Fiona parked outside Misti’s house and killed the lights. “How do you want to play it?”
He looked at the small, one-story brick house. Despite the blooming buds of Spring everywhere else, all vegetation around this home was dead. Leaves, unraked from last Fall mounded along the sides, disintegrating into the earth. Not a single decoration, except for an empty beer can that served as an ashtray next to the front door. If it weren’t for the rusted sedan parked in the driveway, he would’ve assumed the house was vacant. Not a single light on either, and considering it was only eight o’clock, that surprised him.
“She have any roommates?”
Fiona shook her head. “Not sure.”
“That’s her car?”
“Same car when I drove by a few months ago.”
“Alright. Let’s go. Keep your eye out for anything while I ask the questions.” He pushed out of the truck, his hand automatically sweeping back to his sidearm. Fiona stepped around the front of the truck, tucking her girl-Glock into the back of her pants. Girly or not, there was nothing sexier than a woman with a gun. He pulled ahead of her as the slap, slap, slap of her flip-flops echoed through the darkness.
“Geez, I’ll change shoes later.” She muttered behind him, noticing the subtle shake of his head.
“It’s what? Fifty degrees out here anyway, right?” He stepped up to the front door and knocked.
Nothing.
He tried again, louder.
“You’re sure that’s her car?”
“I can have Ace run the plates real quick, but I’m pretty sure.”
“No,” he said instantly. “Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t need any more communication with Fiona’s guard dog.
He tried again with no luck, then peered into the front window as Fiona glanced into the small, side window.
“Noah.”
He turned. The tone of her voice sending him on alert.
“I think someone’s on the floor.”
He quickly stepped over and peered through the tiny slit in the curtain where the moonlight reflected off a red high heel, lying haphazardly on the floor next to a pale ankle.
He drew his gun, banged on the door, and this time yelled, “FBI, open up!”
When no one answered, he sucked in a breath, stepped back and—
“Wait.”
“What?” He looked over his shoulder where Fiona was pulling a silver tool from her bag. He’d used lock picks before—a waste of time, in his opinion—but this little tool looked like a robot.
“What the hell is that?”
“Black Rose special. PI stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
He cocked a brow and watched as she inserted the tool into the lock, and with the ease that only a woman seemed to possess. He assessed the lock—no scratches or obvious sign of a recent break-in.
Fiona popped open the door.
“Get back.” He pushed past her, gun up, and stepped over the threshold. The house was rank with stale cigarette smoke and spilled wine, and an old musty smell masked by a cheap plug-in. A tattered couch sat in the middle of the living room, which was speckled with beer cans, empty wine boxes and ashtrays. He zeroed in on the bottle of pills on the table. Misti Seager liked to party.
“This room,” Fiona whispered and nodded toward the closed door on the left. She pulled a latex glove from her bag as he did a sweep of the front of the house.
She tossed him a pair of gloves, then slid her gloved hand over the knob and slowly opened the door, and gasped.
Fuck.
Noah raised his gun as Fiona did the same. After a quick scan of the room, he kneeled by the dead body on the floor. The moonlight cut through the curtain like a small spotlight on her. Blonde, curly hair spread like a soft cloud around a pale face smeared with red lipstick across the cheeks, reminding him of The Joker. Her bare lips now a pale, gray-blue—a color he’d seen many times before. Her low-cut, red sweater matched the heels at her feet and the tattoo of lips peeking out from the top of her bra. Her purse lay a few inches from her limp, pale hand.
“It’s her. It’s Misti.” Fiona said, staring down at the body.
“Check the bathroom.”
Fiona nodded and disappeared to the corner of the room.
As he checked for a pulse, his eyes locked on the purple bruising speckling her neck. Misti Seager had been strangled to death. He scanned her body. Her pants were still zipped and her shirt and bra were still in place, which ruled out the initial question of sexual assualt. No blood anywhere. From what he could see, she didn’t appear to have other injuries. If he had to guess, Misti had been immediately overpowered and forced to the ground where someone squeezed the life out of her. He carefully lifted her finger. She was in full rigor mortis, which meant she had been killed sometime over the last twenty-four hours. Based on the racy choice of attire, he guessed it was sometime the evening before. The same timeframe Joel Davis was murdered. Coincidence? He glanced around the room—no apparent sign of struggle. Shoe, clothes, and all sorts of girly things littered the floor. She wasn’t dragged. Misti Seager walked into her room and was killed. What a way to go.
With gloved hands, he opened Misti’s purse, which was stuffed with the usual girl stuff, half of which he had no clue what it was. Makeup, lotions, tissues, two toothbrushes, four packs of gum… right next to a small slit in the fabric. He leaned closer and traced his finger along the small, round tear in the side of the purse—what the hell? The cut was clean. Deliberate. Humph. He cocked an eyebrow at the pair of black lace panties and wondered what scenario a woman would be in to need an extra pair of panties… especially that looked like that. He picked up a pen and carefully moved the contents around, eyeing a gold compact encircled with tiny diamonds. He frowned and glanced around her room again—queen-sized bed with mismatched sheets and torn comforter, wooden chest of drawers with more nicks in it than a dartboard, and an old TV with Batman stickers down the side, obviously handed down or bought at a garage sale—Misti didn’t strike him as the type of gal to collect vintage comics. Where the heck would Misti Seager get a gold makeup compact with diamonds? Going on instinct, he removed the compact and noticed a folded ticket. He set the golden wonder aside and opened the paper. One ticket to the Annual Spring Gala supporting local women’s shelters. His brows squeezed together. Misti also didn’t strike him as the type to attend fundraisers. He turned it over. The ticket had been stamped—and the event date was the evening before. Exactly twenty-six hours earlier, to be exact. Misti Seager had attended a fundraising event hours before she was strangled to death in her house.
“Hey,” Fiona’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “Check this out.”
She handed him a crinkled printout of directions to the State Capitol Building, with the words Four Seasons scribbled at the bottom. It was printed exactly one week earlier.
Just then—creak.
Noah gripped his gun and surged to his feet, spun around, and froze with Fiona at his side—two guns aimed directly at the hallway. Heavy footsteps stumbled through the living room. Whoever was in the house sure as hell didn’t care about being quiet.
Keeping his gaze on the hall, he whispered, “Anyone outside?”
Fiona slowly backed up and peered out the curtains. “No,” she whispered back. “No one, and no vehicle. And, the window is securely locked.”
“Stay here. Keep an eye outside.” He moved silently into the hallway, listening to the footsteps descend to the back of the house, toward the kitchen. He paused at the corner, then slid around, immediately noting the door to the other bedroom was now open. Dishes clinked in the kitchen, the faucet turned on, along with a dim light. He took a quick glance over his shoulder at the front door, which was securely shut. He moved through the darkness to the kitchen entry, keeping his gaze on the shadow moving through the room. He narrowed his eyes, slid his finger over the trigger and breached.
“FBI!” His voice boomed through the silence. “Put your hands over your head.”<
br />
A piercing shriek released from a skinny brunette with her back to him, wearing nothing but a thong and tank top thin enough to see the skull tattoo just above her crack.
His gaze unwittingly flickered to her ass, glowing like two candy apples in the moonlight. He was a man, after all.
The glass in her hand shattered on the linoleum floor as she shot her hands over her head and spun around, her bloodshot eyes the size of golf balls. A nipple poked out of the top of the barely-there tank.
Oh, dear, Lord. His gaze locked on the massive, round, watermelon breasts staring back at him.
“Jesus Christ, pull up your shirt, lady.” Fiona stepped beside him, gun raised. After sending him a you’re-absolutely-ridiculous glare—which he absolutely deserved—she sent one to the stunned thirty-something across the room, as if she couldn’t believe the woman would sleep in something like that.
Hands trembling, the brunette reached down, tugged up her shirt, which pulled above her navel, which, interestingly enough, was centered in a cross tattoo. He also noticed a few tattoos speckled on her chest as well.
“No need to frisk this one…” Fiona cut him another glance. “Unless, you know, you just want—
“Call Lieutenant Stone.” He quickly cut her off, before she could strip away every ounce of his authority, and dignity, for that matter. Jesus, he needed to get laid. He cleared his throat and looked the woman over, clearly this time. She was short, around five-one, and one-ninety at best. Not someone who would typically be able to hold down Misti Seager’s almost six-foot body and strangle her with bare hands, or get the jump on Joel, for that matter.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“Shay Swann.” Calm now, she said it with a touch of attitude that made him think this wasn’t her first run-in with the law.
“Do you live here?”
“Yeah. This is my house.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”
He looked around the small, cluttered kitchen that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Piles of dishes in the sink and on the counter, food wrappers, a burned candle, a date book that surprisingly looked to be filled, and an extremely expensive bottle of Merlot. Just above that, a red, white, and blue sticker peeling off the cupboard door that read I voted. Past that, a back door that looked to be securely shut and locked as well.
He looked back at her. “Why didn’t you answer the door when we knocked?”
“I didn’t hear it. Was asleep.”
Based on the bags under her eyes and the empty wine boxes around the house, he believed that.
“Is that your bedroom off the living room?”
“Yeah. The master.” Something sparked in her eye as she looked down at his pants, then trailed back to his face.
He cocked a brow.
Fiona stepped back into the room and gave a quick nod, confirming she’d contacted the local authorities. “I checked the entire house, all clear. Everything looks secure, too.” No sign of a break-in anywhere, she meant.
He lowered his gun. “You can drop your hands, Miss Swann.”
Shay lowered her arms but then crossed them over her chest, pushing up her breasts. He had to fight checking to see if another nipple had popped out. He figured he had about five minutes before the cavalry showed and he wanted to take advantage of their one-on-one time before the house was swarming with uniforms and Shay clammed up.
“Where’s your car?”
“Don’t have one.”
“How do you get around?”
“Scooter.” She nodded toward the back of the house.
Of all the things he could imagine this woman riding, a scooter wasn’t one of them.
“Have you been home all evening?”
“Yeah.”
“All day?”
She cocked her head, thinking for a moment. “Got home around six or seven this morning.”
“Were you here last night?”
“No.” A bratty tone as if daring him to ask—
“Where were you?”
“At my lawyer’s house.” She grinned, pleased with her sarcastic wit.
“Oh, you mean my buddy, Hank’s?” Fiona impatiently stepped forward, apparently not pleased with Shay’s wit. So she laid down some of her own. “Funny, I was there, too, and didn’t see you. He and I work together sometimes on cases.” She placed her finger on her chin. “Let’s see… Who were we talking about last night? Oh, that’s right, Matt Potts and his wife Edie. Crazy one she is… Lots of delusions about her husband.”
Noah watched the two women stare at each other like two boxers about to fight. A fight he’d like to see, quite frankly.
Shay broke first. “Alright, fine. I was at a friend’s house. Stayed over.”
“What friend?”
She hesitated. “A guy friend.”
“Name, Shay.”
“Chris Cohen, okay?” Her untrusting eyes narrowed. “What’s all this about?”
Noah made a mental note of the name. “Do you know Misti Seager?” He asked.
“Yeah. She’s my roommate.” Her gaze flickered to Fiona.
“When was the last time you saw Miss Seager?”
“Uh, can’t really remember. Yesterday, I guess. Before I left for the night. What?” She snorted. “She in jail or something?”
“What time yesterday?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Afternoon, I guess.”
“What time did you leave to go to your buddy’s house?”
“Six or so.”
“Was she here when you left?”
“Think so. Her door was shut.”
“Do you know if she was going anywhere for the evening?”
“Not that she’d tell me. She never tells me shit.”
“Are you two friends?”
“Kinda. Not really. Just run in the same… circle, I guess. She needed a place to stay, so I offered my spare room.”
“Did she say anything about meeting anyone at a hotel?”
Shay shook her head.
“Nothing about the Towering Pines, maybe?”
“Nope.”
“What about going to see someone coming in from out of town?”
“Nope.”
Shay Swann definitely knew how to give answers without details.
“How long has she lived here?”
“Less than six months. ‘Round there.”
“Is she the only person with a key to this house?”
Shay paused, then frowned. “Actually… it’s funny you said that. My key fell off the chain yesterday.”
“Fell off your chain?”
“Well, it wasn’t on there when I got home this morning.”
“Was it actually looped into your keychain?”
“Yeah… oh. So, yeah, I guess it would’ve been hard to fall off.”
Noah waited for the implication to click. Finally, she said, “Ohhh, maybe someone took it? Is that what you’re here about?” Her eyes rounded. “Did someone break-in?”
“Did you lock up before you went to Mr. Cohen’s house?”
“I really can’t remember.”
“Do you always lock your door?”
“Yeah, usually.”
“What about Misti? Does she remember to lock up?”
She shrugged, annoyed now, and put her hands on her hips. “Can I get a drink or something, or are you about to arrest me for something?”
“Just a minute.” His gaze shifted to her long, black fingernails, three cracked at the tips. “Did you leave your purse or keys anywhere unattended?”
“Um, I left my purse in my scooter for a while when I was at Chris’s.”
“In your scooter?”
“It has a basket.” She was offended that he didn’t know this.
So anyone could’ve walked up and taken her keys. He clenched his jaw. This woman was completely oblivious. “Do you remember seeing any cars outside when you were at your friends?”
“No… I mean, it’s not like I was paying attenti
on.”
He glanced at the ashtray on the table. “Does Mr. Cohen smoke?”
She snorted. “No. Quit.”
“But you do, so is it safe to assume you stepped outside to smoke over the course of the evening?”
She shrugged.
“Think, Miss Swann. Did you see any cars pass by slowly, or notice any parked along the road at any time during the evening?”
She blew out a breath and squinted in deep thought. Her eyes lit up. “Actually, yeah… I remember seeing a really nice car pass. Caught my attention because it sounded like a cat purring or some shit.”
A cat purring.
“What color?”
“Red.” She smiled. “Bright red.”
“Two or four-door?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Little. That’s all I remember. It was little, I know that.” She crossed her arms over her chest, again. “Guys, that’s all I remember, okay?”
He was losing her. He needed to wrap this up. “Was Miss Seager seeing anyone?”
Shay’s mouth clamped shut.
“I repeat, was she seeing anyone?”
“Nothin’ serious.”
“Give me a name, Miss Swann.”
“Look, I really don’t know. A few people, probably.” Her gaze shifted to Fiona, then the hallway. “I’m not saying one more damn word until you tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is Misti Seager is dead in her bedroom.”
CHAPTER 8
“Shay Swann has a record as long as her nipples.” Fiona started the truck as Noah closed the passenger door.
“Wouldn’t know.”
She shot him a look. “Please. I almost had to wipe the drool off your mouth. Seriously, though, those were some funky nipples. And the size of her areolas? Gross. Probably stretched from those massive implants.”
“Alright, first, don’t ever use the word areola around me again. Second, can we please not talk about the size of a suspect’s breasts?”
“Hey, just managing expectations.”
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