Rapture in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

floor.
    An amusement screen was switched off but hadn’t been slipped back into its recess. Glossy white stairs angled up to a second floor, which was ringed with white banisters, atrium style. Lush green ferns hung in enameled pots from the lofted ceiling.
    Money might drip, she mused, but death had no respect for it. It was a club without a class system.
    The sounds of grief echoed and drew her into a small den lined with antique books and cushy with deep chairs the color of good burgundy.
    Sunk into one was a man. His handsome face was pale gold and ravaged from tears. His hair was gold as well, the glint of new coin, and was tufted in spikes from his hands. He wore a white silk robe that was spotted and smeared with drying blood. His feet were bare, and his hands were studded with rings that sparkled as his fingers trembled. There was a tattoo of a black swan on his left ankle.
    The uniform who was sitting miserably beside the man glanced over at Eve, started to speak.
    Eve shook her head quickly, keeping her badge in plain sight. She gestured toward the ceiling, cocking her head in question.
    He nodded, jerked his thumb up, then shook his head.
    Eve slipped back out. She wanted to see the body, view the scene before she dealt with the witness.
    There were several rooms off the second floor. Still, it was simple enough to find her way. She simply followed the trail of blood. She stepped into a bedroom. Here the scheme was soft greens and blues, so that it felt like floating underwater. The bed was an oblong of blue satin sheets, mountained with pillows.
    There was statuary here as well, of the classic nude variety. Drawers were built into the walls, giving it an uncluttered — and to Eve — an unlived-in appearance. The ocean blue carpet was soft as a cloud and spotted with blood.
    She followed the trail into the master bath. Death didn’t shock her, but it appalled her, and she knew it always would: the waste of it, the violence and cruelty of it. But she lived with it too much to be shocked, even by this.
    Blood had spurted, showered, streamed on gleaming tiles of ivory and seafoam green. It had fountained over glass, pooled over the mirrored floor from the gaping wound in the wrist of the hand that hung limply over the lip of a huge clear-sided tub.
    The water inside was a dark, nasty pink, and the metallic smell of blood hung in the air. Music was playing, something with strings — perhaps a harp. Fat white candles had been lighted and still burned at both the foot and the head of the long oval tub.
    The body that lay in that cloudy pink water had its head resting on a gilt-edged bath pillow, its gaze lifted and fixed on the feathery tails of a fern that hung from the mirrored ceiling. He was smiling, as if he’d been desperately amused to watch himself die.
    It didn’t shock her, but she sighed as she coated her hands and feet with clear seal, engaged her recorder, and carried her kit inside to stand over the body.
    Eve had recognized him. Naked, bled almost dry, and smiling up at his own reflection was the renowned defense attorney S. T. Fitzhugh.
    “Salvatori’s going to be very disappointed in you, Counselor,” she murmured as she got to work.
    Eve had taken a sample of the bloody bathwater, done her initial scan to estimate time of death, bagged the deceased’s hands, and recorded the scene when Peabody appeared, slightly out of breath at the doorway.
    “I’m sorry, sir. I had some trouble getting uptown.
    “It’s all right.” She passed Peabody the ivory-handled buck knife she’d secured in clear plastic. “Looks like he did it with this. It’s an antique, I’d guess. Collector’s item. We’ll run it for prints.”
    Peabody tucked the knife in her evidence kit, then narrowed her eyes. “Lieutenant, isn’t that — “
    “Yeah, it’s Fitzhugh.”
    “Why would he kill himself?”
    “We haven’t determined that he did. Never make assumptions, Officer,” she said mildly. “First rule.