Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
icky,” O’Connor suggested. “Maybe she had a fever, and it gave her night sweats. She wanted to wash off the grime.”
“Or maybe she had an overnight guest,” Donovan countered.
“You think this was a crime of passion?” Paulo asked, his gaze returning to Maribel Cruz’s brutalized corpse.
“It would explain why there’s no sign of forced entry,” Donovan said. “Maybe she played hooky from work to spend the day with her lover. They argued, things got out of hand. He snapped and killed her, then wrote stuff on the wall to make it look like some nut job butchered her.”
Paulo lifted his gaze from the dead woman to look at his partner. “Did the coworker tell you that Maribel had a boyfriend?”
“No. To her knowledge, Maribel wasn’t seeing anyone. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t.”
“True.” Although Paulo’s gut instincts told him that Maribel Cruz had not been killed by an enraged lover, he kept the thought to himself. For now.
Absently he watched as an evidence technician opened one of the nightstand drawers and carefully sifted through the contents. Paulo glimpsed a Bible, a checkbook, and some fashion magazines before the officer opened another drawer and pulled out the only item: a glossy brochure. The man stared at the cover for several moments, then showed it to the officer standing nearest to him. “Hey, didn’t I read somewhere that she moved to Houston earlier this year?”
The other man looked at the brochure cover and nodded. “Yeah, the story was in the Chronicle a while back. She used to be with some big dance company in New York.” He gave a low wolf whistle. “Fine as hell, ain’t she? New York’s loss is definitely our gain.”
“Tell me about it.”
By now Paulo had made his way over to the two officers. “Let me see that.” He had to practically pry the brochure out of the other man’s hand. Once he saw the cover, he understood why. Splashed across the front of the dance program was a photograph that captured Tommie Purnell leaping dramatically through the air, her dark hair flowing behind her, her slender arms raised above her head, her long, glorious legs gracefully extended. She wore a jeweled crown and a red corset with a gauzy, billowing skirt. She looked like a damned goddess.
In late February her dance company had made a stop in Houston as part of its national tour schedule. According to the brochure, Tommie had starred as a lead soloist in that evening’s performance.
Touching only the edges of the paper, Paulo flipped through the program until he came to Tommie’s biography page. Beneath her smiling photograph she had written: Great to meet you, Maribel! Don’t ever give up on your dreams. Best wishes, Tommie.
Paulo stared at the inscription, struck by the realization that both he and Tommie had met the murdered woman. Talk about six degrees of separation.
“Damn,” Donovan said appreciatively, peering over Paulo’s shoulder at Tommie’s photo. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “Hey, she wouldn’t happen to be the one you told me about a few months ago, would she? You know, the dancer you were trying to stay the hell away from?”
“Yeah,” Paulo muttered, regretting the impulse that had led him to confide in his partner.
Donovan grinned, shaking his head. “Lucky bastard.”
Before the other two men could ask about Tommie, a uniformed officer stuck his head through the doorway and said to Paulo, “Miss Phillips wants to know if you still need to talk to her.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“She’s ready to fly the coop. After what happened to her friend here, being in this house is spooking the hell outta her.”
Paulo nodded. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”
After the officer left, Paulo slipped the dance brochure into a plastic evidence bag and passed it to one of the crime-scene technicians, saying, “Run those prints through the system and let me know what you come back with.”
The man arched a brow at him, no doubt wondering what Paulo expected to learn from a brochure that might have been handled by any number of people.
Paulo didn’t bother explaining himself. He took one last look at the mutilated body on the floor, then walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen.
It was a large room that featured granite countertops, gleaming stainless steel appliances, and ceramic tile floors. No dishes cluttered the sink. Not a fork was out of place. It was as immaculate as the bedroom had been.
A slender, attractive African-American woman sat alone at the round oak table, cradling a glass of water. She was in her late twenties, with skin the color of caramel and shoulder-length dark hair. She wore an emerald silk blouse, gray cashmere slacks, and black snakeskin pumps that looked expensive.
She looked up as Paulo and Donovan entered the room. Her dark eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.
“Thanks for your patience, Miss Phillips,” Paulo said, briefly clasping her hand. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
“No, it hasn’t.” Kathleen Phillips shook her head, her eyes welling with tears. “I just can’t believe Maribel’s dead. What I saw in there…” She paused, shuddering deeply. “Who would do something like that to her? Who?”
“That’s what we hope to find out,” Paulo murmured, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. Donovan remained standing in the entryway, keeping an eye out for the medical examiner.
“I know you’ve already spoken to my partner,” Paulo said. “I just wanted to follow up with a few questions. Forgive me if they seem redundant.”
Kathleen nodded, blinking back tears. “I want to help anyway I can. Maribel was a good friend of mine.”
“How long had you worked with her?”
“Three years. We report to the same attorney in the labor and employment law division. His name is Ted Colston. I’m a paralegal. Maribel was Ted’s secretary.”
“Did she get along with her colleagues? Was she generally well liked? Respected?”
“Absolutely,” Kathleen said emphatically. “She was smart and very good at her job, and people liked her because she was friendly and outgoing. You could always count on Maribel to have a positive outlook on things, no matter what.”
Paulo nodded, unsurprised by the comments. No one ever spoke ill of the dead, even when it could be justified. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Maribel? Personally or professionally?”
Kathleen’s eyes widened. “You mean someone who would have hated her enough to do that to her?” she whispered, horrified.
“I’m sure you saw what was written on the wall in her bedroom,” Paulo said evenly. “It seemed personal. Can you think of any reason someone would have called Maribel a liar?”
Kathleen shook her head, lifting a trembling hand to the pearl choker at her throat. “I—I don’t know why anyone would have written that about her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” When Paulo said nothing, she added, “Look, I’m not saying Maribel was perfect, or that she didn’t have enemies. I’m sure there were people who didn’t like her, for whatever reason. But I just can’t imagine anyone hating her enough to…to—” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Her hand shook as she reached for the glass of water on the table and took a long sip.
Paulo waited several moments, giving her time to regain her composure before he continued questioning her. “You told Detective Donovan that Maribel wasn’t seeing anyone. Was there an ex-boyfriend in the picture? Or someone she’d recently met at a party or nightclub? A guy she was just getting to know?”
Kathleen frowned, shaking her