I read her case details and it made sense. At the time of her arrest, she’d been working for Madame Pardieu, a high-class escort service that charged up to a grand a night. That would account for the nice neighborhood.
“Does she look familiar?” Herb asked. His jowls were stuffed with fat-free cookies, giving him a chipmunkish appearance.
“Yeah, she does.”
“You’ve probably seen her a few dozen times. When we got her name I cross-reffed with Missing Persons, and found a report from yesterday, called in by her agent. She’s Sure-a-Tex Girl.”
Sure-a-Tex was a brand of tampon marketed to the younger crowd. Sure-a-Tex Girl, wearing a not very subtle red cape, flew to the rescue of women who started their period in extreme situations, such as mountain climbing or white-water rafting. The product came in a variety of designer colors, including neon green and hot pink.
“Did you contact the agent?”
“He’ll be here any minute.” Herb took a sip of coffee and searched his desk for more saccharine.
Phil Blasky’s postmortem report was the shortest I’d ever read, due to the amount of material he had to work with. An elevated histamine level and platelet count indicated the victim had been bleeding prior to her arms being severed. Tests for several dozen drugs came back negative. Lipid levels normal. No evidence of heart disease, STDs, or pregnancy. Everything else about the arms was unspectacular.
Phil noted that the handcuffs were put on after death; axe marks indicated the swings came from the front, with the arms splayed out crucifixion-style.
Officer Dan Rogers knocked on my open door. I invited him in.
“Got the GC results from the burned skin samples.” He handed me a file. “My tongue was correct. The arms were diluted with bleach.”
“No trace of anything else?”
“Nope. Bleach will clean up just about anything. That’s why it’s used by HazMat teams. Hey, Lieut, you got any aspirin? I’ve got a headache that’s making my eyes water.”
I found a bottle in my desk and tossed it to him. He shook out five, and swallowed them dry.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Call me if I can be any more help. I like CSU, but Detective Rogers has a nice ring to it too.”
Rogers left. Herb made a grunting, satisfied sound, and tossed his empty cookie box into the garbage, on top of three other such cookie boxes.
“Herb, not that I want to question your dieting efforts, but how many boxes of those cookies have you eaten today?”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say you could hibernate with all I’ve seen you eat in the last ten minutes.”
“So what? They’re fat-free.”
“Chocolate syrup is fat-free too. Look at the calories.”
He fished out the box he’d tossed and squinted at the nutrition panel. “Ah, hell. No wonder I’ve gained four pounds on this diet.”
“You need to watch the carbohydrates, not the fat.”
“Oh. These only have fifteen grams of carbs.”
“Per serving. How many servings per box?”
“Ah, hell.”
A knock. I turned to see Officer Fuller in the doorway. Fuller was an ex-pro football player, tall and wide, and he towered over his companion, a short, balding man wearing Armani and too much Obsession for Men.
“This is Marvin Pulitzer.”
Marvin smiled, his caps unnaturally white, and offered his hand to me. I took it, and discovered he was palming something.
“Pulitzer Prizes Talent Agency. Very pleased to meet you, Miss…?”
“Lieutenant. Jacqueline Daniels.”
He held on to me a moment longer than necessary. When I got my hand back I saw he’d given me his card.
“You’ve got great bone structure, Lieutenant. Do you model?”
“I did Vogue a few issues back.”
Pulitzer narrowed his eyes, then smiled again.
“Joking. I get it. Funny. But seriously, I just landed this new account. They’re looking for distinguished, mature women. You should come in, take some test shots.”
“What’s the company?”
“Ever-Weave.”
I confessed to never hearing of them.
“They sell protective undergarments. You know, adult-sized diapers.”
Fuller chortled, deep and throaty. I dismissed him.
“Think it over. You wouldn’t have to pose wearing the product. You just have to stand there, looking embarrassed.”
No kidding.
“I don’t think I’m quite ready to delve into the glamorous world of modeling, Mr. Pulitzer. Come in and have a seat.”
Pulitzer and Herb exchanged greetings, and then he sat in a chair between us on the right side of the desk.
“So, where’s Davi?”
Herb handed Pulitzer the mug shot.
“This is Davi McCormick?”
“Yeah. Oh, Christ, she’s in trouble, isn’t she? What did she do? Has she called a lawyer yet?”
Pulitzer pulled out a cell phone the size of a matchbook and flipped it open, dialing with his pinky.
“She doesn’t need a lawyer, Mr. Pulitzer. The county medical examiner found Davi’s severed arms in the morgue yesterday morning.”
“Her… arms?”
Herb handed him another picture. Pulitzer lost all color.
“Oh shit! Those are Davi’s? Shit! What the hell happened to her?”
“When was the last time you spoke with Davi?”
“Four days ago. We did lunch at Wildfire. Right after that I had to catch a flight to New York.”
“What did you talk about during lunch?”
“The usual stuff. Upcoming gigs. Auditions.”
“Did Davi seem nervous, or afraid?”
“No, everything was completely normal.”
Herb and I took turns interrogating Pulitzer. We confirmed his trip, and asked several dozen questions about Davi, her friends and family, her state of mind, her life.
“She has no enemies. Not one. Which, in a competitive business like this, is amazing. She’s just a nice girl.”
“You called in a missing person’s report yesterday.”
“Yeah. She missed a shoot two days ago. Davi never missed a shoot. I called her. Even dropped by her place. She just disappeared. Jesus, who could have done something like that to her?”
Pulitzer had to take a time-out to reschedule his afternoon appointments. While he was on the phone, Herb and I conferred.
“Davi was a celebrity. She may have had stalkers.”
“We’ll call Sure-a-Tex.”
I added it to my notes.
“We also need to call Davi’s parents, check with her friends, and try to pinpoint her movements for the last week.”
Pulitzer finished his call and asked where he could get some water. I pointed him to the washroom.
Herb took a sip of coffee, then reached for more sweetener. The pile of pink wrappers on his desk was almost as high as his cup.
“If it’s someone who knew Davi, where do your handcuffs come in?”
“Coincidence? They could have fallen out of my pocket, someone picks them up and pawns them?”
“I don’t buy it.”
“It’s thin. But the only people with access to my office are cleaning people and cops.”
The maintenance staff was carefully screened during the hiring process, and cops were, well, cops. I didn’t know anyone working out of the two-six with a grudge against me, and I especially didn’t think I had any murderers on my squad. The process to become a police officer included psych profiles, mental evals, and endless personality tests and interviews. Wackos were supposedly weeded out early on.
“Maybe someone pinched them.”
That seemed more likely. I didn’t carry a purse, and most of my outfits had oversized pockets to hold all of my essentials, cuffs included. Even a mediocre thief could have gotten them from me without much effort.
“But why me?”
I used Herb’s phone to call Fuller back into the office. He’d been particularly helpful on the Gingerbread Man case, and I needed an extra man.