The Maid's Diary(10)

“Were the window shades found open like that?” she asks, watching as a tech dusts an upturned glass coffee table for prints. More crime scene techs traverse up and down the stairs. There’s an eerie stillness inside the house despite the movement and chatter. A pressing solemnness, emptiness.

Benoit says, “There are no shades to draw down on those sea-facing windows.”

She glances at him. “You’re kidding? These people live in a glass box with no option to shut the world out? That’s kind of—”

“Exhibitionist. Yeah. Fishbowl-like.”

“I was going to say vulnerable,” she says softly.

Benoit tilts his chin toward the glass doors that lead out to an infinity pool. “Human blood streaks, drag marks, lead out through those sliders. The marks track along the pool deck to a yard gate that opens onto the driveway. Main event appears to be upstairs in the bedroom. Want to start there?”

“Down here,” Mal says. “We’ll work up to the main show.” She likes to approach a crime scene from the perimeter, moving inward in concentric circles. It keeps her mind open, stops her from leaping to conclusions. Once she’s made an overall assessment, she’ll go back for detail, often revisiting a scene several times. She crosses the polished marble floor, carefully avoiding the markers left by the forensic ident techs. Benoit follows in her tracks, minimizing potential to contaminate the scene.

The white sofa is spattered with blood. So is the white floor. A broken wineglass, a martini glass, and a tumbler lie in puddles of liquid on the floor beside the upturned coffee table. Stuffed olives and a cocktail onion have rolled toward the door. A television remote rests among the broken glass and spilled booze. Mal can smell the alcohol—the sourness of wine, whisky. An ashtray on an end table holds an artsy-looking weed pipe made of green glass.

“You know what they say about people in glass houses?” Benoit says.

“They shouldn’t throw stones?”

“They shouldn’t get stoned.”

Mal rolls her eyes and bends down to study the blood on the sofa. She takes a photo. “Consistent with expirated spatter,” she says. “And down there on the floor, that trail and line of heavy drops—”

“Could be arterial.”

She nods. “And more on the wall over there.”

Benoit walks toward the spattered wall. “Signs of a struggle—maybe it starts there.” He points to the sofa. “Three glasses, three people sitting having drinks. They begin to argue, fight. One gets up. Is followed. The victim is slammed against the wall here. Victim could have been standing at this point. Possible impact spatter there at average head height.” He points.

Mal comes up behind him. “Maybe hit with an object? Blunt force trauma could have created that patterning there.”

Benoit nods. “Or cut—stabbed. Victim then slides down the wall. Maybe crawls away in that direction.” He points. “The victim is bleeding close to the floor there. Victim tries to use the sofa armrest to pull back up into a standing position. Is hit again. Aspirates blood there? Victim crawls away.”

“Then what?” Mal asks. “Where did our victim go? Where’s the body?”

Benoit drops to his haunches. “Look at this straight line of blood. It appears something was in place here that stopped the spatter.”

“A rug,” she says quietly. “There was a rug here. Under the coffee table.”

“Might explain the drag marks,” Benoit says. “Victim could have been dragged out on the rug.”

As Mal shoots more photos, she notices a glint of gold between the sofa cushions. She takes another photo, moves the cushion aside, and with her gloved hand, lifts up a gold pendant. She whistles. “Big-ass diamond set in a gold teardrop,” she says. “Chain is broken.” She calls a tech over to bag the pendant, then walks slowly toward the open sliding door, studying the floor.

She steps out onto the pool deck. The surface of the infinity pool is riffled with wind. Behind the pool the Burrard Inlet sparkles. An ident tech is busy taking samples on the deck. The tech glances up.

“More blood trace out here,” the tech says. “Something was dragged out of the living room, along the deck, around the side of the house, then out the yard gate into the driveway. The yard gate was found open. The blood trace ends where it appears a car was parked.”

“As though something was put into a vehicle,” Mal says.

“That would be consistent with our observations so far.”

A movement next door catches Mal’s eye. She glances up at the neighboring house. There’s an old woman in the upstairs window, watching. A tartan throw covers her lap. The woman gives a small wave. Mal hesitates, then raises her own hand in a slight salute, feeling odd while she does it. Waving at witnesses is not a habit she’s accustomed to. Quietly she says to Benoit, “That must be her—the one who called it in. Would freak me out to have an old woman watching me from above like that. She must be able to see right over the pool and partway into that living room.”

Benoit follows Mal’s gaze. “We can get a statement from her next.”

They reenter the house and move to the bar counter. On the counter are a martini shaker, an ice bucket with melted ice, a silver bottle of Belvedere vodka, a bottle of Balvenie Caribbean cask fourteen-year-old whisky, a bowl of stuffed olives, and a board of assorted cheeses going dry.