Page 10 of The Drowned Woman
“No rush, I believe you.” Luka leaned his weight over the railing. It was just low enough that he could see someone—maybe—leaning forward too far and losing their balance. It would be more difficult for someone short like Trudy, but not impossible. “Did you collect her purse?”
“Yep. Bagged and tagged. It was with the shopping bags.”
“Was her phone in it?”
Wilson shook his head. “Wallet, cash, credit cards, lipstick and stuff like that, but no phone.”
“Okay if I go through the shopping bags?”
“Already finished with them. No usable prints. No phone, either.”
“Thanks, Wilson. Let me know if you find anything interesting.” Luka moved a few steps away and called Maggie Chen. If the phone had been in the victim’s pocket, it would have been transported to the medical examiner’s office with the body. “Hey, it’s Luka. Did you find a phone with Trudy Orly?”
“No, sorry.”
“It’s missing and I’m certain she had it with her.” He explained about the video monitor and Walt’s condition.
“The husband has Huntington’s? That’s like my greatest fear come true,” she said. “It’s a nightmare diagnosis, not just for the patient but their entire family.”
“Did you find a next of kin besides the husband to notify?”
“No. If Walt can’t direct us to other family, we might need to get a court order to see if there’s someone listed in their wills or on their bank accounts. I hate doing that, it takes so much time and paperwork, but—”
“We can help cut through the red tape for you,” he offered. “Anything on your preliminary exam?”
“So far, everything is consistent with trauma from a fall of that height. No defensive wounds.” Which meant Trudy hadn’t fought off an attacker. “We’ll know more after the postmortem.”
“Any idea when?” In non-urgent cases like accidental deaths, a PM could take days to schedule. Luka mentally crossed his fingers. Something felt off here; his gut was telling him there was more to Trudy’s death than mere accident.
“You caught a break. Ford Tierney has a conference tomorrow, so he’s fitting Trudy in this afternoon. Start time is two o’clock, so don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Maggie.” Luka hung up, his gaze following the path from the elevator to the Orlys’ apartment. Trudy’s keys were in the lock, but her grocery bags were positioned between the railing and the apartment. Why had Trudy detoured over to the railing?
At least the fingerprints ruled out suicide, he thought. Thank goodness. Because he didn’t think he could deal with that, not on today of all days.
The image that was his constant companion clouded his vision: Cherise in the water, changing her mind but unable to escape, her face filled with terror. How long had it taken her to die?
Now, haunted by Cherise’s ghost, he looked down over the railing, down to the lobby floor far below. How long had it taken for Trudy to hit the floor? No one had reported hearing her scream. Why didn’t she shout for help? A shudder shook him as he glanced back to Trudy’s apartment. Maybe she knew who killed her and couldn’t bear to see him go to prison. Maybe she thought her husband, given his devastating illness, had suffered enough.
Seven
Leah knocked on Risa Saliba’s door. “Coming!” she heard through the solid oak. But it took over a minute, after the click and clank of several heavy-duty locks, before the door finally swung open.
Risa stood swaying, one hand pressed against the foyer wall keeping her upright. She appeared ashen, her entire body covered in a cold sweat. “Sorry,” she mumbled, then spun away, using the wall to guide her into a small powder room across from the hall closet. Retching noises sounded along with moans of pain.
Leah rushed in to help her, her instincts taking over. She understood the aftermath of adrenaline, but this seemed more than that. She grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and knelt beside Risa on the old-fashioned octagonal black-and-white tiles. “Here.”
Risa nodded her thanks as she took the cloth and ran it over her neck and forehead. She flushed the toilet, cleaned her face, but didn’t try to get up, simply cradled the toilet, her breath coming in panting gasps.
“Do you need me to call someone?” Leah asked. She remembered Risa’s leaning on the walker, the way her hand shook. A list of possible diagnoses ran through her mind, but she’d just met Risa. It would be rude to pry. So instead, she focused on making Risa comfortable, rinsing out the washcloth and replacing it with a clean, wet one over the back of her neck. “How can I help?”
Risa sighed, took in a deeper breath. “It’s the nausea.” Another breath. “I’ll be fine once the medicine kicks in.”
The tiny bathroom had pink tiled walls, a black porcelain sink with sweeping curves as if it aspired to be an ornamental fountain, and an oval mirror with etching along its rim. Risa took a few more slow, deep breaths and finally, pushed away from the toilet. Leah stood and offered a hand to help Risa up. Like her neighbor, Walt Orly, she was much too thin.
Together they shuffled into the living room where Risa collapsed into an overstuffed chair that sat in the corner formed by the long wall of windows and the fireplace. There was a rolling computer stand beside it with a laptop and a stack of papers waiting. An assortment of medicine bottles was arrayed on the coffee table along with a cup of tea that appeared abandoned.
“Sorry,” Risa said. “I didn’t get a chance to take my morning meds on time, what with Walt and all.” She was only in her mid-thirties, but right now seemed decades older as she huddled in the chair, pulling a well-worn quilt around her shoulders.
