K Is for Killer

indicate that she'd survived and was expected to recover. He didn't press for specifics.
    I walked back along the brick path to Danielle's small porch. The crime scene tape had been removed, but I could still see traces of fingerprint powder around the doorknob and frame. The rag-wrapped length of bloody pipe would probably be tested for fingerprints, but I doubted it would yield much. I let myself into the cottage and flipped on the overhead light. The splattered blood was like a Rorschach, a dark red pattern of smears and exclamation marks where the force of the blows had flung blood in two tracks across the wall. The bloodstained rug had been removed, probably tossed in the trash can at the rear of the lot. The blood on the baseboard looked like teardrops of paint.
    The entire apartment was barely a room and a half and cheaply constructed. I toured the premises, though there wasn't much to see. Like mine, Danielle's living quarters occupied a very small space. It looked as though Danielle's battle with her assailant had been confined to the front room, most of which was taken up with a sitting area and a king-size bed. The sheets and comforter were a Laura Ashley print, pink-and-white floral polished cotton with matching drapes, and a correlating pink-and-white-striped paper lined the walls. Her kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a microwave oven sitting atop a painted chest of drawers.
    The bathroom was small, painted white, with tiny old-fashioned black-and-white tiles on the floor. The sink was skirted in the same Laura Ashley print she'd used in the bedroom. She'd bought a matching polished-cotton shower curtain, with a valance covering the rod. The wall opposite the john was a minigallery. A dozen framed photographs were hung close together, many sitting crooked on the hangers. Danielle must have been flung up against the connecting wall during the assault. Several had been knocked off the wall and lay facedown on the tile floor. I lifted them with care. Two of the frames had smashed on impact, and the glass in all four was either badly cracked or broken. I stacked the four damaged pictures together, tossed glass shards in the trash, and then straightened the remaining photographs, pausing to absorb the subject matter. Danielle as a baby. Danielle with Mom and Dad. Danielle at about nine, in a dance recital with her hair done up.
    I went back into the front room and found a thick sheaf of brown grocery bags tucked in the slot between the wall and the chest of drawers. I put the damaged framed photographs in the bag and set them by the front door. I'd seen similar frames at the drugstore for a couple of bucks apiece. Maybe I'd stop by and pick up some replacements. I pulled all the linens off the bed and set them out on the porch. Even the dust ruffle had picked up a spray of blood posies. I'd make a trip to the cleaners in the morning. I filled my bucket with hot water, mixing a potent brew of cleaning solutions. I wiped down the walls, scrubbed the baseboards and floors until the soapy water turned a frothy pink. I clumped that lot, refilled the bucket, and started over again.
    When I'd finished, I pulled out the transcript and sat down on the bed, using Danielle's phone to try Hector at his home number. He answered promptly.
    "This is Kinsey here. I'm glad I caught you at home. I thought you might be on your way to the studio."
    "Not this early, and today not at all. I work Saturday through Wednesday, so Thursday and Friday nights are usually my weekend. Last night was an exception, but I try to keep those to a minimum. I got hot plans tonight. I give Beauty a bath, and then she gives me one. You got the transcript, I take it."
    "Yeah, and I'm sorry I missed you. I was in the shower when you dropped it off." We spent a few minutes commiserating with one another about the poor quality of the tape recording. "What'd you make of it?"
    "Not much. I picked up a couple of words, but nothing that made any sense."
    "You have any idea what they're talking about?"
    "Nope. Lorna sounds upset with him, is mostly what I pick up."
    "You're sure it's Lorna?"
    "I couldn't swear, but I'm pretty sure it was her."
    "What about the guy?"
    "I didn't recognize his voice. Doesn't sound like anyone I'm familiar with. You ought to listen again yourself and see what you hear. Maybe we can take turns filling in the missing pieces like a jigsaw puzzle."
    "We don't have to make it our life's work," I said. "I'm not even sure it's