Athena Force 8: Contact by Evelyn Vaughn Read Free Book Online

know what he used—”
    “He?” inquired Mandelet.
    “Women only account for a tenth of the murder arrests made, right? And then they usually kill lovers or their children. And aren’t women more likely to kill from a distance, like with poison, than in a physical attack?”
    Both men were nodding. So Faith felt sure enough to ask, “But what did he use?”
    “Wire garrote?” suggested Mandelet. “That would be a professional’s choice.” But he waited for her response.
    “That would leave a cleaner line, wouldn’t it?” She bent closer to what had, thankfully, been reduced back to evidence. “And a belt would have left a wider mark. I’m thinking some kind of cord or rope?”
    “Silk,” agreed Mandelet. “Red silk. I removed fibers from the wound. If we can find that rope, her DNA will be all over it. The killer may have left epithelial evidence on it from his own hands as well, so that we can work toward a second DNA match.”
    “And if we can’t find the rope? Did she maybe scratch him, or pull some of his hair, or—”
    The M.E. shook his head. “The only tissue under her nails was her own, from when she fought the rope. There was evidence that she’d had sex in the last few days, but not recently enough for us to match the semen. It seems to have been consensual, in any case. The pattern of tearing on the—”
    “That’s enough,” Greg interrupted firmly, and drew the sheet over Krystal’s face. “This is getting too personal. Faith, you’re taking a few days off, and that’s that.”
    She nodded slowly. If we can find that rope…
    It was as good a place to start as any, and she couldn’t very easily start looking for it if she was at work all day. “You’re right. I’ll go. Thank you, though. Both of you.”
    “When you get back, you’re welcome to sit in on a few autopsies,” offered Mandelet, and as disgusting a thought as it was, Faith recognized the compliment in his offer. “You have a good eye for it. You don’t want to stay a clerk forever, do you?”
    “Stop poaching my administrative staff,” warned Greg, saving Faith the necessity of answering that question. She really didn’t know what she wanted, in the long term.
    But in the short…
    She wanted to find Krystal’s killer.
    “You should call Detective Chopin,” she said, as she and Greg left the examination room. “That’s why I came looking for you. He wants to ask you some questions.”
    About whether anything had been taken. She’d let the detective and the CSU supervisor work that part out, though.
    She had her own investigating to do.
     
     
     
    Faith hoped she wouldn’t be the only one of the roommates to resume work that Monday. She figured their landlord, some British guy who lived with his wife north of the lake, would want his rent whether there were four people or five living in his multiroomed French Quarter apartment.
    She found Evan, at least, where she thought she would, a ten-block walk from work.
    Jackson Square.
    If Bourbon Street was the heart of the nighttime French Quarter, Jackson Square—spread between the spires of the St. Louis Cathedral and the wide Mississippi River—was its daytime heart. Tankers and barges made their slow way down the expansive river, along with riverboats playing bright calliope music. Cab horses with their great, grassy scent pulled open carriages on slow tours of the oldest part of the city. Street performers—balloon clowns, mimes and today, a truly talented saxophone player—plied their talents in exchange for tips from the tourists. Different psychic readers set out chairs or tables in what Faith had learned was a silent hierarchy, the best readers at one end of the Square, the less experienced at another.
    Krystal had been one of the best.
    And artists, protected from the heat by little more than oversize patio umbrellas, hung their work on the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the Square, hoping for a sale or a commission.
    Evan was one of those