The officer nodded as if he’d known I’d be showing up. “Right, you can go on in.”
I stepped in, feeling a strange déjà vu, with crime scene superimposed over it. A couple of the officers inside gave me “who the hell is this” looks, but a burly detective with dark-red hair stepped my way.
“You must be Detective Gillian,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Rob Fourcade.”
I shook his hand. “Call me Kara. Thanks for allowing me to come check out the scene.”
He shrugged. “I got no problem with it, but there’s nothing to indicate anything other than a suicide.”
Yeah, well, I could see and feel things Detective Fourcade couldn’t. I gave him an answering shrug and smiled. “But you understand why I wanted to check it out, especially since her husband was murdered.”
“Paperwork. Loose ends. I know the drill.” I could tell that he felt that I was wasting my time driving all the way down here. He jerked his head toward a back bedroom. “She’s in there.”
“I appreciate it.” I headed down the hallway. I hadn’t seen this part of the condo on my earlier visit. The walls were bare; the only decorative touch was an elegant vase with dried flowers sitting on a table against the wall.
The bedroom was more of the same. Solid, sturdy, and beautiful furniture that looked like it would last through an apocalypse. And lying across the expensive bedspread was Elena Sharp, quite clearly dead. I took in the sight of the pill bottles on the nightstand, then stepped closer to take a more thorough look at Elena.
I shuddered to a stop as I neared the bed and felt the body. I sucked in my breath, head spinning. The gaping lack of essence was so profound that I literally had to grab the bedpost to steady myself. This was far worse than Brian Roth and Davis Sharp. Worse even than the Galloways. I could feel the rending, the violence where this essence had been savagely ripped away while she was still alive. My fingers dug into the bedpost, and I fought to not puke.
“You all right?”
I hadn’t realized that Fourcade had followed me into the bedroom. I straightened, taking deep breaths to try to regain something resembling composure. “Yeah, I’m … just getting over some food poisoning.”
He frowned and nodded, but I could see the faint derision in his eyes. He thought that I was squicking at the sight of a corpse. If he only knew how many corpses I’d seen in the past six months …
“I don’t want to rush you, but the coroner’s office is here. As soon as you’re done, they’re going to bag her up.”
“Sure,” I said as I peered into the dead woman’s face. There was nothing to indicate that she’d died in the kind of arcane violence that I could feel. No look of horror etched into her features, no arcane sigils traced upon her body in blood, nothing else that would be there if this had been a scene in a movie.
“No forced entry,” Fourcade continued, sounding a bit bored. “No signs of struggle. I guess this helps tie up your other case.”
I looked at him blankly. “How?”
He waved a hand toward the pill bottles, and now I saw that there was a sheet of paper beneath them. “Note. Confession. It’s why I called you,” he said, as if explaining it to a three-year-old.
My jaw tightened, but I managed to keep my retort in check. I stepped over to the nightstand and read the note.
I cheated on my husband, then killed him. I couldn’t take the shame of a divorce. Now I can’t live without him, can’t live with the guilt.
It was a decent little suicide note, but it totally rang false. “This isn’t signed. It’s just a printout.”
“Half of all suicides don’t even leave notes,” he replied, mouth drawing down in annoyance. “You’re gonna get hung up because she didn’t dig out a pen and do it all nice and legal?”
“If you expect me to use this as a reason to close my other investigation, then, yes, I’m gonna get hung up,” I snapped back, too on edge to censor myself. “Where’s her computer?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, face darkening. “How should I fucking know? Probably in one of the other bedrooms.”
I walked past him to the hallway. I knew from my previous visit that there wasn’t a computer in the sitting room. The door to the other bedroom was ajar and I pushed in, quickly scanning. “No computer in here,” I called back over my shoulder. I heard a muffled noise that sounded like a growl, then the sound of opening and closing doors. I yanked gloves on and started opening drawers.
“Here,” I heard after about half a minute. I returned to the hallway to see Fourcade holding up a laptop case, smug smile on his face. “One computer. Satisfied?”
I shrugged. “Halfway. Now, where’s the printer?”