Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
because of who her employer was?”
“Of course not. But it doesn’t matter. Even if we don’t make a big deal out of it, the media will.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” O’Connor retorted. “Anyway, why did you say Sanchez might recognize the victim?”
Donovan’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “She was a beautiful woman. Sanchez knows a lot of beautiful women.”
Paulo smiled briefly, but he was remembering the first time he’d met Maribel Cruz. It was two years ago, shortly after he’d moved to Houston. His cousins, Ignacio and Naomi Santiago, had coerced him into attending a fund-raiser dinner hosted by their law firm. The black-tie function had been attended by prominent businessmen, politicians, civic and community leaders, as well as many of the firm’s employees, among them Maribel Cruz, who’d flirted shamelessly with Paulo throughout the evening. If he hadn’t already promised to be on his best behavior that night, he and the sexy legal secretary probably would have wound up in the sack later.
And now she was dead. Brutally murdered in her own home.
Paulo swore under his breath, lifting his gaze from Maribel Cruz’s savaged remains to look at his partner. “Has the ME arrived yet?”
“On his way.”
“Has anyone talked to the neighbors?”
“I’ve got uniforms canvassing the neighborhood. Problem is, most of these folks work during the day. The odds that one of them saw anything are slim to none.”
“Has the family been notified?”
Donovan nodded. “Her parents and siblings are flying in from Brownsville. Your fam—er, Maribel’s employer was generous enough to pay for their airfare and put them up in a nice hotel downtown. They should arrive later this evening.”
Paulo nodded, recalling that it was his cousin Naomi who’d introduced him to Maribel that night. Naomi had spoken very highly of Maribel, which was another reason Paulo had decided she was off-limits. It was one thing to indulge in meaningless one-night stands with women he’d picked up at a bar or a wedding, women he’d never have to see or hear from again. But screwing around with his family’s valued employees was just asking for trouble.
Donovan said, “I’ve asked the coworker, Kathleen Phillips, to hang around a little longer. I figured you’d want to ask her some additional questions.”
Paulo nodded distractedly. His gaze had returned to the bloody word inscribed on the wall above the bed. Liar. What the hell did it mean? Was it an indictment of the victim? A message from the killer? A calling card?
Following the direction of his gaze, O’Connor said, “We’ve already taken a sample of the blood to determine whether it belongs to the victim. But I think we can assume it will be a match.”
Paulo nodded in agreement. “Looks like the blood was brushed on the wall. No visible fingerprints.”
“None that I can tell,” O’Connor said.
“How’d the perp get inside?”
Donovan answered, “Phillips said the front door was unlocked when she arrived. No sign of forced entry. No indication that the lock was jimmied or that any of the windows had been tampered with. But they’re still checking around the house, going over the backyard.”
“No security alarm?”
“She never had it activated.”
Paulo frowned. “How long had she been living here?”
“Phillips said Maribel bought the house three years ago. She remembers because she attended the housewarming party.”
Paulo nodded, his gaze shifting back to the body. “She must’ve put up a fight,” he muttered. “Defensive injuries on her hands and wrists.”
“I noticed those, too.” Donovan hitched his chin toward the dried blood on the wall nearest to where he stood. “I figured the perp made the first cut around this area. After that the blade was bloody, and when he swung again drops flew off and hit the wall.”
Nodding, Paulo added, “She turned, trying to run or avoid another blow. He pursues, stabs her from another angle. And that’s how the blood spatter ends up on the bedspread.”
“Sounds about right to me,” O’Connor murmured.
Rising to his feet, Paulo looked around the large room, mentally cataloging every detail. It was clear that Maribel Cruz had spared no expense when it came to decorating her bedroom. The terra-cotta walls were trimmed with fancy crown molding and appeared to have been professionally painted. The polished furnishings were made of carved cherry, the kind that had to be specially ordered and took weeks to be delivered: a huge armoire that looked antique, a dresser, a pair of matching nightstands, and a four-poster bed covered with a cream-and-chocolate satin spread, now bloodstained. Two thick pillows were bunched together against the headboard; the top pillow still bore the indentation made by the victim’s head overnight. Other than the bloody, rumpled bed, the room was meticulously neat.
“Anything missing?” Paulo asked, though he already suspected the answer.
“Not that we can tell,” Donovan confirmed. “If robbery were the motive, the perp left behind a lot of expensive items. A flat-screen television. A stereo system, computer, laptop, iPod, and some other electronic gadgets. And those paintings in the living room look like originals.”
O’Connor shook her head. “Santiago and Associates must pay its secretaries very well. Clearly I’m in the wrong line of work.”
Paulo knew for a fact that the employees at his family’s law firm were generously compensated, but of course he didn’t mention that.
Donovan continued. “Her purse is still here. ID, credit cards, cell phone, seventy dollars in the wallet—everything seems to be accounted for. For now, anyway.”
Watching where he walked, Paulo made his way across the room and stepped through an open doorway that led into the master bathroom. The marble countertops were lined with cosmetics and hair and facial products. A pink nightgown lay in a puddle of silk near the shower. Paulo peered inside the glass stall. It was bone dry.
He turned as Donovan appeared in the doorway. “Does the coworker know what time Maribel Cruz called in sick to the office this morning?” he asked.
Donovan flipped through the pages of his notepad. “It was around seven-thirty. Phillips says Maribel called her right after leaving a voice mail message for their supervisor. Maribel told her she was coming down with a bad cold and planned to spend the day in bed resting. Phillips said she sounded terrible, so she decided to check up on her when she got off from work.”
“She live nearby?”
“About fifteen minutes away.”
“That her Beemer in the driveway?”
“Yeah. Maribel always parked in the garage.”
Paulo nodded, glancing inside the bathroom again. After several moments he murmured, almost to himself, “She was about to take a shower. She’d just removed her nightgown when she heard a noise in the other room. She poked her head around the bathroom door, then took a few steps out. And that’s when he pounced.”
“That would explain why she was nude,” Donovan said. “Unless, of course, the killer intended to undress her anyway.”
“The ME will determine whether or not she was sexually assaulted,” O’Connor said, glancing up from the sketch she was drawing. “If I had to venture a guess, based on lividity and the stage of rigor mortis, I would place the time of death between eight and ten a.m.”
Donovan hummed a thoughtful note. “So after calling in sick,” he mused, “she decided to take a shower.”
“So?” O’Connor prompted.
The detective