Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (10 page)

She smiled, but the effort felt weak. “I’m not used to juggling so many cases.”

Brody stopped her with a hand on her elbow, turning her to face him. “Do not hesitate to call me if you need help, and I’m not talking about the cases.”

“Thanks.” She turned her back on Brody’s stare and bolted toward her cubicle. She hadn’t fooled him. He knew something was wrong. She added a trip to the firing range to her to-do list. She’d have to go at closing, when no one else would be there. Spectators didn’t help.

At her desk, she reviewed Dena’s cell phone call log. Adam, the spa, the physical therapist’s office. Adam again. She highlighted an unidentified number, then continued down the list to the previous day. A few numbers that needed to be traced. More calls to and from the husband. Many more.

Odd.

Making a notation, Stella scanned Dena’s contact list. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for her very long list of doctors, but that wasn’t unexpected from a person who’d suffered a debilitating injury.

Stella moved on to Missy’s phone, which had only a few contacts. Stella matched a few numbers to the short list that had been on Missy’s refrigerator. Wait. Stella recognized the next number. She pulled out her own phone to double check.

Gianna Leone was one of Stella’s former informants. Gianna had also kicked a drug addiction, which could explain the connection between her and Missy.

Knowing exactly where she could find Gianna later that morning, Stella gathered her files and contemplated snagging a uniformed officer to go with her for her first interview. But a uniform affected the way people reacted during questioning. Some would talk more, others less, but in general, it put them on guard. They never forgot they were talking to a cop. Stella had already found in her six months as a detective that she could get people to say things they never would have blabbed if she was in uniform.

“Detective Dane.” An administrative assistant waved a yellow clasp envelope at her. “This came for you.”

Stella turned the envelope over in her hands. No return address. Stella’s name and rank and the address of the police station had been printed on an adhesive label.

“Thanks.” Stella slid a letter opener under the flap and shook out an eight-by-ten photo. It was a picture of Missy’s body in the dugout. Taken at night with a flash, the picture highlighted her features. Except the picture didn’t portray the body exactly as it had been found. In this shot, Missy’s arms were folded over her body, and the needle was under her hands.

Stella’s insides went cold.

There was no longer any question that Missy had been murdered. The picture had been taken when Missy was positioned on the bench.

By her killer.

Chapter Fourteen

Standing in front of Horner’s desk, Stella wiped her palms on her slacks. “The postmark is local.”

The chief held the plastic bag containing the photo and envelope by the corner. “This is the downside to all the media attention you’ve been receiving.”

Which hadn’t been Stella’s idea.

“I don’t want this leaked to the media. Keep it quiet.” He handed the photo to her over the desk. “Get this to the lab. See if they can pull prints.”

“Yes, sir.” Stella turned to the door.

“Be extra careful, Detective,” Horner said. “I don’t like that he’s focused on you.”

That made two of them.

More jittery than she wanted to admit, Stella dropped the envelope and photo at the forensics lab for fingerprinting. Then she drove to Mrs. Green’s house to update Missy’s mother. Heading up the walk, she scanned the street and shivered.

The chief was probably right. The killer had seen her on the news, but being watched by a sadistic murderer gave her a cramp between her shoulder blades. She shook it off and knocked on the door. With Horner as her boss, she had no way to avoid media exposure.

Once again, Stella sat in the familiar kitchen. Mrs. Green’s face was paler and her eyes more vacant.

She handed Stella a cup of coffee. “I appreciate you taking time to give me an update.”

“Have you slept?” Stella asked.

Mrs. Green’s gaze flickered over Stella’s face. “Not really. Have you?”

“No.” Stella sipped. “Did Missy ever talk about cutting?”

“No,” Mrs. Green said. “She never mentioned cutting herself.”

“She was wearing long sleeves when she was found. Did she ever wear shorts or short-sleeve shirts?”

“Yes. She was wearing a miniskirt last Thursday when I took her to lunch. There weren’t any marks on her legs. She never wore short sleeves because of the track marks on her arms.” Mrs. Green blew her nose. “There’s no way Missy would have given herself more scars. She was self-conscious about the marks she already had.” Mrs. Green tossed the tissue in the garbage can. “If you want, you could talk to Missy’s psychiatrist at the rehab center.” She went to a drawer and rummaged through its contents. “Here it is.” She handed Stella a business card that read New Life Center for Hope.

Stella took the card. “Did Missy have a recent boyfriend?”

“No.” Mrs. Green’s tone was emphatic. “She told me she had no time or energy for another person until she had her life in order.”

“How about a past boyfriend?”

“I don’t know much about her life in California.” Mrs. Green twisted her hands. “Do you know how she died?”

“Not yet.” Stella debated how much to reveal to Mrs. Green and as much as she hated to distress her, the woman deserved to hear the truth from Stella—not a news report. “The toxicology reports will take a few weeks.” She covered Mrs. Green’s hands with her own. “But she didn’t do this to herself.”

A tear slid down Mrs. Green’s cheek and dropped off her chin. “Then someone killed her?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it from the beginning.” Mrs. Green sniffed and drew in a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry.” Stella squeezed her hands. “There’s more.”

Mrs. Green’s eyes cringed.

As much as Stella wanted to spare Mrs. Green, the press would eventually publish all the gory details. Stella could think of no way to soften the truth, so she just said it. “Missy was tortured.”

Mrs. Green gasped. Her hands curled into fists. Then her watery eyes turned angry. “Find him.”

“I will.” Stella let herself out. She heard sobbing as she pulled the front door closed. She would not stop until she found the bastard who hurt Missy.

In her car, she called the rehab center. The earliest the psychiatrist could see her was the next morning.

Her phone rang. The display showed an unknown caller.

“Hello?”

“It’s Mac.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the auto body shop waiting to talk to the mechanic.” He sounded depressed. “I found my phone. Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll come there.” She wanted to take a quick look at his Jeep, though the chances were slim the vehicle held any clues.

“OK.”

Ten minutes later, she parked next to a plain-Jane rental sedan. She scanned the large, weedy lot for Mac but didn’t see him. The office was a red brick building that fronted a row of garage bays. She went inside. No one stood behind the counter, but she heard Mac’s voice echoing in the main shop. The smell of oil hit her nose as she walked through a doorway and stopped dead.

Mac and a coverall clad mechanic stood next to his Jeep. He was dressed in his usual snug cargos, T-shirt, and hiking boots, but he was clean-shaven, and his blond hair was swept back from his face in a style GQ would approve.

Had she ever seen him clean-shaven? Once, at his brother’s funeral. But he’d been subdued and not himself. Stella wasn’t sure if she liked him better looking tame or wild, but when his eyes roamed over her, a delicious shiver zinged through her belly. Those eyes . . .

The mechanic walked away, and Mac waited.

Shaking off her shock, Stella crossed the grease-stained concrete and examined the Jeep.
Ouch
. “What’s the prognosis?”

The front end bore the brunt of the damage. Crumpled hood and fenders. Broken windshield and windows. She peaked inside. A large branch had punctured the passenger window and speared the headrest. The fact that he’d gotten out with minimal injuries was a miracle. If he’d hit that stand of trees just a little differently, he wouldn’t be standing here.

“Totaled,” Mac said.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Could be worse. Better the Jeep than me.”

The thought swept a wave of sadness through her. Too much death had filled her life lately. His, too.

Mac walked around the vehicle to stand next to her. “You’re not going to comment on my change of appearance?”

Stella looked him up and down. “You clean up OK.”

“OK?” He laughed. “That’s it?”

Her gaze lingered on his face. “I kind of miss the scruff.”

A quick blast of heat lit his eyes. Then his head tipped back, and he laughed. “Well then, no more shaving for me. Where are we going first?”

“You’re sure you want to get involved? Your family doesn’t need you?” Stella had a feeling that Mac was in funeral-planning-avoidance mode.

“My day is clear until dinnertime.” He turned toward the exit. “As I told you last night, I’m going to look for this woman with or without you.” Picking up a backpack from the ground next to the Jeep, he glanced over his shoulder and gave her an
are you coming?
look. “I’d much rather work with you.”

Better to keep him in her sights. “Do you promise to stay out of the way and do what I tell you?”

“You’re bossy.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s not.”

They walked through the shop. Stella paused next to the rental car. “Do you want to drop this off at your place?”

Mac grinned. “That’s not mine.” He held out his backpack. “Would you mind taking this?”

“No.” Confused, she tossed it into her backseat.

He crossed to a Harley-Davidson parked in the shade of the building. “I told you I had a bike.”

Stella hadn’t noticed the sleek black vehicle in the shadows.

“That’s not what I’d pictured.” She’d thought he’d meant a bicycle, but when he slung a leg over the Harley, the image of him on a mountain bike was ridiculous.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He held his helmet in two hands. “I’m going to talk to Adam Miller about his missing wife.”

What the . . . ?

“How did you get his name?” she asked.

“He was on the news about fifteen minutes ago, giving an impassioned plea for his wife’s safe return.” Mac settled his black helmet on his head and nodded toward the auto shop. “I saw it on the TV in the office.”

Damn. That was fast
.

With no other options, she said. “Let’s drop your bike at your house, and you can ride with me.”

His eyes gleamed with victory. “Yes, ma’am.”

Stella opened her car door. “Follow me.”

But Mac’s engine started with a throaty rumble, drowning out her words. He roared out of the parking lot, and Stella rushed to catch up. Driving after him, she sincerely hoped this was not an indication of how well she could keep Mac Barrett under control.

Chapter Fifteen

In the passenger seat of Stella’s cruiser, Mac rubbed at his jaw. Shaving off his thick beard had left his face raw.

“I’d like to start at the accident scene,” he said.

“Makes sense. We’ll be passing it in a minute.”

Stella cruised to a stop on the shoulder of the road and they got out. Mac walked to the spot where he’d seen the woman. He closed his eyes. In his imagination, he saw driving rain, darkness, and a lifeless, female body. Cold passed through his bones and he opened his eyes to the sunlight.

Stella touched his arm. “Are you OK?”

He nodded, walking to the shoulder and scanning the roadside. He searched a sizable square of ground around the bend in the road, but saw nothing in the mud or tall weeds growing by the shoulder. “I’m pretty good at tracking. I was hoping to find something to follow.”

“Any footprints or tire tracks were washed away by the storm.” Stella watched him search the ground. “We issued an updated alert. Local, county, and state officers are looking for Dena Miller.”

Fifteen minutes later, he gave up. Back in the car, Mac found her case notes on the floor. He opened the file, appreciating her thoroughness and attention to detail. “How long has Dena Miller been married?”

“Five years, but you shouldn’t be reading that file,” she said but didn’t make a move to take it away from him.

Mac speed-read through her notes. He was of the ask-for-forgiveness-later mindset, and she seemed resigned to his intrusion. “What do you know about the husband?”

“We’re still investigating him.” Stella’s tone was curt.

“You don’t like him.”

“I don’t know enough about him to form an opinion.”

Ten minutes later, they stopped at a day spa. Dena’s massage therapist, Laura, verified she’d finished Dena’s massage around one and stated that Dena had acted normally. She didn’t seem to know her client on a personal level and didn’t have anything interesting to say. On the way out of the building, the receptionist gave Stella a printout of Dena’s receipt showing a one-oh-five p.m. checkout.

Stella parked in front of Active Physical Therapy and Personal Training, and they went inside. A door on the right led to a gym room. Weights clanged as a short, ripped guy grunted his way through a set of bicep curls.

Stella showed her badge at the reception desk and asked for Lyle Jones. They were shown into a small patient room to wait. Mac paced. Small spaces didn’t agree with him.

The door opened and a short, jacked dude walked in. His skin bore the deep orange of a bottle tan over a scattering of acne.

“I’m Lyle.” He shook their hands. “You want to talk about Dena?”

“Yes.” Stella produced her badge.

Lyle barely glanced at it. “I can’t give out any medical information, even to the police. We’re under strict guidelines about that.”

“We know,” Stella assured him. “Dena is missing. We’re just trying to find her. I know you can’t tell me anything about her condition, but we know she was here yesterday.” Stella probed. “Did she seem upset or under any unusual stress?”

“Well . . . It’s just that . . .” Lyle scratched his shaved head. “Well, her husband calls all the time to check up on her. Yesterday, he called just after she left.”

Interest piqued in Stella’s eyes. “What did he say?”

“He asked if she was still here.” Lyle folded his arms over his chest, disapproval on his face. “Dena always got upset when he called. Once she asked me to please not say anything personal about her to him.”

Stella asked, “Did that strike you as strange?”

“Very,” Lyle agreed.

“Did you ever meet Adam Miller?” Mac asked.

“Yes. In the beginning of her therapy, Dena couldn’t drive, and Adam would bring her to her appointments. He got really annoyed when I told him I couldn’t discuss his wife’s medical issues with him.” Lyle’s mouth tightened. “Of course, I could have if Dena had agreed, but I just didn’t like the guy.”

“Thanks for your help. We’ll let you know if we have any additional questions.” Stella moved toward the door.

Mac trailed behind them. He stopped and pointed to a picture on the wall. “I see you’re a professional bodybuilder.”

Lyle stopped. “Yes. I’m also a personal trainer. I’m fascinated by the way a body can be altered, shaped by diet and exercise.”

Diet, exercise, and steroids, Mac thought.

They left him in the main lobby. Back in the car, Stella pulled out a notebook and scribbled some notes.

She lifted her pen. “What did you think about Lyle Jones?”

“Besides the fact that he hates Adam Miller?” Mac asked. “Not many people can get that bulky and cut without artificial hormones.”

“Do you think he uses steroids?” Stella’s brow wrinkled.

“Probably. It’s basic biology. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but the human body can only get so big. The kind of muscle Lyle was carrying. . .” His acne was another indication he was supplementing with hormones.

Stella closed her notebook. “So what does that have to do with Dena Miller?”

“Probably nothing.” Mac pulled Dena’s photo from the file and stared at it. No smile for the camera. The woman looked like she was about to get a root canal. “But Lyle likely uses illegal drugs, and he seems to know a lot more about her than the massage therapist did.”

“Good point. I’ll run a deeper background check on him.”

“What now?” he asked.

“I have an idea.” She dialed her phone. “Yes, is Laura available? Thank you.” She studied her notes while she waited. “Laura? This is Detective Dane. I have a quick question for you. Did Dena’s husband ever call to check up on her while she was at the spa? He did? Did he call yesterday?” Stella flashed Mac a predatory smile, thanked the woman, and ended the call.

“I need to talk to Dena’s husband.” Stella dropped the phone on the console. “I owe him an update on his wife’s case, and I need to know why he didn’t tell me he already knew his wife had made it to both of her appointments yesterday.”

“Lying is never a good sign,” Mac said. “Should we go see Mr. Miller now?”

“Not yet.” Stella pulled out onto the street. “I have to talk to someone about another case. Do you mind?”

“No.”

Stella turned on the air-conditioner. “An old friend of mine was found dead. She was a former drug addict. She was tortured and killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Stella summed up her homicide investigation on Missy Green. “I found a recent call number in Missy’s phone that I recognized as one of my former informants. Gianna Leone was a prostitute and a heroin addict. She overdosed a year ago. Her customer actually called it in. When I arrived, she was barely breathing. Thank God we’re equipped with Narcan.”

Naloxone, brand name Narcan, was an opioid antagonist nasal spray used to reverse the effects of an overdose.

“It saved her life, but unfortunately, Gianna was left with irreversible kidney damage from years of heroin abuse.” Stella parked in front of a grocery store. “She comes from a very rough background.” Grabbing her purse, she got out of the car.

Mac followed her into the store as she grabbed a basket and headed for the dairy aisle. “Errands?”

“Not for me. Gianna is on kidney dialysis and disability now.” Stella selected a quart of milk.

Mac took the basket from her. “So you bring her food.”

“Occasionally. She’s come a long way, and she has no support. No father in the picture ever. Her mother was a prostitute. Gianna started hooking when she was thirteen.” Stella added eggs and bread and a few other staples, then crossed to the prepared food section and selected a family-size portion of fettuccine Alfredo and a chocolate cupcake.

Nice mom.
“What happened to her mother?”

“She’s in prison for cooking meth.”

Mac unloaded the items in the checkout lane. “You sure this is enough?”

“She only has a mini fridge.” Stella knew this Gianna pretty well.

After checking out of the store, she drove a few miles and parked in front of a dialysis center.

Surprised, Mac scanned the front of the medical building. “We’re going to question her here?”

Stella lowered the front door windows and turned off the engine. The air was still. Heat began to build in the car immediately. “No. She should be done in the next few minutes. She doesn’t have a car. She lives close and walks to the center, but she’s exhausted when she comes out of dialysis.”

“So you drive her home?” It didn’t surprise him.

Stella squinted though the windshield, her gaze scanning the sidewalk. “If I happen to be nearby.”

Mac bet Stella happened to be nearby as often as possible.

The door opened and a coltish, dark-haired girl stepped out. “There she is.”

“She looks like a teenager.” Mac knew the realities of teens and drug use, and every damaged kid showed him the importance of his reconnaissance in Brazil. Going back to the jungle would be dangerous, but wasn’t the outcome worth the risk? Mac didn’t have a wife or kids to support. Wasn’t it better that
he
take the risk than a man who would leave a family behind?

The girl’s pallor was sick-pasty, her skinny jeans could have fit a twelve-year-old, and Mac could see the dark circles under her eyes from twenty feet away.

“Gianna’s only eighteen.” Stella opened the car door and got out. They greeted each other with a hug. There was nothing
occasional
about their relationship. The girl rested her head on Stella’s shoulder, relaxed until she spotted Mac in the car. Then her body jerked straight.

Stella rubbed her arm, leaned close, and spoke in her ear. The girl grinned, and Mac wondered what Stella had said.

As they approached the car, Mac got out and opened the back door for the girl. She gave him a once-over way too mature for her age, then gave Stella an approving nod. “You’re right.”

About what?

Stella blushed. “This is Mac Barrett. We’re working a case together.”

“Sure you are.” Gianna’s tone was amused. “Nice to meet you.”

They all climbed into the vehicle. Mac angled his body to look over the seat. Up close, the kid looked even worse.

“Appreciate the ride,” Gianna said from the backseat.

“Rough today?” Stella started the engine. Cool air blasted from the dashboard vents.

Gianna lifted a bony shoulder in a shrug, then, shivering, she zipped her sweat jacket all the way to her chin. “It is what it is.”

Stella glanced in the rearview mirror. “Any word on the transplant?”

Gianna’s mouth tightened. “Nope. Long list, ya know?”

Mac suspected a former prostitute and heroin addict didn’t exactly soar to the top. People tended to make judgments, and there was no escaping the stigma.

A few minutes later, Stella pulled into the parking lot of a low-income apartment complex. Three utilitarian brick buildings squatted around a weedy patch of grass. Mac opened the car door for Gianna. The girl stepped out, but her legs buckled as she stood. Mac took her elbow. Humiliation and frustration hardened her features as her legs steadied.

“Thanks.” She forced a tough smile on her face. Pulling her arm from his grasp, she walked toward the closest building in a pained gait, as if her entire body hurt.

Mac nodded, shutting the door and then sticking close enough to catch her if her balance gave out again. Stella followed with the groceries.

Gianna’s apartment was partially below ground. The entire unit was the size of a two-car garage and just as damp. They stepped directly into the kitchenette. A window over the sink looked out on the street. A card table and two folding chairs crowded the tiny space. A lopsided sofa, a milk-crate coffee table, and a TV took up most of the living room. A door behind the kitchen likely led to the bedroom and bathroom.

Stella put the milk and eggs in the pint-size fridge, which was jammed under three feet of counter.

Gianna sank onto the couch. Exhaustion lined her face, aging her ten years in the span of two seconds. “Thanks, Stella. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hungry?” Stella held up the plastic container of pasta. “I brought your favorite.”

“Yeah.” Gianna smiled, her eyes looking watery. With a sniff, she rubbed a knuckle under her eye and lifted her chin. “That’d be great.”

Tough kid.

Stella warmed the pasta in the countertop microwave and delivered it to the girl. She took the food and ate a few bites without speaking.

Mac moved the two folding chairs into the living area and opened them in front of the sofa. A dog-eared book on the floor caught his eye:
GED Practice and Review
. A single framed snapshot decorated the table: a selfie of Stella and Gianna against a clear, blue sky.

Stella dropped into a chair and leaned forward to face Gianna. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

Gianna’s face snapped up. “You know I’ve been clean all year. I ain’t had nothin’ to do with my old life.”

“I know.” Stella held up a hand. “It’s not about you. It’s about someone else.”

The girl settled again, twirling a forkful of noodles. “OK. Anything for you, Stella.”

“Do you know Missy Green?” Stella asked.

Gianna’s fork stilled. “I know
a
Missy.”

Stella leaned forward, resting her clasped hands on her knees. “But you don’t know her last name?”

“No.” Gianna chewed. It looked like effort, as if she was too tired to eat. She swallowed. “Why?”

“Because your cell number was in her phone contacts,” Stella said.

Mac asked, “Is it because you know her from NA?”

“Yes.” Gianna grinned at Stella and jerked a thumb at Mac. “Guess he’s not just your arm candy?”

Stella didn’t bother to cover her grin. Instead, she played along, waggling her eyebrows until the girl laughed out loud. “When did you last see her?”

“Wait.” Gianna’s body jerked straight, as if she just realized a cop was questioning her about her friend. “Did something happen to Missy?”

Stella hesitated, no doubt deciding how much information to reveal about the case in order to gather more. “She was murdered.”

“No.” Gianna dropped her fork and set the dish on the crate.