“Anyone murdered in any of the rooms besides the bedroom?”
“No.”
“Then let’s start with the bedroom,” said Nick.
Sato removed his shoes and left them in the tiled foyer. Nick left his shoes on. He was a cop…
Nick saw that the living room was as large and littered as it had been six years ago. The double bedroom doors were wide open. The trail of paramedic debris seemed to lead
The tac-glasses still in his hand, Nick walked in.
The expansive bedroom still stank of dried blood and brain matter.
But it did.
Instead of carpet, the floor was covered with rectangles of
The first patch of blood that caught the eye was on the big bed where the crumpled sheets had a dried splatter but the pillows and headboard and a bit of wall showed a head-sized red blotch. This was where the hooker had died. The larger patch of dried blood was on the floor, surrounded by discarded syringe covers and more paper and plastic paramedic detritus. This dried puddle covered all of one
Nick glanced into the master bedroom’s large bathroom, checked the four windows, and then came over to stand next to the stained
“Would you move, please, Bottom-san?”
Sato had his glasses on and now Nick donned his and looked down. He was standing calf deep in Keigo Nakamura’s naked loins. Nick stepped aside but couldn’t resist grinning. He’d done that on purpose.
Keigo’s corpse was naked. The young woman’s corpse on the bed was dressed in jeans and a black bra. Keigo’s throat had been slashed almost all the way through. The young woman—her name was Keli Bracque, Nick remembered—had been shot once in the middle of the forehead. Taking care not to step on or in Keigo again, Nick leaned closer to study Keli’s wound. The .22-caliber round had left a tiny, clean, blue-rimmed hole in her pale forehead but had done its usual damage rattling around in her skull. Twenty-two’s were still one of the weapons of choice for professional assassins, and several of Nick’s DPD investigators had thought this suggested a professional hit.
Nick took two steps back and looked down.
There was a red paperback copy of a twentieth-century novel titled
“These images are better than the death-scene photos I had,” Nick said to Sato. “Who took them?”
“I did. Before the authorities arrived.”
“Better and better,” laughed Nick. “Not only leaving the scene of a crime, but concealing evidence… the video-camera recordings, these photos, the fact of your very existence as Keigo’s head of security. You’ll serve time for sure when an American court is through with you, Hideki-san.”
Nick knew that he was repeating himself but he enjoyed hearing the charges again. Sato showed no more response than he had the first time.
“You’re sure there are no animated tac images this time?” asked Nick.
“As I said, we had no cameras on the third floor, Bottom-san,” Sato said.
“Yeah,” said Nick, letting the sarcasm drip. He walked back to the bed, stepping on and through Keigo’s head this time. If Sato was squeamish, fuck him.