Lupi 08 - Death Magic

to a short, sandy-haired man with a pug nose. He glanced at her. “This is . . . son of a bitch. What the hell did I tell you? You ever heard of contaminating a scene? Put the goddamn booties—”
    “There are traces of death magic on the floor in the entry.”
    The sandy-haired man’s eyebrows shot up. Everyone at the other end of the room looked their way except Hannah. Drummond’s scowl didn’t budge. “You’re sure.”
    “Positive. Death magic has an unmistakable texture.” Like ground glass and swamp goo. “It’s faint, but it’s there. I haven’t picked up any traces on the carpet yet. I need to walk around.”
    “Hell, no. Your method doesn’t get us anything admissible, and I don’t want my scene contaminated.”
    “Such faint traces as I picked up are going to fade quickly, and I cleaned my feet thoroughly in the foyer.”
    “Climb down, Al,” Hannah said, frowning at the carpet near the body. “It’s my scene until I say you can have it. You said the maid vacuumed in here this morning?”
    Drummond’s mouth was tight. “That’s what she said.”
    “Huh.” Now she looked up. “Lily, you can come do your thing, but for God’s sake—”
    “Don’t touch anything,” Lily finished for her.
    Hannah’s mouth crooked up. “Right.” She gestured at the man with the video cam. “Get her movements on record.”
    Drummond scowled at Lily. “You’re here to check the knife. That’s priority.”
    Lily held out her hand again. “You might as well shake hands. It’ll save us both the embarrassment of me having to find some excuse to touch you.”
    He rolled his eyes, shoved his hand out, and took hers.
    Firm grip, wide palm, long fingers, no magic. Lily nodded, dropped his hand, and walked slowly forward.
    The quickest path to the other end was straight down the middle. She wandered from side to side . . . yes. “I’m finding something. A trail. Faint and spotty, but . . .” She dug in her tote, pulled out a pack of Popsicle sticks, and laid one on the carpet where she stood. Another went a foot back where she’d first picked up the trail. “I’ll mark where I find death magic residue.”
    “Knife first, dammit. Do you in any way grasp the concept of taking orders?”
    “It’ll come back to me.” She moved slowly, pausing now and then to place another Popsicle stick. About five feet from the body she stopped and put three sticks down. “Stronger here.” Another step. Another, and another Popsicle stick. A couple more and she set down her tote and crouched, studying what was left of Bixton.
    The senator had dressed for the day in a crisp white shirt and what looked like the same slacks he’d worn to question Lily, but without the vest and suit jacket. His tie was red again, but this one had little gold dots as well.
    He lay on his back near an overstuffed hassock looking mildly offended. One hand rested at his side, palm up, fingers curled in. The other arm was flung out, the fingertips brushing the hassock’s skirt. No visible defensive wounds. His eyes were glazed, his mouth open, his body slack with the peculiar stillness of death. That always struck Lily, how motionless the dead were. Dead people don’t look like they’re sleeping or unconscious. They look dead.
    They often smell bad, too. All the muscles relax at death. Bixton had died with a full bladder, but without much in his bowels, judging by the smell.
    The knife protruded from the fleshy place between the armpit and the top of the rib cage, just under the collarbone. Not much blood. The knife itself looked old, with a carved handle that might be bone or ivory or something like that. She could see about two inches of the blade.
    Didn’t get it all the way in, did you? No bone there to stop the blade. Either you aren’t very strong or you didn’t care how deep it went, didn’t need the steel to kill him. It was just the means of delivery. Lily reached out a hand.
    “Careful,” Drummond snapped. “Don’t get fingerprints on it.”
    Lily pressed the back of her hand to Bixton’s palm. “Special Agent Drummond, sir , you aren’t Unit.” She checked Bixton’s throat next, paused there briefly, then pressed the back of her hand to his face. “You haven’t worked with a sensitive before. But you might try pretending you think I’m a professional.”
    “Are you going to professionally check the damn knife anytime soon?”
    Anger prickled over her skin almost as tangibly as magic. She clamped down