“You’re right, of course.” Stella sampled her breakfast. Heavy on the butter as usual but tasty. “But I get this feeling that something is off with the case, and I don’t know if I have enough experience to trust my gut.”
“Are you investigating all possible leads?”
“I am. I’m waiting for forensics and a toxicology report. Until then, I’m digging into her life.”
Grandpa dug into his breakfast. “That’s all you can do. Keep picking away. Everyone has secrets.”
“I also caught a missing persons case yesterday that I have a very bad feeling about. I have no evidence that the cases are linked, but something tells me they are. Is that ridiculous?”
“Not at all.” Grandpa put his hand over hers. “You might not have a lot of experience yet, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore your gut. Good instincts are genetic. You come from a long line of crack detectives.” He grinned.
“I do.” Stella smiled. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He salted his eggs, stopping with a frown when she caught his eye. “My blood pressure is fine.”
“Because you take a pill.”
Sighing, he set the saltshaker aside. “Do you think you can borrow a nighttime surveillance camera from the department?”
Stella laughed. “No. I don’t think I could get that requisition signed.”
“Damn.” He buttered a piece of toast, tore off a corner, and flipped it to the dog. Snoozer watched the food hit the floor, then shuffled over to eat it. “I might have to get creative.”
Stella finished her eggs and transferred her coffee into a travel mug. “I have to go. Thanks for the breakfast and the advice.”
“I love you.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Be careful.”
Grandpa carried the empty dishes to the sink. The dog took his cue that no more food was available and trotted to his bed in the corner. He rested his head on his paws, and his eyelids drooped instantly.
“You, too.” She grabbed her briefcase. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Grandpa snorted. “I make no promises.”
Stella left the house bolstered by food and love. The roads were dark and empty on her way to the station. The sky was barely gray when she parked in front of the municipal building. With blue clapboard and red shutters, the structure was quaint-pretty on the outside, industrial-ugly on the inside. The police station occupied the entire first floor. Upstairs housed the various township tax and zoning offices.
In her cubicle, she draped her blazer over her chair, sat, and booted up the computer. She typed up her reports from the day before as the station bustled through shift change. Chief Horner was in his office by seven, and the administrative staff started at eight.
She’d barely finished her reports when Brody came in. All typical cop. Boring tie. Nondescript suit. Sharp brown eyes.
“I have something to tell you,” Stella said.
“It’ll have to wait. The chief wants to see us in his office,” he gestured to the door at the other end of the room.
Stella hurried to catch up. “I’ve been here for hours. He didn’t say anything to me.”
“He called me at home an hour ago.” Brody frowned as if the chief’s personal summons had been an unwelcome intrusion.
“How is Hannah?” Stella asked.
“It was a rough night. She didn’t sleep. Between losing her father and worrying about Mac . . .”
Obviously Brody hadn’t slept either.
“Please tell her . . .” She couldn’t articulate her empathy. “I lost my dad when I was fifteen. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“I will. Thanks.” Brody knocked on the chief’s door.
“Come in.” The command reverberated through the wood.
Brody opened the door and they went inside. Chief Dave Horner sat behind his tidy desk. As usual, his dark blue uniform was heavy on the starch. His hair was perfect.
Staring at Stella, the chief jabbed a finger on a closed file on his desk. “You were due at the range for pistol qualification yesterday.”
“Sorry. I’ve been tied up with cases, and it totally slipped my mind,” she lied.
“You’ve missed your appointment twice.” The chief studied her face. “You’re an excellent shot, so why are you putting it off?”
Wishing she was better at concealing her emotions, Stella schooled her face. A muscle in her cheek twitched. Could the chief see that? “No reason. I’m focused on the investigations we’re running. I hate to take the time out so some administrator can check a box.”
Had she fooled him?
Damn it. She couldn’t tell. Unlike her, Horner had a great poker face, which was helpful in the frequent press conferences he favored. Just thinking about the firing range sent her blood pressure spiking and a bead of sweat running into her bra. She’d like to blame it on this morning’s flashback, but she hadn’t been able to perform well at the range since the shooting.
“It’s part of the job. Get it done.” He opened the file.
“Yes, sir. I will.” Somehow.
The chief waved a printout in his hand. “Now, what happened last night after you left the Miller’s house? I have a report of a one-vehicle accident and a vanishing body in the road?”
Stella swallowed a curse. She’d wanted to tell Brody privately. She gave a rundown of her evening with Mac, including the news about Mac’s involvement with the DEA.
“Hannah’s brother was a huge help last November,” Brody added.
“I remember.” The chief tapped a finger on his blotter. “Seems far-fetched that Dena Miller was lying across a road in the middle of the night and then vanished. But then, the whole story is unusual. You’re positive she didn’t leave on her own?”
“Not a hundred percent,” Stella said. “But it doesn’t seem likely.”
The chief’s fingers drummed.
“Mac Barrett would like to assist in the investigation,” Stella said. “The incident bothers him.”
“Understandable.” The chief rubbed his perfectly smooth chin. “I’ll have to check with his superior officer.”
Stella cleared her throat. “With all due respect, sir, I had the impression that Mac will be looking for this woman with or without our cooperation. As you remember, the Barretts are a determined lot.” And they liked to handle their matters personally, as both Grant and Hannah had demonstrated.
“I remember.” Horner’s eyes narrowed. “No offense,” he glanced at Brody, “but the Barretts are headstrong and difficult.”
“No offense taken,” Brody said. “That’s one stubborn family.”
“You.” Horner pointed at Stella. “Keep Mac Barrett under control. I don’t care who he works for. I won’t have another rogue Barrett running around my town.”
How was she supposed to keep Mac under control?
The chief folded his hands on his blotter. “What’s your next step in the investigation?”
“Retracing Dena’s activity yesterday,” Stella said. “I’ll check in with forensics, too. Adam Miller will get a second round of questions, and his alibi needs to be verified with the country club. I’m running background checks on everyone involved and working my way through the recent calls, texts, and contacts on her phone.”
“Sounds like a good start.” The phone at the chief’s elbow rang. He ignored it. “Pull Lance to help with the investigation. No going off on your own, either one of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Stella had no desire to play heroine. As she’d learned last fall, a situation could go south in the span of a heartbeat. She shuddered at the memory. Gunfire. Lance going down. Blood. More gunfire.
“Stella?” the chief prompted.
She blinked. “Sorry.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
Horner stared for a few seconds, then nodded as if she passed muster. “Now, what’s going on with the Green case?”
“Waiting on toxicology reports.”
Stella summed up the medical examiner’s findings. “But she was restrained and tortured. If she overdosed, it seems unlikely she did it herself.”
Horner scanned her report. “Maybe she owed a dealer money and he decided to make an example of her. Addicts run with dangerous crowds.”
“Ex addict,” Stella clarified. “Sir.”
“Keep plugging away at it.” Chief Horner met her gaze head on. “But I want you to concentrate on the accountant’s missing wife. Our citizens can’t feel safe if suburban women disappear from their homes without a trace.”
“What if the cases are related?”
“Do you have any evidence they’re related?” he asked.
“Not yet, but the cases have some similarities,” she admitted. Her inexperienced gut wouldn’t impress the chief.
“I want you both working the accountant’s missing wife. Pull uniforms in to help with the grunt work. We can’t help a dead woman, but there’s a chance we can save Dena Miller if we find her alive.” Horner gave them his dismissive nod. “Dena Miller’s husband has already reached out to the media.” Horner tugged the wrinkles from his sleeve. “I’ll be holding a press conference tomorrow. Give me something intelligent to say, and I want you standing next to me. You did a good job with the reporters on Monday. They love you.”
The compliment rubbed Stella the wrong way. She wanted to be a cop, not a politician like the chief. Right now, she needed to get back to work on her cases.
“Is there anything else, sir?” she asked, tight-lipped.
“No.” The chief picked up his phone and waved them toward the door. Brody and Stella wasted no time bolting from the office.
Brody pulled the door closed. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about Mac?”
“No.”
“Hannah was upset about him last night. I can’t believe he didn’t call her.”
“He didn’t want to worry her any more.”
Brody’s gaze sharpened. “Is everything OK with you?”
“Sure.” She avoided his gaze.
Brody’s eyes doubted her answer. “It’s not like you to be late with a form, let alone a qualification. You’re usually disgustingly punctual and efficient about these things.”
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.
Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 9
