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Faith lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
“She was deaf.”
“Ah. So she didn’t hear a noise. Maybe she saw something and got up to check it out. She walks through her studio and enters the backyard. Then the killer sneaks up behind her, and that’s all she wrote.”
“That’s pretty much what we think happened,” Ferris said.
“Hmm. What about this other victim?”
"James Porter. He lived in San Francisco. Found dead two nights before last, strangled in his backyard, just like Monica. Also, just like Monica, he was deaf."
Faith tilted her head. “Did they know each other?”
“We’re looking into it, but Porter’s wife says no. He worked from home, and they had security cameras, so she doesn’t think he was stepping out on her and no one came into the house.”
“No one showed up on the security cameras?” Michael asked.
Ferris sighed. “Unfortunately, none of those cameras show the backyard. We can see Porter walking through the back door, but that’s it.”
“We’ll want to talk to the wife,” Faith said, “but we’ll finish up here, first.”
Ferris nodded. “Well, that’s pretty much all we have. I mean, the basics on the victim, I guess. She was twenty-seven, five-two, one-twenty, brown curly hair, hazel eyes. Nice smile going off her website.”
“Any sign of sexual assault?” Faith asked.
“No. No marks on her at all except for her throat. Not that sex isn’t a motive. Killers sometimes substitute the act of death for the act of orgasm. That’s especially true of stranglers. But you probably know that already.”
Ferris had watched too many TV shows, but Faith didn't say that out loud. She returned to the studio, entering the sculpture room. Most of the clay statues were of featureless male figures with lithe bodies and narrow jaws twisted into poses that were suggestive of pain, sexuality, anguish, and animal energy all at once. Despite not having any features, the faces seemed to stare intensely at something in the distance.
She was good.
“Did she ever try to sell any of these?” Faith asked.
“You thinking the jealousy angle?” Ferris asked. “Disgruntled artistic competitor kills her in a fit of rage?”
Faith lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t, but that’s not a bad angle. We’ve seen jealous artists do similar things before.”
“I’ll look into it,” Ferris replied.
“Have you talked to the neighbors yet?” Michael asked.
Ferris shook his head. “The only folks who were open were the liquor store down the street. They didn’t notice anyone headed this way, but they admitted that they wouldn’t have paid attention if anyone did. They face the cross street. I asked them about suspicious people, and the owner said, and I quote, ‘We’re a liquor store, man.’” He grinned, but seeing the agents’ faces, he coughed and added, “But seriously, they said they didn’t notice anyone out of the ordinary.”
“They busy on Monday nights?” Faith asked.
“They’re always busy.”
“What about the unit above the studio?” Michael asked. “Is that Monica’s?”
“No, that’s another guy. He’s not home, though.”
“Figure out who it is,” Faith told Ferris. “And track him down. He might know something.”
“I’ll do that,” Ferris replied. “In the meantime, if you guys are interested, I know a great breakfast place a mile from here. I could really use a ham and cheese croissant and a latte.”
“Same for me, but with a cappuccino instead,” Michael replied.
“Breakfast sounds good,” Faith added without volunteering her meal preference.