“She was forty-seven years old, a partner in a law firm, lived in a million-dollar town house on the water in Alexandria, and was wearing a Chanel suit when she was stomped. I think we can safely assume she was the sort of woman who wears underwear. What did the sex assault workup find? Was she raped?”
“Bruising around her genitalia clearly evidenced a sexual assault.”
“Please tell me what I want to hear, Doc.”
“The fellow left a few pieces of himself behind.”
Cassell led her over to a microscope. She examined the slide under magnification and her smile was immediate. “The holy grail of forensic detection.”
“Sperm,” Cassell added, with a note of triumph. “High up in the vaginal vault and some deposited on the cervix.”
“You said the fellow left pieces?”
“Two pubic hairs with root balls that do not belong to the deceased.”
“Let’s hope we get a database hit. Anything else I should know?”
Cassell hesitated. “Not on the case, no, but I hear that Mace is out. Please tell her I said hello.”
“I will.”
“How is she?”
“You know Mace. Everything slides right off her back.”
“Tell her that there is indeed a heaven and that Mona will never make it there.”
Beth smiled. “Will do.”
CHAPTER 17
GATES. Big gates. And a wall. A long, high wall.
The gates opened when Roy pushed a button on a squawk box out front and announced their arrival. They’d ridden over in Roy’s Audi since he didn’t want to chance serious head trauma on Mace’s bike without a helmet.
“You’ll have to get one if you want to ride with me, then,” she’d told him.
“I’ll think about that,” he’d said back.
“The helmet?”
“No, whether I want to ride with you again.”
They drove up the winding paved road. The property was set high up on what folks in the D.C. area would call a ridge, although people from places with real mountains would simply call it a slightly elevated mound of dirt.
Mace looked out the window. “I didn’t know anyone in northern Virginia had this much land.”
“Looks like a compound of sorts,” said Roy. He pointed to a large structure whose roof must’ve been thirty feet high. “I wonder what’s in there?”
As they rounded a bend the mansion came into view.
“Damn!” they both said together.
“It looks like one of the buildings on the Georgetown campus,” said Roy.
“Only bigger,” added Mace.
They pulled to a stop next to a full-size Bentley. Beside that was a two-door dusty and dented Honda, which created the impression of a dinghy next to a yacht. They got out and walked up to two massive wooden doors that would not have looked out of place at Buckingham Palace. Before Roy could ring the bell, one of the doors opened.
“Come in, come in,” said the man.
Abraham Altman was of medium height, a few inches taller than Mace, with white hair to his shoulders and a clean-shaven face. He had on faded jeans and an untucked long-sleeved shirt open at the neck that revealed a few curls of gray chest hair. Open-toed sandals covered his long feet. His eyes were blue and active. He was in his seventies but seemed to have the energy of a far younger man.
Altman shook Mace’s hand vigorously and then abandoned formality and gave her a hug, actually lifting her up on her tiptoes in his exuberance.
In a rush of words he said, “It’s so wonderful to see you again, Mace. Your sister told me what happened. Of course I’d read about it in the papers. I was unfortunately in Asia during the whole debacle or rest assured I would have been a character witness for you. What an injustice. Thank God you came out unharmed.”
He abruptly turned and held out his hand to Roy. “I’m Abraham Altman. Please call me Abe.”
“Roy Kingman. I know your son Bill.”
“Wonderful. That’s his Bentley out there.”
“He’s here?” said Roy.
“No, he’s out of the country with his family. He’s leaving it here until he gets back.”
“Who does the Honda belong to?” asked Mace.
“That’s mine.”
“So old Bill has a Bentley?” Roy said inquiringly. “Does he still work at the public defender’s office?”
“No, he left there last year. He’s doing other things now.” Altman didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “Come into the library. Would you care for something to drink?”
Roy and Mace exchanged glances. Roy said, “Beer?”
“I was actually thinking of tea. It’s late for afternoon tea, of course, but we’ll call it evening tea. I admire many things of our English friends, and afternoon tea is one of