Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,24
to do anything the cops said. Forensic Accounting is going through Bingham’s books. There were two live-in maids, and they were eager as hell to get out and away. This killer...the brutality... People are scared. There’s not a protest to be found.”
Keenan thanked him. They went in.
“I’m sure there are plenty of protests,” Keenan said. He glanced at Stacey. “From scandal mags and media, I’m willing to bet that there are many high and powerful men—and women—who would have loved to have gotten in here first.”
“Definitely. But they’d have no power to stop a search.”
“Exactly.”
The entry was grand, with marble floors, high ceilings, a curving stairway to the second floor, a finely carved mantelpiece over a fireplace, and red velvet sofas and love seats with carved wood end tables for whatever libation someone might need to set down.
“They had parties?” Stacey said.
He laughed. “Hey, I don’t know. I was never here. Above my pay grade,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Joking.”
She smiled weakly. “Above my pay grade, too,” she said. Then she grew serious, shaking her head. “I don’t get the murder of this woman. As we were saying before, if he’s kind of copying Jack the Ripper, there’s a lot off. No slashed throats. The victims killed elsewhere, and their bodies dumped. And something else. The Ripper—according to most detectives, then and now, and scholars who have studied the case—started with Mary Ann Nichols and then killed Annie Chapman. But his third victim was Elizabeth Stride, found with just her throat slashed. He killed two women that same night—the next being Catherine Eddowes, who was ripped to shreds. So, our guy is off already—if he even is trying to be the Ripper. It still makes no sense.”
“Maybe he wants to be his own kind of Ripper. Maybe it’s a loose inspiration, and he doesn’t even know all the details. The media came up with the name, after all.”
“Yeah, but...something else is up.”
“I told you, I think your theory is solid.”
“So...what now?” she asked.
“Let’s see if we can discover anything here. Find her bedroom. That’s probably where she’ll have anything meant to be hidden,” he said. “I’ll do a cursory search down here, see if CSI left anything unturned. I doubt it. They’re good. You take the bedrooms and the attic. I believe her live-in help, the two maids, had tiny rooms up there. But find Billie’s bedroom first. Think outside the box. You have instinct—use it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said.
He grinned. “I am the senior partner.”
She glanced back at him. “As I said, aye, aye, Captain!”
She started up the stairs, her movements slightly slow as she studied the artwork lining the walls. There were no nudes or anything that could be even slightly suggestive. Billie Bingham’s place was above the tawdry and obvious.
Keenan started his search.
He slid on his back to look under chairs and sofas. Finished with the grand entry and parlor, he moved on to the dining room. Handsome hutches contained plates and service items.
He picked them up one by one, went under the tables and chairs, moved the furniture to see if there was anything behind it, lifted picture frames. She might have a safe in the wall somewhere.
But not here.
The kitchen took him longer. He went through all the cabinets, looked over and under dozens of dishes and containers.
And then, he noticed the tapestry that hung from the far side of the wall, away from appliances and the large island in the center of the state-of-the-art kitchen.
It was an odd place for a tapestry, even in such a residence.
Walking over to it, he studied it for a minute. It was of a medieval domestic scene, women working at the hearth, men talking in the background with one holding a pheasant, a recent kill.
Right for the kitchen, but still...
A tapestry in the kitchen.
He reached out, tapping it. Sounded like a wall. He kept tapping, and the sound changed. He’d hit wood.
A door. To a basement? But why cover it up? Had Billie Bingham hidden something there? Had she just considered the door an eyesore?
He moved the tapestry and found an old-fashioned latch opening to the door. The space was dark, but he found a switch. The light that came on was still weak, but he could see down. It was a basement—and seemed to be used as such. He had half expected to find an exotic cave with a hot tub and feather fans over a plush daybed.
He could see containers of cleaning fluids, yard tools and