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“Hello, baby!” Ella cooed, leaning down to scratch a cat under its chin. “Who’s a good kitty? Who? Is it you?”
Chloe sighed. “We’re not here for the cat, Ella. Also, the cat is technically evidence, so try not to touch it, please.”
“The cat is nicer to look at than that poor murdered man,” Lucifer contributed, though he didn’t seem particularly inclined to pet the cat.
Ella watched the cat wind its way across the room. Of all the places a murder could be committed, she thought this one was one of the nicest. They’d been called out to an airy, sunlit art studio converted from a warehouse. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with cans of paint, racks of paintbrushes, and rolls of canvas. The tables down the center of the room supported paintings in progress. One tabletop was covered with little rectangles of cardstock: red, orange, purple, blue. The perfect tableau was marred only by the painter himself, sitting slumped in front of a massive blank canvas. Blood congealed in little pools under his wrists and neck.
Once the crime scene techs had taken photos to their satisfaction, Ella gently took the dead man’s arm in hand and turned it so she could see the many, many cuts across his wrist.
“We should look for something with a smooth blade, not a serrated one.”
“Would a razor do?” Lucifer asked, holding up a box of razor blades from a nearby shelf.
“It wouldn’t be very sharp—see how many cuts there are? And they’re shallow but relatively wide, like the perp had to use a lot of force.” Ella traced one of the incisions with her finger.
“I suppose they’ve done a runner?”
Chloe peered out the tall windows. “These windows don’t open. The door was locked, so either they went out the fire escape, or they had a key. They probably took whatever it was with them.”
“I think we should check the place out just in case,” Ella said.
The team ransacked the studio for potential murder weapons. They made a little pile on one of the long tables: palette knives of varying shapes and sharpnesses, a hobby knife, calligraphy pens with metal nibs, and doodads that Ella recognised as tools for scratching pictures into sheets of foil.
“I got one of those for my niece last Christmas. Man, killing someone with one of these would take forever!” Ella shook her head as she ran her fingers over the tiny dull blade.
“It clearly did.” Chloe frowned down at the tools. “None of these have blood on them. Can we get some UV over here?”
The techs examined all the tools for traces of blood while Ella held each of them up to the victim’s wounds. Meanwhile, Lucifer entertained himself by wandering around the studio, poking at the paintings in progress.
“Don’t touch that, Lucifer,” Chloe called without turning around.
“I wasn’t touching anything, Detective!” Lucifer protested.
“I know you wanted to!”
Ella looked up from her work to flash a grin at Chloe. “Quit flirting, Chlo.”
“I’m not!”
“Uh-huh.” Ella set the final palette knife on the ground and stood up. “We’ll have to take these back to the lab. It’s not the hobby knife, and I’m pretty sure it’s not the foil scratching thingy, but I don’t know about the others.”
“Would you oblige me by looking at this paint, Miss Lopez?”
“Sure thing.” Ella dusted off her jeans and joined Lucifer at one of the long tables.
“Paint is not one of my many areas of expertise, but I believe the red cards are the only ones that are still wet.” Lucifer pointed at the long lines of cards. Now that she could get a closer look at them, Ella could tell they were postcards of the Hollywood sign, the Statue of Liberty, and many other popular tourist destinations. All of them were covered with a thin layer of paint.
Ella picked up a nearby paintbrush and poked one of the red cards. The paint smudged under the brush. She poked the one next to it, but the paint didn’t budge. “Wait, but the other red cards look dry.” Ella squinted at the wet card. Under the smooth top coat of paint, there was an irregular, blotchy shape. “Does that—”
“Look like a blood spatter? Quite,” Lucifer agreed.
“No!” Ella gasped, scandalized. “A postcard?!”
“Well, it does have the element of surprise.” Lucifer picked up the postcard, ignoring Ella’s protests. “It smells like blood. What is it you Americans say? Smells like blood, quacks like blood?”
“Please don’t smell—”
“Are you smelling the murder weapon?” Chloe called.
“You’re no fun, Detective,” Lucifer said mildly, setting the postcard back on the table.
Ella dropped the postcard into an evidence bag. “So it was a postcard in the art studio...now who was the killer? I bet it was Colonel Mustard. Never did trust that guy.”