Thinking of the shoddy maintenance, Eve turned to the stairs, unpeeling her cold-weather gear as they climbed. One unit per level, she noted. Decent space, privacy. On the third floor she saw that the unit boasted what looked to be a spanking new security peep and cop-lock system. Both were broken in a way that indicated amateur – and effective. She stepped inside, into a living area where a second female officer stood over a woman who was bundled under a blanket, trembling. Early twenties, by Eve’s gauge, with a long blond tail of hair sleeked back from a face where tears had washed through the makeup. She held a clear glass of what Eve assumed to be water in a two-handed grip. She choked out a sob.

“Ms. Copperfield, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. My partner, Detective Peabody.”

“The Homicide police. The Homicide police,” she babbled in a flattened-vowel accent that told Eve Midwest.

“That’s right.”

“Somebody killed Nat. Someone killed my sister. She’s dead. Natalie’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I – I came in. She knew I was coming. I called her this morning to remind her. We got in late, and I had a wind-down drink with Mae, the other attendant. The door, downstairs…the door was broken or something. I didn’t need my key. I have a key. And I came up, and the lock – she had a new lock, and she gave me the code for it this morning, when – when I called? But it looked broken. The door wasn’t even locked. I thought, ‘Something’s wrong, something has to be wrong,’ because Nat wouldn’t go to bed without locking up. So I thought I should check, just look in on her before I went to bed. And I saw…Oh, God, oh, God, she was on the floor and everything was broken and she was on the floor, and her face. Her face.”

Palma started to cry again, the tears running fat and steady down her cheeks. “It was all bruised and red and her eyes…I ran over and I called her name. I think I called her name and I tried to wake her up. Pull her up. She wasn’t sleeping. I knew she wasn’t sleeping, but I had to try to wake her up. My sister. Someone hurt my sister.”

“We’re going to take care of her now.” Eve thought of the time it would take for her, then the sweepers, to process the scene. “I’m going to need to talk to you again, in a little while, so I’m going to have you taken down to Central. You can wait there.”

“I don’t think I should leave Nat. I don’t know what to do, but I should stay with Nat.”

“You need to trust us with her now. Peabody.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Eve glanced at the uniform who nodded toward a doorway. Eve walked away from the weeping. Then, sealing up, walked into death.

IT WAS A GOOD-SIZED BEDROOM WITH A COZY little sitting area on the street side. She imagined Natalie had sat there to watch the world go by.

The bed looked female and fussy. Lots of pillows scattered around the room – some of them bloody now – that had likely been piled on the lacy pink-and-white spread, as some women loved to do.

There was a small wall screen angled to be seen from either bed or sitting area, framed pictures of flowers, a long dresser. There were bottles and whatnots on the floor – several broken – that had probably sat in some girlie arrangement on the dresser.

A couple of fluffy rugs graced the floor. Natalie was sprawled over one of them, legs twisted and bound at the ankles, her hands bound in front and clenched together as if in desperate prayer. She wore pajamas, blue-and-white checked. They were spotted and streaked with blood. A robe, also blue, was tossed in a corner. The matching tie was wrapped around the woman’s throat. Blood stained both fluffy rugs, and a splotch of vomit pooled near the door. The room reeked of both, and of urine.

Eve moved to the body, crouched to do the standard ID test and gauge for time of death.

“Victim is Caucasian female, age twenty-six, identified as Copperfield, Natalie, residing this location. Facial bruising indicates trauma perimortem. Nose looks broken. Two fingers of the right hand also appear broken. There are burns visible on the shoulder where the pajama top is torn. More burns on the bottoms of both feet. Skin has a blue-gray cast consistent with strangulation. Eyes are bloodshot and bulging. Wit touched the body upon discovery, some scene contamination. TOD, one forty-five A.M., approximately two hours before discovery.”

She shifted as Peabody started in. “Watch the puke,” she warned.

“Thanks. I’ve got two uniforms and a departmental counselor picking up the sister.”

“Good. Vic’s still wearing her pj’s. Sexual assault isn’t likely. Look here, around the mouth. See, was gagged at one time. Got some of the tape adhesive on her face. See the right pinky and ring fingers?”

“Ouch. Snapped them.”

“Broke her fingers, broke her nose. Burned her. Lot of damage to her things that could have been caused in a fight, or by the killer to make a point.”

Peabody crossed to a doorway. “ Bath through here. No ’link in place by the bed, and one on the floor here.”

“What does that tell you?”

“It looks like the vic grabbed the ’link, made a run for the bathroom. Maybe hoping to lock herself in, call for help. She didn’t make it.”

“Looks like. Wakes up, hears somebody in the apartment. Probably figures it’s the sister. Maybe she calls out, or just starts to roll back over. Door opens. Not the sister. Grabs for the ’link, tries to run. Could be. New lock on the door – a good one, with a security peep. Maybe somebody’s been bothering her. Run her, see if she’s made any complaints in the last couple months.”

She rose, walked to the hall door. “Killer comes in this way, she’d see him from the bed. Smart to grab the ’link, sprint off in the opposite direction toward a room with a lock. Pretty smart – quick thinking, too, if you’ve just woken from a sound sleep.”

She moved back to the bed, walked around it, judging the distance toward the bath, and saw something glint just under the bed. She crouched down, then lifted a kitchen knife with her sealed fingers. “Now why would she have a carving knife in the bedroom?”

“Big-ass knife,” Peabody returned. “Killer’s?”

“Then why not use it? I bet it’s from her kitchen. New locks,” Eve continued, “and a knife by the bed. She was worried about someone.”

“No complaints on file. If she was worried, she didn’t report it.”

Eve searched the bed, under the mattress, shook the pillows. Then walked into the bath. Small, tidy, girlie again. Nothing to indicate the killer had been in it. But Eve pursed her lips when she went through the cabinet and found men’s deodorant, Beard-B-Gone, and men’s cologne.

“She had a guy,” Eve said, moving back in to riffle through the nightstand drawers. “Condoms here, edible body oil.”

“Bad breakup, maybe. New lock’s a given if you’d given an ex access prior to. Could be he didn’t like being dumped.”

“Could be,” Eve repeated. “That sort of deal usually includes sexual assault. Check her ’link for the incomings and outgoings last couple of days. I want to see the rest of the place.”

She stepped out, reexamined the living area. Bad breakup, she’d expect the ex to bang on the door awhile. Come on, Nat, goddamn it! Let me in. We gotta talk. Guy’s pissed enough, and the door’s flimsy enough, most likely kick it down. But you never knew. She went into the kitchen. Good-sized, and from the looks of it, a place the vic had used. A knife block, with one missing, sat on the spotless white counter.

She worked her way into the second bedroom, set up as a home office. Lifted her brows. The place had been thoroughly tossed. The data- and-communication center Eve imagined had sat on the glossy steel desk was missing.

“No d-and-c unit in the office,” she told Peabody.