a huge pile of wood along with a wood-burning stove. He almost closed the door.
He walked down the wooden steps, shining his powerful penlight over the place as well.
At the woodpile, he froze for a moment and then moved forward.
Billie hadn’t been keeping her basement as a secret rendezvous haven. She hadn’t been hiding anything down here.
But the killer had been.
* * *
The grand house had five bedrooms, all beautifully appointed, and each themed. There were even little plaques to designate the rooms. The first she entered was labeled The Jungle. The walls were painted with lush scenes of vegetation. Ropes—imitating vines that Tarzan might use—were suspended from the ceiling over the bed. In all, it looked like a charming little tree house.
Not Billie’s room, Stacey was certain.
The next room had a plaque that read Animal Kingdom, with the bed a giant platform that might have been in the center of a circus ring. The walls were painted with lions, tigers and bears. Various whips rested on a table by the door.
The third room she came to was labeled The Bird’s Nest. Naturally the walls were painted with images of various birds in flight. The bed was big and puffy and covered with a comforter that had scenes of a cloudy sky.
“For her tamer visitors,” Stacey said aloud.
But not Billie’s room.
Two left: she tried the door opposite. A small plaque designated it as the entrance to The Dungeon.
It was definitely designed for a different clientele. This one had a bed with black sheets, and the scarlet walls were covered with hooks that held handcuffs and leather straps and various other implements for bondage.
She felt a little shudder rip through her. Some of the things on the wall...
Well, they weren’t appealing to her.
Only one room left; it had to be Billie’s.
The room was handsomely appointed with the walls simply painted a light mauve. The bed had a comforter that was a bit darker than the walls. There was a full-length, swiveling mirror to the side of the bed before a balcony, and a large and impressive dressing table.
The closet door stood open. She was sure CSI had been there, and they had gone through every drawer in the dressing table and in the dresser that stood against the opposite wall.
She went into the closet. Shoes neatly aligned; the woman had at least forty pairs.
And the clothes filled the racks in a horseshoe shape within the walk-in closet.
It would take forever, Stacey thought, drawing her thin gloves on more securely, to go through every outfit. And yet, that might be what was left to do.
She started with the right side, methodically going from elegant gowns to business apparel, designer dresses, pants, tailored shirts, feminine blouses.
Then she stopped. If Billie had been keeping any special assignations a secret, they wouldn’t be in her cell phone—too easily seized and tracked if a search warrant was issued at any time—nor would she keep it stuffed away in the pocket of a designer gown.
It might well be in a robe.
The woman kept five of them, from flashy satin to cozy terry.
She reached for the terry robe, a simple garment in dark red with a belt and two pockets.
Reaching into the right pocket, she found a small notebook.
“Yes!” she murmured out loud, dropping the robe and flipping open the pages of the notebook as she moved into the hall.
There were names in the book. Dates! And references to the various rooms. She flipped, anxious to find what had been written for a day and a half ago, for the night—or early morning—when she had been killed.
“Stacey!”
She heard Keenan calling to her from below and she hurried to the stairway. “Keenan, I’ve found something!”
“I have, too,” he told her.
“Her little notebook, Keenan. Names and dates and...”
She ran down the stairs and stood before him. There was something about his face.
“Excellent,” he said. “We’re really going to need it. To follow everything within it.”
“I was just getting to the date she was killed. She uses nicknames or pet names. Obviously—you’ve got to see some of these rooms—even in her notes, she’s careful to hide the identities of her clientele.” She paused. “What did you find?” she asked him.
“Your Elizabeth Stride,” he said quietly.
“Elizabeth Stride,” she murmured.
“A body. In the basement. Throat slit on this one. And when the medical examiner looks at her, I’m willing to bet he’ll find she was killed before Billie Bingham. She hasn’t been disemboweled. She was left, as if he was interrupted in his