Eve took a last look around, walked over to bag the purse. “Too damn big for an evidence bag, even the jumbo.” To solve it, she dumped the contents in a bag, marked and sealed, stuffed the purse in another.
She carted it all up, went directly to Emily. “Have you got any sort of a box, with a lid?”
“In my office. I’ll get you one. Lieutenant, the man who had drinks with Ms. Mars is Fabio Bellami. I have his contact information. I made a copy of the readout.”
Eve took it. “Thanks, that’s very helpful.”
“I’ll get the box.”
Eve slipped the paper into her pocket. It was past time to give the victim some attention.
DeWinter slipped off the stool where she’d waited.
“Is there something I can do?”
Eve glanced at the white curtain. “I don’t think this is a job for a forensic anthropologist.”
“I was here. I had her blood on my hands. Can I help?”
Eve glanced at the people still bunched together on the north side. “Sterling’s still here.”
“He’s been cleared to go, along with his wife, but he stayed to help someone through a full-blown panic attack—and another fainting spell. I think he must be a very good doctor. And I think if we’d gotten to the victim even five minutes sooner, we might have saved her. That’s pure conjecture, of course.”
“Conjecture can be useful.” She held out a can of Seal-It. “Seal up.”
“Sorry, what?”
“If you want to help, seal up. You’ve already got some blood on your boots.”
DeWinter glanced down. “Damn it.” But she sealed up.
And then moved behind the shielding with Eve.
Eve crouched, took her Identi-pad from her kit, pressed it to the victim’s thumb. “Victim is identified as Mars, Larinda, age thirty-seven—”
“I don’t think so,” DeWinter interjected, earning a cool stare from Eve. “I can certainly verify that, but it’s my opinion the victim is between forty and forty-five.”
“So noted. The victim’s official identification information lists her age at thirty-seven. She resides at 265 Park Avenue, Penthouse 3. Single—no marriage or cohabs on record, no offspring. Hand me the gauge. I need to verify TOD.”
As DeWinter looked for it in the kit, Eve checked the victim for other injuries. “The arm appears to be the only injury. ME to verify.” She took the gauge DeWinter held out. “TOD eighteen-forty-three, which jibes with my live record. Victim suffered an injury to the brachial artery in her right arm. The appearance of the wound indicates a sharp instrument slicing through the material of the sleeve and into the flesh.”
Eve hunkered back. “She made it up here from the bathroom. Whoever cut her hit her in the bathroom. She got out, down to the steps, came up, down another hall, got several steps into the bar before she went down.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
“That’s why I let you in here.”
“She wouldn’t have felt disoriented at first—not the first few seconds, even up to half a minute, depending on what Li—Dr. Morris—finds regarding the damage to the artery. It’s possible she made it out of the restroom, even to the steps before she began to feel seriously confused, woozy.”
“Blood trail’s heavier on the lower part of the steps, and there are some smears—likely from her hand—on the walls.”
“Bracing herself. Maybe gathering herself or just standing on the steps unsure—confused. Then continuing up, a kind of instinctive process. Her brain was deprived of blood, like her heart.”
“Besides you, and medicals, maybe soldiers, maybe cops, how many people are going to think—even plan—to go for that spot? That artery? You’ve got a sharp, you go for the throat, the heart, and drop them where they stand. More time to get gone that way, too.”
“Are you asking or just thinking out loud?”
“Both.”