foot in it.”

“No luck here either,” said Taggart. “Perhaps this did start as a robbery.”

Standing up from the dressing table, he walked over to the massive bathtub.

“This room must have cost a small fortune,” said Taggart. All these fixtures are American-made… top-of-the-line. Who owns this building?”

“Local fellow… I spoke to him before you arrived. He said this work was all done by the army—your army.”

“I can guess who ordered it done,” said Taggart.

Taking his flashlight, he began to examine the four-inch tiles that covered the walls and floor. They were white and red, the spaces between them grouted with pink cement. The work was obviously recent and done by a skilled joiner. The patterns were straight and perfect.

He was on his knees with the flashlight trained on a section of wall beneath the sink when he found a small irregularity. Instead of solid pink grouting around the tiles, the cement appeared to be black. He then saw that the black grouting was actually a series of tiny gaps surrounding two four-inch tiles behind the nickel-plated drainpipe.

Drummond was standing over his shoulder when Taggart said, “Bingo.”