fifteen years in homicide, he had acquired enough toughness and objectivity to work even the most gruesome crime scene without an ounce of queasiness. But that didn’t mean he’d grown immune to the sight of a dead body, that he didn’t feel a twinge of sorrow or anger over the senseless loss of a life. The day he stopped feeling anything was the day he’d quit.
A photographer was busily snapping shot after shot, his flash strobing the grisly scene. Two other technicians were moving carefully around the room, lifting latent prints and searching for trace evidence while the lead forensics investigator, crouching near the victim, took measurements around the body.
Norah O’Connor’s bright red hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her thin, freckled face was set in a grim expression as she concentrated on her task. Hearing Paulo’s muttered oath, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You got here fast. Donovan says he just called you a few minutes ago.”
“I was nearby,” Paulo said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Where is he?”
“My guess would be the kitchen, interviewing the witness.”
“The witness?”
O’Connor nodded. “The victim’s coworker. She’s the one who discovered the body. She said she came over here after work to check up on the victim, who had called in sick today. She was concerned about her. Apparently they were good friends.” O’Connor grimaced. “Needless to say, she’s pretty shaken up.”
“No wonder.” Out of habit Paulo sketched a quick sign of the cross over his heart before entering the room. Watching where he stepped, he approached the body and sank to his haunches on the opposite side of O’Connor.
The victim was moderately tall, at least five-eight, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long black hair was in disarray, as if she’d put up a struggle with her assailant. Dark brown eyes stared sightlessly upward. Her dusky skin was now pallid in death. Although her face was bloated, Paulo could tell she’d been beautiful.
As he studied her, he felt a whisper of recognition. He’d met this woman before. But where? And when?
“You know the victim?” O’Connor, ever observant, had detected the flash of recognition on his face.
Paulo frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You might,” a voice spoke from the doorway.
Paulo looked up as his partner, Julius Donovan, stepped into the room. Tall, bald, dark as Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee with the lanky build of a small forward, the detective had been named after his father’s favorite basketball player, Julius “Dr. J” Erving. To his father’s dismay, Julius had never developed his namesake’s aptitude for basketball, preferring activities that appealed more to his cerebral nature, such as solving crossword puzzles and reading science fiction. He’d graduated from college with honors and accepted a lucrative job as a securities analyst for a major brokerage firm. But after just two years, he’d made a drastic career change, deciding to serve his community by becoming a cop. After nearly four years on the force, he’d established himself as a smart, tenacious investigator with good instincts, even if he tended to be a bit overzealous at times. Paulo not only liked the kid; he had a lot of respect for him. Which was something he couldn’t say about everyone he worked with.
Paulo warily regarded the younger detective. “What’re you talking about?”
Julius Donovan, wearing pleated trousers and a dark sport coat that hung loosely on his narrow frame, advanced farther into the room. “The victim’s name is Maribel Cruz. She’s twenty-nine years old.” He paused, then added pointedly, “She worked as a legal secretary at Santiago and Associates.”
Paulo stared at him, his gut clenching. “Shit,” he muttered grimly.
Norah O’Connor glanced up from measuring blood spatter to divide a speculative look between the two men. “Why is that significant?”
Donovan frowned, bemused by the question. “Why? Because Sanchez is re—” He broke off abruptly at the hard look Paulo gave him.
Very few people in the department knew that Paulo was a member of one of Houston’s richest, most powerful families. And he preferred to keep it that way. Although he’d been in law enforcement long enough to be considered a seasoned veteran, he was still a relative newcomer to the Houston Police Department. The last thing he needed was to be ostracized or harassed by his peers just because some of his relatives happened to be worth a fortune.
“The victim worked for the largest law firm in Houston,” Donovan amended, recovering quickly from his near admission. “Isn’t that significant enough?”
O’Connor pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “I hope you’re not suggesting, Detective Donovan, that Miss Cruz should receive preferential treatment in this investigation simply 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
