IVs, warming blankets, poking, prodding.
God, she hated hospitals.
“Tell me what you know.” The doctor, Eve assumed, glanced briefly at Eve while he worked.
He didn’t appear to be much older than his current patient, with a mop of loosely curling brown hair around a pretty face roughened by a long-night’s scruff and fatigue shadows under his clear blue eyes.
“She stepped out into the street—Carnegie Hill. Just like you see her. Walking like she’d had a few too many, shocky, speech slurred. She asked my husband if he was an angel, then passed out.”
“Core temp’s ninety-three point two and rising.”
“I need you to bag her hands,” Eve said. “After I get her prints. Not all that blood’s hers.”
“Just let me finish saving her life first.”
Eve gave them room, kept her eyes on the woman’s face.
Young, very attractive under the bruising. Mixed race—some Asian, some black. Slight build, no more than a hundred and ten on a little over five feet. Manicured fingers—very pale pink nails, same for the toes. Pierced ears but no earrings. No tats she’d seen. Nearly waist-length black hair, in knots and tangles.
She stepped out, started running a facial recognition with the photo she’d taken in the car. Might not work, she knew, considering the battering that face had taken.
She looked up as Roarke walked toward her, with her field kit.
“I thought you’d want it.”
“I do, thanks. If she doesn’t come to by the time they’ve finished, I need her prints for ID. She’s going to be from that general area. She’s got the hands and skin of somebody with enough money to pay for good care, and no way she was walking for blocks. So she lives or works in the Carnegie Hill area, or was there when she was attacked.”
She looked back at the exam room doors. “From the blood on her you’d say she put up a fight, but I don’t see any defensive wounds. No blood or skin under her nails—at least not that shows on a visual.”
“You’re worried someone was with her, someone else was attacked.”
“I’ve got to put it as a possibility. If this one got away, the other—”
She broke off when the doors opened and the doctor stepped out. “Her vitals are stabilizing, and her core temperature’s up to ninety-six plus. The head wound’s the most severe of her injuries—which include multiple facial contusions and lacerations, abdominal bruising, some cuts that look like shallow knife wounds. She has a concussion. She was raped, more than once, and violently. You’ll have your kit there. The drunken walking and the slurred words are likely from the hypothermia and shock. We’re running a tox, but that’s most likely.”
“I need her prints. Not all her blood,” Eve reminded him before he could object. “Someone else might be out there in the same condition as she is. I ID her, maybe it leads us to saving another life tonight.”
“Sorry, didn’t think of it.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Double shift.”
“I hear that.”
“Sorry again. You probably saved her life getting her here so fast. Sure as hell saved her from brain damage. Dr. Nobel. Del Nobel.”
Eve accepted his hand. “Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke.”
“Yeah, that got through about two minutes ago.” He shook Roarke’s hand in turn. “Nice dress,” he said to Eve.
“We were at a thing.”
“Hope your cleaners can get the blood out of it. Let’s get your ID. Somebody’s probably worried about her.”
They stepped back inside. “I want pictures of the injuries,” Eve said. But ID came first.
She moved to the side of the table, took her pad out of her kit, gently pressed the woman’s fingers to it.
“Okay. Strazza, Daphne, age twenty-four. Got an address about two blocks from where we found her. Married to…”
She glanced up, saw Del’s face. “You know her.”