“I didn’t say I couldn’t figure out women,” Capelli grumbled. “Only that this particular woman is an anomaly.”
Hale snorted. “Whatever. You still can’t figure her out. And even though you didn’t put any money on the game, as usual, that’s got to be driving your boy-genius brain bat-shit crazy.”
Isabella opened her mouth to agree with Hale—Capelli was very rarely wrong, even less so when fact-based predictions were concerned, and it probably was making him nuts on toast. But instead she was interrupted by the very familiar, very serious sound of a throat being cleared.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Sinclair walked across the linoleum, pausing to hit each one of them with a stare that meant business, and damn, she loved this job. “Now that Moreno’s clearly gotten the welcome back she deserves, where are we on this DuPree case? Peterson might’ve kicked this investigation over to us, but he’s going to want leads to go with the bright, shiny indictment we promised, and I’m not inclined to tell him we don’t have any.”
It took less than thirty seconds for all five of them to find both their desks and their work ethics, although not necessarily in that order, and Maxwell was the first to chime in with a reply.
“Right. Well, starting with last night’s break-in, we got a whole lot of nothing from canvassing Moreno’s building. No one heard or saw a damned thing, which means this guy knew exactly what he was doing. Low profile all the way.”
Ugh. Isabella had figured as much. DuPree hadn’t gotten this far by throwing down bad-guy calling cards everywhere he went. But if they could put him in the building some other way, that would be a huge step forward in the concrete evidence department. “What about the surveillance video?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Capelli said, leaning in to examine one of his six monitors. “Looks like our guy was actually three guys. The only people on yesterday’s feed who didn’t check out as residents, guests, or delivery people are three males who entered the building at ten forty-six yesterday morning. A closer look at the entry log shows their key card as a fake.”
Isabella’s pulse perked to life. “That’s a good sign.”
But Capelli adjusted his glasses, pausing to grimace at the image he’d pulled up. “Not as good as it sounds. The video shows these men entering the building and going up to the third floor on the elevator, but that’s all it shows. There are no security cams on the third floor, and all three men kept their heads down. No facials to ID. No distinguishing features. Just dark clothes and baseball hats with no logos, and no definitive proof that they did anything other than sneak in and ride the elevator.”
“Strike two,” Sinclair said, his frown growing deeper. “What about forensics in the apartment?”
“Still being processed.” Maxwell looked up from his desk across the open office space. “First glance though? No prints, nothing unusual left behind. Although it’s going to take them a while to go through everything because the place was so trashed.”
Great. Isabella didn’t know if that should make her feel hopeful or even more hacked off. “Okay, so let’s work backward. How about the fire? Anything new since yesterday?”
“Ah.” Hale leaned in, phone in hand. “Yes, actually. Autopsies just came back on both Angel and Danny Marcus.” She scrolled down, her eyes widening with interest and surprise as she continued. “Check this out. They both died of asphyxiation, and time of death is consistent with the approximate time of the fire. But neither one of them had any trace of smoke or soot in their lungs. Which means…”
Isabella’s heart slammed against her sternum as Hale’s words connected. “They were dead before the fire even started.”
“Exactly,” Hale said. “Tox screen shows high levels of heroin in both victims. Not enough to kill either of them, but—”
“Enough to make them drowsy and non-combative,” Isabella finished. Oh, Angel.
Hale nodded, sliding a sympathetic look in her direction before continuing. “Yes. No ligature marks on the bodies to suggest strangulation, but the ME did find small cuts and some bruising on the inside of both victims’ mouths that are telltale signs of suffocation. She’s officially ruling both as homicides.”
“That’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?” Hollister asked, but Sinclair shook his head, punctuating the sadness twisting deep between Isabella’s ribs.
“Not a very big one if we can’t link DuPree to the crime,” he said. “Talk to me about the scene.”
“The house is”—Isabella paused. Scraped in a shaky breath. Reset her determination—“was vacant and empty, just like that first fire scene where Kellan found the photos. This one was a foreclosure, supposed to go up for auction in about two weeks.”