“Then enlighten me.”
“I’m a professor, not a magician, but I’ll do my best,” I said. “Louden is stabbed to death seemingly countless times, yet the wounds are spread out over his entire body. What’s more—at least as far as I can tell from the pictures you included in your report—every wound is distinct. Not a single one overlaps another, and that can’t be a coincidence. Meaning the killer wanted you to count how many times he stabbed Louden. Because that’s your job. He’s trying to tell us something.”
“Which is what?” asked Wexler.
“That’s my job,” I said. “So if it’s okay with you, let’s go have a look at all the photos you took—the entire body.”
“Now?” asked Wexler. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of something.”
“I’m sure this gentleman won’t mind,” I said, nodding at the slab. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.” Then I really persuaded him. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, either, until we do.”
Wexler pursed his lips, the exasperation making his face look sunburned against the white of his smock. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
He left the room, heading for an adjacent office. Elizabeth waited until he was gone.
“You should apologize,” she said.
“To Wexler?”
“No—to the poor soul lying on the table here,” she said. “You pretty much used a dead guy as your straight man.”
“Comedy is not pretty,” I said. “Steve Martin.”
“Christ, is there anyone you don’t quote?”
“Yeah, Hitler and weathermen,” I said. “So I wasn’t too hard on Wexler?”
“No: you were definitely brutal,” she said. “For some reason, I don’t mind your arrogance as much as his.”
“That should be a Hallmark card.”
Her laugh was cut short by the ring of her cell. Her eyes narrowed as she saw who was calling. Not good, I could tell.
“Hello?” she answered.
I heard the sound of a man’s voice on the other end but could understand nothing of what he was saying. As for Elizabeth, she wasn’t saying anything. Just listening.
Meanwhile Wexler returned with a file in hand. No sooner did he open it than Elizabeth ended her call.
“We’ve got to go,” she announced.
“What about the photos?” asked Wexler. “Don’t you want the count?”
“Fifty-two,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the number of wounds, if I had to guess,” I said. “In fact I’m almost sure of it.”
Chapter 31
I’D HEARD about Tribeca 212. It was the current “it” hotel in lower Manhattan, complete with a ridiculously over-the-top lobby that looked like a cross between a Salvador Dalí painting and the Korova Milk Bar from A Clockwork Orange. Throw in the feng shui–inspired rooms and the rooftop pool heated by solar panels and you understand why so many save-the-planet A-list actors were meeting in its all-vegan, gluten-free restaurant for their Vanity Fair interviews.
In short, you either loved the place or wouldn’t be caught dead there. In a manner of speaking, at least.
“Tenth floor, room 1009,” said the cop standing guard by the waiting elevator.
“Thanks,” said Elizabeth, pocketing her badge as we stepped on.
Instead of pumping out Muzak all the way up to the tenth floor, the overhead speaker was treating us to a recording of one of Che Guevara’s protest speeches.
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “In case you were wondering, this is why so many people hate liberals.”
Ding.
There was no need to follow any signs as we stepped off the elevator. Just follow the commotion. Thirty feet down the long, mirrored hallway to our left were the hotel manager and the detective who had called Elizabeth. The two guys were toe-to-toe, mano a mano. Another cop was the lone spectator.
The manager, with his perfect head of hair, was angrily demanding to know why it was taking so long to remove the bodies. The detective was shouting back at him to calm down while surely entertaining thoughts of what Tasering the guy might do to that perfect coiffure.
“You must be the manager,” said Elizabeth, immediately inserting herself between the two. “I’m Detective Needham.”
“Oh, great, another detective,” said the guy, rolling his eyes.
“I know, I apologize for the delay,” said Elizabeth. “It’s my fault. My fellow detective here was merely doing what I’d asked. Tell me, is there a back exit to the hotel, perhaps an alleyway?”
“Yes,” said the manager. “There is.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Would you prefer we take the bodies out that way or would you rather we parade them through the front, where all the photographers and news vans are?”
Elizabeth flashed a smile, sweet as honey. I’d yet to hear her sound so polite. Meanwhile, the manager softened like last week’s banana.
“Um. I mean, of course I would prefer the back exit,” he said. “Speaking on behalf of the hotel, I would really appreciate your not going out the front.”
“Of course you would,” she said. “But I had to check because, you see, I’m the one who makes that decision. Now, can I ask you a favor in return?”
“Sure,” said the manager. “Anything.”
“Get the hell out of my face before I change my mind,” she said.
Again, Elizabeth smiled at the guy.
I was really starting to like her.
Chapter 32
ELIZABETH TURNED sharply, walking through the open door of room 1009. I followed right behind her, as did the detective who was first tangling with the manager. He was chuckling to himself.
“You’re so sexy when you’re a bitch, Needham,” he said. “Will you go to the prom with me?”
Elizabeth quickly introduced me to Detective Eric Monroe, a chunky man with a double chin, two-day stubble, and easily twenty years on the force who would probably be the first to admit that his crack-wise demeanor was little more than a coping mechanism for all the dead bodies he’d seen.
Here were two more.
Although it was safe to assume he hadn’t seen anything quite like this.
Ditto for Elizabeth. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.
It wasn’t that the couple on the bed had each been shot multiple times at close range, bits and chunks of their brains and entrails splattered across the sheets. Or that the sheets themselves were so stained with blood that barely an inch of white remained.
That wasn’t it. Not even close.
“You said to leave the bodies untouched until you got here,” said Monroe. “Just pictures and perimeter evidence so far.”
“Thanks, Eric,” she said. She leaned toward him, dropping the volume on her voice. “The report of death?”