“Okay. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“I’ll be there, with Neshenko.”
“Got it. O’Reilly out.”
She hung up and glanced at Carlyle. “Sorry. Vacation is definitely over.”
He smiled. “Oh, it’s no trouble, darling. I’m glad of the time we’ve had. We’ll do it again sometime.”
“I’ll switch cars,” she said. She’d left her Charger at a parking garage a couple of blocks from the Barley Corner, just in case anyone was sniffing around her or Carlyle.
“Grand. Shall I call you later?”
“Better let me call you. I never know how long these things will run.”
Erin pulled into the garage and parked alongside her beloved black Charger. She and Carlyle got out. He, always the gentleman, took her bags from the trunk of the Mercedes and handed them to her. She put her arms around him and gave him a quick kiss.
“Thanks again,” she said.
“I love you, darling,” he said.
“Love you, too.” It was so natural and easy to say what had once been an earthshaking admission. Erin was amazed at how completely things could change. But then she was back in her old police rhythm, loading Rolf into his quick-release compartment, clipping her gold shield to her belt, and adjusting her Glock in its holster at her side. The Charger’s 24-valve V6 roared to life and Erin O’Reilly went back to work.
Erin arrived on scene to the familiar sight of a pair of police cruisers and an ambulance on the street in front of the apartment. A uniformed officer at the door directed her to the fourth floor. She passed the paramedics on their way out, never a good sign. The door of Apartment 423 was open, voices spilling into the hall. A burnt smell, like overcooked steak, caught her nostrils. Rolf sniffed the air with interest. At least it didn’t smell like charred human flesh. Erin had smelled that before, and would be fine if she never smelled it again.
She glanced at the door on the way in. Contrary to Hollywood, most burglars didn’t bother learning how to pick locks. They just kicked in a door, or smashed their way in with a sledgehammer or crowbar. This door showed no signs of damage. The lock and doorknob were intact.
On her left was a small closet, everything hanging neatly in place. She saw coats, scarves, boots, and shoes lined up in tidy rows. On her right was the kitchen. Wisps of smoke trailed around the edges of the oven door. The smoke alarm was sitting on the counter, deactivated, batteries next to it. Food and utensils were scattered haphazardly, like someone had been interrupted in the middle of making dinner. A broad-bladed knife lay on the cutting board with some carrots half chopped.
Erin kept going, following the voices. She pulled on a pair of disposable gloves from the roll she kept in her car. She came around the kitchen doorway and into the combination dining room/living room.
“There she is,” Vic Neshenko said. “Welcome to the party.” He, Lieutenant Webb, and Doctor Sarah Levine, the Medical Examiner, were standing around a pair of bodies. The carpet was beige. Blood had pooled under the corpses, a dark maroon.
“Some party,” Erin said. She saw a string of balloons that hung across the room with a “WELCOME HOME” banner in the middle. A sheet cake, like you’d buy at a grocery store, sat on the coffee table. Several liquor bottles surrounded the cake, accompanied by a package of red plastic cups. One of the bottles had spilled on the floor, making another dark stain on the carpet.
“We’ve got preliminary ID on the victims,” Webb said. “Husband and wife, Frank and Helen Carson.”
“The doc’s been here a few minutes,” Vic said. “Whaddaya say, Doc? What killed these two?”
Levine had been making some notes and hadn’t acknowledged Erin’s presence at all. She looked up at Vic with mild annoyance, like he was interrupting her in the middle of something more interesting.
“Both victims suffered multiple gunshot wounds,” she said. “Preliminary forensics indicate a large-caliber handgun, probably .45 caliber. It appears the male victim was struck first. As you can see, he was probably facing his shooter and fell on his back. From the angle of the bodies, the female victim was not standing when she was shot. I believe she was kneeling beside the male victim. She then fell forward across him. Death was instantaneous in both cases. The female was struck by three bullets, two in the torso, one in the cranium. The torso wounds would likely have proved fatal, as one transects the aorta and the other appears to have perforated the right lung. However, that is academic, as the third bullet destroyed the cranium. As you can see, the entrance wound is just above the right eye. The exit wound detached most of the back of the skull. Cause of death was destruction of the brain.”
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Vic muttered. “I’ve seen .45 slugs before. They do some damage.”
Erin tried to retreat into the clinical detachment cops and doctors learned as a coping mechanism. She told herself these bodies weren't people anymore. They were just the shells people left behind when they died, shells the detectives could use to find out who’d killed them and why.
Levine was still talking. “I haven’t been able to make a full examination of either body, due to their entangled posture, but I believe the male was also struck at least once in the torso, as well as a single bullet to the cranium. Cause of death is congruent with the other victim, with similar wound presentation.”
“Brass?” Erin asked Vic.
He nodded and pointed to the hallway that led to the bathroom and bedroom. Little yellow plastic markers with black numbers had been placed beside each shell casing. Erin counted six.
“That’s a little weird,” she said.
“Just
