Free CHIMERAS (Track Presius) by E.E. Giorgi

Montecristo cigars. All drenched with a definitely masculine smell, expensive aftershave, distinctive deodorant fragrance. A vaguely familiar combination.
    From the closet, Nelson let out another one of her high-pitched trills. “Twenty pairs of high heel pumps and still counting.”
    I scowled. “You’re looking for evidence, Nelson.”
    She stepped out of the closet holding one of the high heels. “Seriously? You could stab to death with one of these.”
    “Too bad our vics were shot to death, not stabbed. Keep looking.”
    She gave me the “Track, you’re an asshole” look and turned away. 
    “We didn’t find much,” Diane admitted, staring blankly at me as I brought every object to my nose, sniffed it, and placed it back. “No forced entry, no indication the house was searched. We photographed a few depressed areas on the carpet, clearly distinct from the vics’ bare foot prints. A man’s shoe, size ten to eleven, which puts him between six and six-eight feet in height.”
    “A man,” I repeated. “Did you use the lifter?”
    Her brow twitched. “Nothing unusual turned up, not even a speck of dirt.”
    “You didn’t even get a partial?”
    “We tried several spots with the electro dust lifter and all fibers that came up were from the carpet.” She squinted, a hint of nervousness hanging from her lower lip. “We recovered a slug. It exited the second victim and entered the wall across. No spent shells, though.”
    Mulling over the dustless shoe print, I opened one of the desk drawers, even though I knew Nelson had already canvassed them, and tossed around its contents. I found a daily planner and felt a tinge of annoyance. “Nelson!” I called, at which both women in the room winced. I tossed her the planner, which she caught in midair. Good reflexes . “Don’t overlook things like this, okay?” 
    She stared at it. “What do you want me to do?”
    “Find out what our vics did yesterday. Any name in there, see if there’s a corresponding number on the cell phone and call them.” I passed her the mobile as well, and then motioned to Diane to resume her briefing. She stared at me in a momentary daze, then quickly averted her eyes. Between what happened downstairs and my erratic sniffing around the bodies, by now I was sure I’d made the hell of a first impression.
    “It must’ve been quick,” she said. “I’m guessing five to ten minutes max from when he entered the home and when he left. No sign of a struggle; plenty of jewelry and valuables scattered around the house in plain sight and left untouched.”
    “No forced entry,” I pondered. “How did he get in?” And as soon as I formulated the question I knew the answer. I walked around the California king bed and let my nose follow the invisible traces Tamara Tarantino’s wet feet had left on the carpet. The intercom button by the bedside had a smudge of dried bath foam along the edge. She got out of the tub to let the killer into the house .
    I turned to show it to Diane, but she already picked up on my train of thoughts. “It wasn’t an intruder who did this. It was somebody they knew.”
    “Somebody so close she didn’t mind letting them in while her husband was still soaking in the bathtub.” A religious lunatic who knew them well. I made a mental note to double-check the victims’ affiliations, if any.
    Diane nodded. “Whoever wanted them dead knew how to get them at a vulnerable time.”
    The medical examiner’s voice boomed from the bedroom. “Can I get those stiffs off your hands now?”
    “All yours, Dr. Ellis,” I replied.
    Followed by the summoned photographer—a small man with narrow shoulders, a few, wispy hairs sticking out at the sides of an egg-shaped head, and a prominent overbite partially concealed by a whimsical mustache—the M.E. strode to the bathroom, then froze at the door. His hollow eyes bulged out of their sockets as he took in the sight of the two bodies in the room. The dismay quickly