Manhattan Serenade by Joseph Steven

Author:Joseph Steven
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC022000, FIC030000, FIC022020
ISBN: 9781926918501
Publisher: CCB Publishing
Published: 2011-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 40

The rustling of papers and the solitary circle of soften light which emanated from a cubicle were the only signs of life in the Crime Scene Unit’s lab. The horn-rimmed eyeglasses rested on Maureen Singleton’s face at a slight angle— the right leg lay snug over her right ear while the other leg pressed against the middle of her left ear—belied the CSU’s assistant lab chief’s reputation for exactness and tidiness. With an impatient sweep of her hand she brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead and checked her watch. It was 6:45 p.m., and it had now been twenty-four hours since she and her team had collected the forensic evidence from Greg Saunders’ house.

The silence was broken by the scrapping of shoes at the cubicle’s entryway. “Sorry, I’m late,” Moran said. “I see everyone’s gone home.”

Singleton turned and rose. “Nobody wants to work late anymore,” she said. She gestured to a chair covered by an orderly stack of files. “Just set them down on the floor and make yourself comfortable.”

Moran looked around the space. “How do you keep it all so neat?”

Singleton chuckled while her fingers dug into the neatly piled folders that lay on the desk. “Easy, I’m rarely in here. The real work is done out there,” she said and pointed to the darkened laboratory. “We found traces of semen on Saunders’ bed sheets; I’ve sent it over for testing.”

She continued to search the folders, then pulled out a red one, flipped it open and tossed a narrow evidence bag on the desk. “Besides this, we uncovered a latent palm print on the wall above the bed’s headboard. The oil from the print indicates that it was a few hours old. I forwarded it to the Feds so they can run it through their database for a match, but don’t expect much. Latent palm prints are tough.”

Moran reached over and grasped the evidence bag. He pointed to the wisp of blonde hair inside the bag. “Whose is it?”

Singleton bunched her lips and pawed out of the file three 5x7 inch color photographs from inside the file. “That strand matches the hair color of the two women in the pictures. And the chromosome constitution of the sample is XX—female.”

Moran examined the three photographs: a slender woman in her late thirties with a long angular, symmetrical face divided by an aquiline thin nose and light blue or violet eyes. Someone in a John Singer Sargent portrait. She had an aristocratic air about her, the blonde hair gently rested on her shoulders. The woman was lying on Saunders’ bed wearing only a smile. The other picture was of the same woman alongside another woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to her—two peas in a pod. The last photograph was of Saunders and the second woman. They were both in bike gear standing next to two black Harleys with Niagara Falls in the background. The motorcycles appeared to be the ones in Greg Saunders’ garage.

Moran crinkled his face. “These were in Saunders’ house?” Moran said.

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