She wore a white silk gown and negligee, low-cut, sheer. Sexy. Marc crouched in front of her, his gaze cataloging the mottled bruise on her neck he had glimpsed yesterday, as well as all the other marks. There was a small purplish mark on the upper curve of her breast, the sort of mark lovers left on each other. He suspected that the autopsy would find Mrs. Gable had had sex not long before her death. The bastard had probably thought making love to her, treating her tenderly for a change, would keep her quiet about how their little boy had died.
Maybe that was what had pushed her over, the fact that he had killed her son and then come to her for sex. Maybe she had planned it anyway.
Marc turned his head and looked at Mr. Gable's body, or what was left of it, sprawled in the bathroom doorway. She must have waited until he was about to step into the shower, then walked into the ornate bathroom and emptied a pistol into him. From the looks of it, she had then reloaded and kept shooting until the gun was empty again. The remnants of body parts were splattered around him. She had been very particular in what parts she shot off. Then she had reloaded once more, walked to the sofa, sat down, put the gun barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.
The letter of the law was not always the same thing as justice. Mrs. Gable had sought justice for her son and achieved it by her own ends. Perhaps she had then killed herself because she couldn't face prosecution, or because she couldn't face life without her child—or in atonement for acting too late to save him.
Marc stood, his expression grim and set. All that was left for him to do was the paperwork. Karen sat curled on a bed in one of the emergency department cubicles. She didn't know why she was here, but she was too numb to protest, even to care. She couldn't go to the apartment; the police had it roped off until they finished their investigation. She didn't want to go to the apartment. She wouldn't ever be able to sleep there again, even after that man's blood and gray matter were cleaned from the door…
the carpet…
The medics had been insistent that she have medical attention, though she told them she was a nurse and was capable of assessing her own injuries, none of which required hospitalization or even emergency care. Her face was bruised, she had carpet burns on her knees and a small cut, too minor to require stitches, on her foot, and her ribs were sore, probably from the struggle. None of the shots had hit her, though the last one had been close enough that bits of Sheetrock had gotten in her eye, but eyewash had taken care of that problem.
All in all, she was in good shape, considering that man had been trying his damnedest to kill her. She had no doubt about his intention. Once he had known she was in the apartment, he hadn't fled, which was what the run-of-the-mill burglar would have done. Instead, he had come after her, pistol in hand.
But why? That was what the policemen had asked, and she had asked it herself. Violent home intrusions happened. She was a woman living alone, a prime target. She hadn't lived in the apartment long; perhaps the man had thought someone else lived there. But he hadn't ransacked her apartment looking for valuables. He had carefully searched it and neatly returned everything to its place. And then he had tried to kill her.
Bad things happened in groups of three, the old saying went. Dexter had been shot. Her old house had burned. And now this. If the old saw was accurate, her life should be peachy keen now. But she hugged a blanket around her shoulders to fight off the chill she couldn't shake and tried to control a sense of impending doom. What else was going to happen?
"Ms. Whitlaw?"
It was one of the detectives, standing outside the drawn curtain of her cubicle. Her apartment had been swarming with detectives, uniformed policemen, medics, and people from IA, since any shooting by a police officer was automatically investigated. Outside the building, reporters and spectators had gathered. Every local television station had been represented.
"Yes, come in," she said.
He parted the curtain and stepped inside. He was middle-aged, his face shiny with sweat. How could he be sweating? It was so cold in here, the air conditioning must be turned on maximum. He sat down in the single chair in the cubicle, and Karen pulled the blanket tighter around her, shivering. He watched her with that cool, assessing cop look, as if he didn't believe anything anyone told him. Marc had that look, too, she thought, and she wanted him here so much she ached inside. She had never felt safer than when she had been with Marc, and just now she needed that security.
"Detective Suter," he said by way of introduction. "Do you feel like answering some questions?" They had taken a brief statement from her at the apartment, but since there was no question about the manner of the man's death, her importance to them was as a witness, not a suspect. The medics had wanted to transport her to be checked out, so they had let her go and taken care of more pressing matters.
"Yes, I'm fine," she said automatically.
He gave her an assessing look but didn't argue. He flipped open a small notebook. "Okay, in your previous statement, you said you were in the bedroom when you heard the suspect enter the apartment—"
"No, he was already inside. I didn't hear him enter. I heard him stop outside my bedroom door and look in." She knew what she had said, and it wasn't that she had heard him enter. He looked back at the notebook and didn't comment. Maybe he had been testing her, to see if the details still matched.
"But he didn't see you?"
"No. He didn't come into the bedroom. I was standing off to the right, next to the window. The bedroom door opens to the right, so I was hidden from view unless he came all the way into the room."