The highway narrowed to two lanes. They passed meadows and patches of woods. Ten minutes later, Stella turned down a forest-lined gravel lane. They passed a lake and an old stone barn set back off the road.
The lane ended in a tight clearing. A split rail fence defined the parking area. The main lodge was a two-story cedar rectangle with a deep, covered porch. Appropriately, Adirondack chairs were grouped around low tables. Two men playing chess looked up as Mac and Stella got out of the car. The New Life Center for Hope looked more like a resort than a rehab facility.
They went up the steps and crossed the porch. Mac held the door for Stella. In the reception area, a thirty-year-old man typed on a computer. A folder lay open on the desk.
“Can I help you?” He said in a southern accent as he closed the folder. A brass plaque on the front of his desk read Reilly Warren.
Stella showed her badge. “Detective Dane. I have an appointment to see Dr. Randolph.”
Reilly glanced at his phone. A red light blinked. “He’s on a call, but he should be done in a few minutes.”
Stella ignored the row of chairs in the lobby. “How long have you worked here?”
“Three years.” Reilly folded his hands on his blotter.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” Mac picked up a pamphlet from a wall rack.
Reilly straightened his row of office supplies. “I’m from Atlanta.”
Stella flashed him a warm smile. “Do you like working for Dr. Randolph?”
He adjusted the position of his stapler a millimeter. “Yes.”
“The center is highly recommended.” Mac tucked the brochure back into its slot.
“Josh is good at what he does,” Reilly said.
“But patients relapse, right?” Stella sounded innocent as she pried information out of the admin.
Reilly straightened a stack of Post-it packs. “Josh can only do so much.” He glanced at the phone. The red light had gone out. “He’s done.” Reilly slid out of his chair. Then he carefully lined up the armrests with his keyboard tray before straightening. “Follow me.”
He led them down a carpeted hall, then knocked and opened a door. “Detective Dane is here to see you, Josh.”
“Thanks, Reilly,” a male voice responded. “Please show her in.”
Mac followed Stella into the office. Behind a mahogany desk, a leather chair faced a sleek laptop. A tall, lean man rose. About forty and fit, he wore jeans, an Earth Day T-shirt, and trail running shoes. His dark hair was a half inch past needing a cut, and wire-rimmed glasses gave him a nerdy look. He rounded the desk.
Stella introduced Mac. “Mr. Barrett is assisting with my investigation.” Her tone warmed. “I must say, Dr. Randolph, you’re not exactly what I expected. I was expecting someone more . . . formal.”
Was it wrong for Mac to be instantly jealous over the smile Stella gave the doc?
“Formal doesn’t help people relax.” The doctor gestured to a circle of leather chairs in the corner. “Please, call me Josh.”
“The center looks like a mountain lodge.” Mac eased his body into a low-slung seat. He wasn’t sure if fancy digs would have helped or hindered his own recovery. The utilitarian decor of the center he’d attended had made the process feel serious. Rehab was not a vacation.
“I don’t see any reason for people to be uncomfortable while they recover.” Josh removed his glasses and polished the lenses on the hem of his shirt. “People come here voluntarily. They should feel good about their decision to make their lives whole again.”
Mac took in the expensive-looking, modern furniture. “You don’t take insurance, do you?”
Josh shook his head. “No. All my clients pay privately. This is a small facility. I prefer to keep it that way.”
So what motivated the doctor? Money?
“Why do you do this?” Mac asked.
Josh sighed. “When I was a teenager, my older brother died of an overdose. He’d suffered from depression all his life. Drugs were his escape.”
“I can understand that.” The words slipped out of Mac’s mouth before he could stop them, but the doctor’s words had struck a nerve.
The doctor’s gaze was too sharp. Too understanding.
Mac shifted his position in the chair. “You want to prevent others from the same fate.”
“That’s the idea.” Josh smiled.
Stella leaned forward, clasped her hands, and rested her forearms on her knees. “I want to talk to you about Missy Green. She was a patient of yours?”
“Yes. I was sorry to hear of her death.” Josh replaced his glasses. “How can I help you?”
Stella tilted her head. “You treated Missy for addiction, but she was recovered, right?”
“Yes, but addiction doesn’t end when someone checks out of this facility,” Josh said. “The first step toward recovery is committing to a life-long treatment plan.”
“Did Missy ever relapse?” Stella asked.
“A few times.” Josh crossed his ankle over his knee. “But most patients will relapse at some point. Recovery tends to be a forward-and-back process. There are inevitable stumbling blocks on every patient’s road.”
Stella’s lips thinned. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“It’s important that the patient not view a relapse as failure but as an experience he or she can learn and grow from.” Josh rested his hand on his calf. “Building self-esteem is an important part of controlling addiction.”
She leaned forward. “Most people would say why not let them destroy themselves.”
“That’s not an option. Addiction doesn’t only hurt the user,” Josh said.
Which was why Mac had devoted his life to stopping drugs before they hit US soil.
“When was the last time you saw Missy?” Stella asked.
“I saw Missy just a few weeks ago, and she seemed to be using her coping mechanisms well. She’d borrowed money for her treatment. During our last session, she decided that once she finished paying her debt, she was going to attend community college. This was the first time she’d looked that far ahead in her life. I thought the new direction was promising.”
“What about cutting?” Stella asked.
“Missy had a period of self-harm when she first came home from California. We dealt with it during her stay. As far as I know, she hadn’t done it since.”
Stella took a small tablet from her purse and made a note. “You saw Missy here after her inpatient program was finished?”
“No. Missy didn’t want to borrow more money, I run a few therapy groups for local charities.” Josh glanced at Mac. “I’m not completely materialistic.”
A knock sounded on his door, and Reilly opened it. “Your next patient is here.”
“Thanks, Reilly.” Josh got to his feet.
“Thank you so much for your help with this case.” Stella stood and offered him her hand.
Josh held it too long for Mac’s liking, and the doctor’s eyes showed definite interest. Mac got up and stuck his hand out. Josh released Stella, but reluctance was clear on his face.
Stella and Mac returned to the car.
“What did you think of Randolph?” Climbing into the passenger seat, Mac shook his coffee cup. Empty.
“I appreciated his candor.” She turned the wheel. Gravel crunched under the tires as the car circled the parking area and nosed onto the long driveway.
“He appreciated you, that’s for sure,” Mac grumbled.
Stella lifted her brows in surprise. “Did that bother you?”
“Maybe.”
She grinned. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was just trying to butter him up. He’s not my type.”
“Really?” Mac perked up.
“Really.” She glanced over at him. “Why?”
Mac caught her gaze and held it. “Maybe I want it to be my business.”
“Josh Randolph is intelligent and good-looking, but he’s too passive for me. I come from three genera
tions of cops. Men I date tend to be less . . . beta.” She brought the car to a stop at the intersection with the main road. “Not that I’ve dated anyone recently.”
Blood warming, Mac reached over the computer mounted on the dashboard. He hooked a hand behind her neck and pulled her closer. Their lips met, but a quick taste of her wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He tightened his grip, cupping the back of her head and tilting it for a better angle. Her mouth opened, and her tongue played with his. The soft moan in her throat made him want to drag her over the console and into his lap.
There was nothing passive about Stella. She met him quip for quip, heat for heat. When she lifted her hand and rested it on the center of his chest, right over his thudding heart, desire speared him to his core.
He wanted her.
Mac eased his mouth off hers. She licked her lips, and he wanted to do the same. The intensity of his desire for her sent a wave of uncertainty through him. His longing for Stella wasn’t just sex. He liked talking to her. He liked sitting in comfortable silence with her. Simply being in her presence soothed him.
He’d never imagined having what Grant had with Ellie. Mac had always assumed he’d be a lifelong bachelor. Being part of a couple required trust, a give-and-take he’d never considered possible.
Now he wondered.
But would it be fair to Stella? He was a work-in-progress who was supposed to be heading back to a job in Brazil.
Stella’s phone buzzed, breaking the connection between them. Clearing her throat, she answered the call, “Detective Dane.”
Her hand curled into a fist and thudded on the steering wheel. “Where? OK. I’m on my way. ETA fifteen minutes.”
She turned to Mac; anger, frustration, and tears shone in her eyes. “A dog walker just found Dena Miller in Bridge Park. She’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty
Stella drove past the public library and over a rise. As her cruiser topped the hill, the park came into view. From the top of the hill, a stone bridge arched high over the rushing water. Recent heavy rains had left the river deep and the current swift. Nestled at the base of the bridge, a bronze monument depicted three Revolutionary War soldiers firing muskets. On the near side, three wooden benches faced the water. A dozen wild geese waddled across the grass. On the opposite bank, woods provided a deep green backdrop.
Except for the geese and a pair of ducks cooling off in the shallows, the park was empty and quiet on a hot summer day.
Flashing strobe lights on three patrol vehicles parked at the curb destroyed the tranquility.
Stella drove down the embankment and parked behind the patrol vehicles. Three uniforms and an elderly man waited in the shade of a lone oak tree. A yellow lab was stretched out at the man’s feet. A hot wind blew across the field as she and Mac got out of the car.
Fifty feet beyond the police cruisers, a woman appeared to be sitting on the center bench, her head tipped to one side as if she were dozing. The seat and back of the bench were solid wood. Below it, Stella could see two bare feet. The back of the woman’s bare shoulders and a curly head of dark hair were visible above.
From a distance, the woman could have been watching the birds, but Stella already knew she was dead.
Lance approached. His limp was barely noticeable, but he was clearly working to keep it to a minimum. “The old man and his dog found her.”
“Have you called the ME?” Stella’s eyes strayed to the bench. The detective in her was anxious to see the body, but her human side recoiled at the thought.
“Yes.” Lance nodded. “He’ll be here any minute, and I see the forensics teams pulling in now. Brody’s coming, too.”
“It’s that bad?”
He paled. “You’ll see.”
Apprehension coiled in Stella’s belly. Banishing it, she took a pair of gloves from her pocket. “Did you touch her?”
His face went greener. “No. I could see that she was dead from ten feet away. I didn’t want to compromise the scene.”
“Is that the man who found her?” Stella nodded toward the old man.
“Yes.”
“Did he touch her?”
“He said no.” Lance squinted at Mac, who stood behind Stella. “Do I know you?”
Mac introduced himself. “We might have met last year.”
“Barrett. Your brother was murdered. I’m sorry.” Lance’s voice went tight.
Stella turned to Mac as she opened the trunk and exchanged her shoes for boots. “You might want to stay behind the tape. Any closer and you’ll be listed on the crime scene log.”
“Then I’ll wait here.” He leaned on the car, and crossed his arms over his chest. He might have to stay away from the body, but she had no doubt he’d notice everything about the scene.
Stella took a few minutes to verify the dog walker’s story before getting his contact information and releasing him. He didn’t look as shaken as the man who’d found Missy Green.
She spotted a long rut in the mud leading from the parking area toward the bench. Strange, flat footprints followed the line. The impressions had been marked off with orange cones and crime scene tape.
“What do you think left that?” she asked Lance. “It’s too wide for a regular bicycle tire. Some sort of off-road bike?”
He shook his head. “Wheelbarrow. He put her in a wheelbarrow and walked her down to the bench.”
She shielded her eyes from the sun and stared toward the bench. “Because of the way the hill lays out, you can’t see the park until you drive over the hill. This isn’t a through street. There’s no reason to drive over the hill unless you’re coming to the park. No one would see him unless they were coming here.” The park was a seemingly isolated spot right behind town.
“Even if he did it in the dark, it’s still a ballsy move,” Lance said.
“No bolder than abducting her from her house in broad daylight.”
“The footprints have no tread.”
“He covered them.” Stella stared at the tracks. “We’ll still get them cast. At least we can get his shoe size.”
A minivan emblazoned with the county medical examiner logo pulled into the lot. A few minutes later, a coverall-clad Frank walked to her side.
The ground was soft from recent rains. Water squished under Stella’s boots as she walked toward the bench. She tracked the long, single furrow that ran from the street, down the hill, to the bench.
Keeping clear of the rut, she and Frank walked toward the bench and circled around to get a full, frontal view of the body.
Frank whistled. “Fuck. Me.”
Dena Miller sat upright, her head lolling to one side. Nylon rope had been used to secure her shoulders to the bench. Her legs were crossed and tied together. Around her neck was a pale blue scarf. Below it, in the center of her nude belly, he’d carved the number 2.
Stella pictured Missy’s body on the autopsy table. “That single cut in Missy’s stomach was a number 1.”
Frank nodded. “Looks like.”
The sun beat down on the top of Stella’s head, but the pit of her belly went ice cold. Her gaze skimmed over the body, stopping on the hands folded in the victim’s lap. They were mangled. “Her fingers.”
Frank exhaled sharply. “All broken.”
That wasn’t the kind of injury that could happen by accident. Dena had been tortured.
Poor Dena.
A black satchel-type purse sat on the bench next to her. Just like Missy, bruises colored the left side of Dena’s face. More purple marks were visible on the pale, pale skin of her body. She sat upright, but the skin along her back was stained purple. Before being positioned on the bench, she’d laid on her back long enough for lividity to set in. “She didn’t die here.”
She’d been positioned after death, just like Missy.
Frank moved closer. He pointed to her wrists. Under the nylon rope, bruises darkened her skin. “She was restrained.” He bent low to squint at her battered hands. “Do we know who she is?”
<
br /> “Her name is Dena Miller.” Stella’s gaze traveled from Dena’s smashed fingers to the rope burns on her ankles and wrists. “She’s been missing since Wednesday afternoon.” Stella stared at the silk scarf. She kept her voice low. “This whole scene was carefully staged.”
“Yes.” Frank propped one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his head as he glared at the body. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Stella stepped up to stand next to him. “This is exactly like Missy Green’s death.”
“Don’t say it.” Frank looked over his shoulder.
Stella followed his gaze to a news crew climbing out of their van. She signaled a uniform to keep them far away from the scene. He nodded and moved in, hands spread and palms out. A lollypop-thin brunette newswoman cocked a hip in irritation.
“Do not imply these two cases are related,” Frank warned. “The media will broadcast that Scarlet Falls has a you-know-what.”
Stella nodded, but anger surged in her veins. The news media shouldn’t dictate her discussion with the medical examiner. But Frank was absolutely right. If the press got any wind of any possible similarities between the deaths, the words serial killer would be scrolling across the next special bulletin. The chief would have a coronary, the mayor would implode, and Stella would be writing parking tickets for the rest of her career.
“The deaths have commonalities.” Frank prodded her with an elbow. “But let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Stella tilted her head and raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
Frank raised a palm. “I know. We know the truth, but we can’t tell everybody. Not yet.”
She stared at Dena. “The way he left her . . .” The careful planning, the positioning, the scarf. This hadn’t been a dump and run. “It took some time.”
Just like Missy’s body had originally been staged.
Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 15
