Free VC01 - Privileged Lives by Edward Stewart Page B

studied the throat closely, then spoke into the mike.
    “Contusions on front of neck, probably thumb imprints. A rash is visible around the neck.” He angled the light further down the body. “And around the waist and the ankle.”
    “What kind of rash?” Cardozo interrupted.
    Hippolito raised a hand to turn the mike aside. “Maybe an allergy, but the localization is unusual for that. Most likely some kind of abrasion.”
    “Think he was tied?”
    “I’ll have to peel the skin and see it under a microscope. Looks like a reaction to some kind of particles or granules. I don’t think rope would do it, but we’ll see.”
    Hippolito unhurriedly studied the dead arms and wrists.
    “What’s that?” Cardozo said suddenly.
    The left hand was balled into a fist.
    Hippolito frowned, pulled at each finger in turn. “I’ll be damned, Vince. He’s holding on to something.”
    The M.E. took a pair of surgical pliers, adjusted the grip around the dead man’s index finger, and gave a quick twist. The finger flapped loose with the crack of a breadstick. With three more cracks Dan was able to bend the hand open.
    Cardozo could see something small and white, the size of a fat caterpillar, wedged into the pulpy gray valley of the heel of the palm.
    Hippolito probed the object free with a pair of tweezers.
    “A cigarette butt.” Hippolito frowned. “Filter tip. Check the brand.” He handed it to Cardozo.
    There was a ring of red around the filter.
    “Lipstick,” Cardozo observed.
    The M.E. pointed to a plastic evidence bag. Cardozo dropped the butt into it.
    Hippolito was examining the hand, shaking his head.
    “The cigarette was extinguished on his palm. I’ll tell you something, Vince. This happened while he was still alive. And here’s what’s weird.”
    Hippolito pointed his scalpel to a quarter-inch circle of ash and caked blood.
    “He closed his hand around the burning cigarette. Normally that wouldn’t happen, the reflex would be to eject it or somehow evade it.”
    “Could the killer have forced his hand closed?”
    “See how the tendons are tensed? That shows he clenched his own hand. It’s not a normal reflex to pain.”
    Hippolito gazed at the body.
    “What strikes me is, there’s a remarkable absence of defensive wounds. Not that the peace sign on the chest is life-threatening, but still you’d think that the victim would have tried to defend himself in some way.”
    Cardozo remembered the scratches on the doorman’s face. “No skin under the fingernails?”
    “A little, but it looks like his own.”
    “What’s his own skin doing under his fingernails?”
    “He itched, he scratched himself.” Hippolito reangled the light. “Now we dig in. Better stand back.”
    He lowered his face shield. Using a high-speed circular saw, he began an incision into the chest. Blood and tissue spattered up.
    Cardozo backed off. “Dan, I’m going to say good-night.”
    Driving home down Second Avenue, Cardozo didn’t see any patrol cars. He busted three red lights.
    When he let himself into the apartment, Mrs. Epstein, the neighbor, was in the livingroom watching TV. She bustled up from her chair. “Terri’s asleep. Your lamb chop’s in the oven, I left it on low. By now it’s dry. We thought you’d be home earlier.”
    “I thought so too. How much do I owe you?”
    “You gave me twenty last time. I owe you.”
    “Then we’re even. Thanks.”
    Mrs. Epstein was a heavyset woman with gray hair, and she kept brushing a strand away from her eyes. “She’s a beautiful child. You should spend more time with her.”
    “I’d like to.”
    He walked Mrs. Epstein to the outer hall.
    “I hope it wasn’t too lousy, whatever you had to do today.”
    “Not too lousy.” He watched her let herself into her apartment. He waited for the click of her door, then came back into the living-room. He tossed his manila envelope onto the table and snapped off the TV.
    His gaze traveled across the convertible sofa with