At Close Range
Page 29
Brooke closed her evidence kit and got to her feet as Sean stepped over.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” she said, looking him up and down. “Where were you guys?”
“Got stuck behind an accident near the tracks. Tow truck’s blocking the road, so we had to hoof it.” He ran his hand through his hair again.
“Don’t drip water all over my crime scene.”
Sean smiled. “Yours?”
“That’s right.”
For a moment they just looked at each other, and Sean tried to read her expression. She seemed grimmer than usual.
“Detective? Can we bag her?”
Brooke shot a blistering look at the ME’s assistant, clearly not liking his glib tone.
Sean stepped into the utility room to take a look at the back porch. The whole area was a bloodbath.
“Jesus,” Ric said, coming up beside him. “You get all this, Maddie?”
“Yes, I’m finished with the porch,” the photographer called from the kitchen.
The ME’s guy looked at Sean again. “Detective?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Sean turned around. Brooke was watching the scene now, clutching her evidence kit so tightly her knuckles were white. He motioned for her to follow him into the living room.
Brooke was short and slender, with pale skin, and a plump pink mouth he’d always wondered about. As she looked up at him, he noticed the worry line between her brows.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You mean besides the fact that this woman was practically decapitated on her doorstep?”
“Yes.”
She took a deep breath and glanced around. “This crime scene bugs me.”
“Why?”
“Look at it. See for yourself.”
Without another word, she stepped around him and went back into the kitchen to crouch beside the pantry door.
Sean pulled some latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them on as he surveyed the kitchen. It was clean and uncluttered, except for the stack of mail on the counter beside a key. He studied the key for a moment, but resisted the urge to pick it up.
He opened the fridge. Yogurt, salad kit, pomegranate juice. On the lower shelf was a six-pack of root beer with a bottle missing from the carton. That was the bottle that sat on the breakfast table, and Maddie was snapping a picture of it now.
Sean glanced through the open back door as the ME’s people started loading the body bag onto a gurney. The victim’s clothes had been intact, and she’d shown no obvious sign of sexual assault. At first glance, it looked like the killer had grabbed her from behind and slit her throat. Given the lack of blood inside the house, Sean figured the attacker had fled down the driveway to the street or maybe hopped the back fence.
Ric stepped into the kitchen. “Her purse is on the back porch. Wallet’s inside, but no cell phone.”
“You check the car?” Sean asked.
“Not yet. Let’s finish walking through the house first.”
“Don’t move anything,” Maddie said. “I haven’t been back there yet.”
Sean led the way. It was a simple layout, with rooms off a central hallway. The bathroom smelled like ammonia. Sean switched on the light.
“House is squeaky-clean,” Ric observed.
“Yep.”
The pedestal sink gleamed. Sean opened the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, cough drops, tampons. Ric eased back the shower curtain to reveal a shiny tub with several bottles of hair products lined up on the side.
They moved on to the bedroom, where they found a neatly made queen bed with a light blue comforter. No decorative pillows, just two standard pink pillowcases that matched the sheets.
“Not a lot of pillows,” Sean said.
“What’s that?”
“Pillows. Most women put a lot on the bed, don’t they?”
“I don’t know,” Ric said. “My wife does.”
Sean studied the room. It smelled like vanilla. On the dresser were several plastic trays of makeup and one of those bottles of liquid air freshener with the sticks poking up. Sean spied a sticky note attached to the mirror and leaned closer to read the feminine handwriting: One day, one breath.
Was it a poem? A song lyric? Maybe Samantha’s own words?
The closet door was ajar, and Sean nudged it open. Six pairs of jeans, all on hangers. A couple dozen T-shirts, also hanging.
Ric whistled. “Damn. You know anyone who arranges their T-shirts by color?”
“Nope.”
Sean looked around the bedroom again. “Pretty basic,” he said. “Not a lot here.”
He walked back through the house, noting a conspicuous absence of anything that would indicate a male presence. No razors on the bathroom sink or man-size shoes kicking around. No beer in the fridge. The living room was simply furnished, with a sofa, a coffee table, and a smallish flat-screen TV.
“Looks to me like she lives alone,” Ric said, turning to Jasper. “You say she works at a restaurant?”
“Coffee shop, according to the neighbor lady.” Jasper took out a spiral pad and consulted his notes. “That one over on Elm Street.”
“I’ve never been in there.” Ric looked at Sean. “You?”
“Nope.”
Sean glanced around the living room, which was devoid of clutter. Maybe the victim didn’t have a lot of money for extras, but even so, most women tended to decorate their homes more than this. Sean hadn’t spotted a single framed photo in the entire place.
The strobe of a camera flash drew his attention into the kitchen again. Brooke was right. This scene seemed odd. Sean had worked a lot of homicides over the years, and most boiled down to money, drugs, or sex. Sean had seen no sign of sexual assault. No drugs or drug paraphernalia or even alcohol. No hint of illegal activity. No evidence of a boyfriend.
A remote control sat on the coffee table. Sean had watched Brooke in action enough to know it would be one of the first items she collected to dust for prints.
“I don’t see any blood trails or signs of struggle inside,” Ric said. “Doesn’t feel like the assailant was in the house.”
“I’m not getting a read on motive.”
“I know.” Ric shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a rape or a robbery. No cash or drugs around.”
“We need her phone,” Sean said. “I want to search her car and the surrounding area.”
“I’ll go check the car,” Ric said.
He exited through the front door, and Sean returned to the kitchen. Brooke wasn’t there. Maddie knelt in the pantry with her camera, and Sean noticed the pantry door was missing.
“What happened to the door?”
She glanced at him. “Brooke took it.”
“Took it where?”
“Back to the lab.”
Sean stared at her. “You mean she’s gone?”
“She needed to test something. She said it was urgent.”
“Yo, Sean, come here,” Ric called from outside.
Sean walked out the front, glancing at his watch. Why had she left already? This scene would take hours to process and they were just getting started.
Ric was in the driveway near the Kia. Another Delphi CSI in gray coveralls was crouching beside the car.
Ric glanced up at Sean. “Jackpot.”
PHOTO BY ERIC VON LEHMDEN
New York Times bestselling author LAURA GRIFFIN is a two-time RITA Award winner and a recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award. Laura lives in Austin, where she is working on her next book. Visit her website at LauraGriffin.com.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-6175-6
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