Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (4 page)

Not good. He was Cheryl’s only hope of getting help.

He ducked into the supply tent. The sat phone was gone, and the first aid kit was in the missing SUV. Son-of-a-bitch Juan. He hadn’t taken everything, just the essentials.

The village was a mile-long hike through the jungle, the day was getting shorter, and Mac was leaking. He found a bottle of Juan’s tequila, opened his shirt, and assessed the wound. The bullet had grazed the fleshy part of his side. Hoping it hadn’t hit any vital organs on its journey, he dumped alcohol on the wound. Pain burst through him as bright as a flashbang, blinding him and buckling his legs. Panting, he dropped to his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.

When his vision cleared, he made a makeshift bandage from a bandana, filled his canteen with water, and fashioned a litter from a camp cot. The daily downpour continued. In the driving rain, it took him a few minutes to find Cheryl.

But only a second to realize she was dead.

No!

He dropped to his knees beside her body. He didn’t give a damn if the caiman ate those two drug traffickers, but he couldn’t leave Cheryl here.

Don’t leave me!

But he had, and she’d died alone.

White hot pain sliced him in two as he secured her to the cot. Dragging the litter behind him, he stumbled down the rutted trail. Each step sent sharp agony through his body.
Good.
Mac held on to the pain like a lifeline. Maybe it would keep him conscious long enough to make it to the village before he bled out. He pressed a hand to his side. At the moment, his survival seemed like a big maybe.

As he staggered through the jungle, he sent his family a mental apology. It didn’t seem likely that he’d make it home after all. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d been prepared to go home to see his father pass. Now it looked like Mac might be the first one to die.

Chapter Five

Wednesday, June 22, 2:00 p.m., Scarlet Falls, NY

Stella walked into the firing range. The muffled crack of gunshots bled through her earplugs.

And sweat pooled between her breasts.

This shouldn’t be hard. She was a good shot. Before November, her weekly practice session had been no more exciting than a trip to the gym, just one more thing she did to stay in shape as a cop. But now, every time she stared down the sights on her pistol, she thought of the shot she’d missed and the two cops who’d died as a result.

She set her bag on the wooden platform at the front of her assigned stall and removed her safety glasses and a box of bullets. Her heartbeat thudded over the steady
pop pop
of gunfire as she readied her stance. Discomfort flooded her body as she lined up her sights with the paper target. Her position felt all wrong, as if she’d never shot a gun before. She rolled a shoulder, cracked her neck, and stretched her arm, but there was no convincing her body that she’d done this a million times.

Her phone buzzed on her hip. She welcomed the distraction, until she read Frank’s name on her phone screen. She read his text:
Done. Get over here.

She holstered her weapon, returned her gear to her bag, and drove to the medical examiner’s office. Stella took a deep breath of fresh air in the parking lot, as if it were her last, and pushed inside. In the antechamber, she donned a gown, cap, and plastic face shield. Bracing herself, she tugged on a pair of gloves and went into the autopsy suite. Frank was leaning over a sink, his back to Stella.

The metallic, sweet smell of blood and cold decay hit her through the face shield. The rubber-edged doors swished shut behind her as she focused on shallow breaths.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “Stella, perfect timing.”

Perfect timing would be accidentally missing the whole thing.

“You said it was urgent,” Stella said, her face mask fogging up.

With a snort, Frank turned back to the sink. “We both know I wasn’t that polite.”

Frank stepped away from the sink. His face mask was tilted up onto his head. “You can come closer. I’ve finished with her.”

The sight of Missy, naked on the table, assaulted Stella’s senses, but she refused to turn away. The small surge of relief she’d felt that Frank had completed the autopsy faded almost as quickly as it hit.

“Oh, my God.”

Dozens of cuts lined Missy’s arms and legs. The lines were arranged in groups of five. Each had four vertical lines and one cross-wise cut, like tally marks.

Frank crossed his arms over his chest. “Each of these wounds is approximately two inches long and a quarter-inch deep.”

“How many are there?” Stella stared at the bloodless, raw-looking wounds.

“Forty.” Frank looked grim. “Plus this single stroke in the center of her belly.”

“Have you seen anything like this before?” Stella asked.

“Not quite. I’ve run into cutters before but nothing quite like this,” Frank said.

“Missy was a cutter?”

Frank pointed to a thin scar below the new wounds. “She has old scars on her forearms, so she probably cut herself at some point in the past.”

Stella could see healed track marks on Missy’s arms as well. All those old scars explained why she’d been wearing long sleeves in the heat of summer.

“But she didn’t do this to herself. Not this time.” Frank waved a hand over the body. “The directions and angles of the cuts aren’t consistent with self-inflicted wounds.” He pointed to a cluster of five lines. “A cut is deeper in the beginning or head of a knife wound because that’s where the pressure is the greatest. Toward the end or tail of the wound, the pressure is lighter and the cut becomes increasingly shallow. If she made these cuts herself, she would have cut toward herself. Instead the cuts run the opposite direction.”

“Someone was standing next to her,” Stella said.

“Also, she was restrained.” Frank pointed to deep bruises around Missy’s wrists and ankles.

“She was tied up and tortured.” Stunned and sickened, Stella scanned the body for other evidence. “Can you tell if the old cutting scars were self-inflicted?”

“No, but I doubt they were as deep.” Frank shook his head. “Are you thinking someone did this to her before?”

“I don’t know what to think. What else can you tell me?”

“She didn’t die at the scene. Estimated time of death is Saturday between four p.m. and midnight. There’s no sign of sexual assault. She presents as an overdose, and the syringe found at the scene contained traces of heroin, but I’ll need the toxicology report to confirm cause of death. I’ll let you know when that comes in. Even without the results, I’m calling this a homicide based on the use of restraints, the torture, and the fact that she was dumped at the scene. This was clearly not an accidental death or a suicide.”

“Thanks.” Stella bolted from the ME’s office and into the fresh air of the parking lot. As she walked to the crime scene investigators’ offices in the same complex, she dug a mint from her purse and chewed it to obliterate the smell of death from her nostrils. She stopped at the forensic lab in the same complex and signed Missy’s now-charged cell phone out on the evidence log. There were only a few recent calls and no texts. Missy likely kept the phone for emergency use only. Stella had already requested the call detail records from Missy’s cell service provider.

Neither of Missy’s employers had been surprised to hear of her death. The fact that she hadn’t shown up for work Friday or Saturday had been enough to worry them. She’d been a hard-working, exemplary employee. Stella hadn’t found so much as a single disgruntled coworker. Missy paid her bills on time and managed to save a small portion of her pay each week. Her background check was equally unremarkable. No arrests either here or in California.

A call from Brody interrupted her thoughts. “We have a possible break-in and missing woman. Can you pick me up at the station?”

Brody was waiting outside when she pulled up. He slid into the passenger seat and gave her the address.

As she drove, she updated him with Missy’s autopsy results. “She was tortured and killed. Either we have a sadistic killer roaming Scarlet Falls or Missy made someone very angry.”

“So our simple overdose is a murder investigation.” Brody’s voice rang with surprise. “This is a good reminder not to make assumptions about a case.”

A few minutes later, Stella parked at the curb in front of a white bungalow on a quiet street on the outskirts of town. The houses on both sides sat close, but mature trees and a line of tall hedges created privacy. A potential intruder would be shielded from any neighbor’s sight.

They climbed out of the car and headed toward the front porch. In addition to the patrol car at the curb, two vehicles occupied the driveway: a powder-blue Prius and a red Infiniti sedan. The front door stood open. Stella went up the three steps onto the stoop. Cool air chilled her skin as she stepped over the threshold.

Patrol Officer Lance Kruger met them in the foyer. This was Lance’s first week back on the job after taking a bullet in the November shoot-out. Stella would never forget the sound of the bullet hitting his flesh or the sight of him pale, shaking, and bleeding out on the grass. She shuddered and blocked the memory to give him a quick once-over. He was a little leaner and buffer. She saw no sign of a limp as he crossed the foyer and gestured toward the stairs. Lots of physical therapy, he’d said.

“The mess is in the master bath. The missing woman’s name is Dena Miller, age thirty-two.” Lance lowered his voice as he offered them the crime scene log. “The husband called it in. Says he came home from the golf course and found the master bathroom trashed and his wife missing.”

Stella took the clipboard. The call had come into the 911 dispatcher at two fifty-six p.m. She checked her watch. It was now three forty-five.

“Where is the husband?” Stella signed the log and handed the clipboard to Brody.

“Adam Miller is in the kitchen.” Lance showed her a snapshot of a painfully thin woman with a head of short, dark curls. “Dena Miller. Five-six. Brown hair and eyes.”

In the photo, she was sitting behind a birthday cake, candles ablaze. The smile on her face was robotic, as if her birthday hadn’t been a happy one.

“Do you want to talk to him or check out the scene first?” Lance asked.

“We’ll have a look upstairs.” She pulled gloves from her pocket and headed for the stairway. She wanted to see the scene before any conversation with the husband affected her initial impressions. Brody followed her up the steps.

A floorboard creaked underfoot as they stepped onto the second-floor landing. The master bedroom was mid-sized, with off-white carpeting and a queen-size bed. A jewelry box occupied the center of a dark wood dresser. With a gloved fingertip, Brody lifted the lid. Metal and stones sparkled against navy-blue velvet.

“There’s an iPad on the nightstand, too.” Stella peered over his shoulder. “I’m no jeweler, but it looks like she has a few nice pieces. Those studs look like diamonds.”

“Definitely not a robbery.” Brody eased the lid closed.

Stella crossed the carpet to the entrance of the master bath. Blood spattered the tiles and walls. Gold-colored glass shards littered the tile floor, and the room reeked of perfume. The glass door to the shower was open. The hamper was overturned, and the bathmat shoved against the wall. But Stella’s gaze lingered on the crimson trail on the white tile.

“The blood drops are dry, but they look fresh.” The drops would darken as they aged due to oxidation of iron in the blood. “It couldn’t have happened too long before the husband called it in. Maybe she was showering when someone surprised her.” Stella let her gaze sweep the room. She suppressed a shudder as she imagined standing in the shower, naked, vulnerable. The shower door opening. Terror washing over her as she saw the stranger in her bathroom. She envisioned her wet feet slipping on the tile, perhaps gaining her footing for a few seconds and reaching for the vanity. A man grabbing her, dragging her toward the door.

“You ready to talk to the husband?” Brody asked.

“Yes.” Shivering, Stella headed for the stairs with Brody on her heels.

At the foot of the steps, they walked down a short hall and into a living room open to the kitchen. The downstairs appeared undisturbed. There was the normal amount of daily living clutter: some mail on the hall table, a pair of athletic shoes half tucked under the sofa, two glasses in the sink, but nothing that indicated a struggle.

Adam Miller sat at the kitchen table. In his early thirties, he was clean-cut and dressed in my-daddy’s-a-lawyer attire: basic salmon-colored shorts and a white polo shirt. He blinked up at them as they walked into the room. His eyes were empty and stunned.

Stella turned a chair to face the husband, sat, and then introduced herself and Brody. “Mr. Miller, can you tell us what happened?”

His gaze dropped to his clenched hands. “I came home from the golf course to change. The door was open. It’s never open. Dena always keeps the doors locked when she’s home alone.”

“Was the door wide open?” Stella nudged him back on track.

“No. Less than an inch. Not enough for me to notice until I tried to put my key in the lock.”

“What did you do?”

“I went into the kitchen.” He rubbed the back of his hand under his nose. “She wasn’t there, but her phone was on the counter where she usually leaves it to charge.” Adam nodded toward a flat expanse of counter where a cell phone was plugged into the wall. “I thought she must be upstairs. Maybe her hands had been full and she’d forgotten to shut the door. But when I got up there and saw the mess . . .” He paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you recognize the broken glass?” Stella asked.

“Yes. Dena keeps several bottles of perfume on the vanity.” Adam’s chest heaved. “I can’t believe it. Everything was finally going good for her. For us.”

“Does Dena work?”

“No. She’s on disability,” he said. “She fell down the stairs four years ago and broke a bone in her neck.”

“Is she able to walk and drive?”

He nodded. “She’s doing really well lately. She found a good physical therapist and is making progress.”

“What do you do for a living?” Stella asked.

“I’m an accountant.” Miller clenched his fist, uncurled the fingers, and tightened them again.

“You were playing golf today?”

He nodded. “I’ve been trying to land this new client. A round of golf guarantees four solid hours to make a subtle pitch.”

“What time did you get home?” Stella prompted.

“I left the course about two thirty, after a long lunch.” Adam’s voice was quiet and unsteady. “I wanted to drop off my clubs, shower, and change before heading back to the office.” He dropped his hand, raised his chin, and met Stella’s gaze. His brown eyes radiated pain and confusion. “Where is my wife?” His voice broke.

“That’s what we want to find out,” Stella said.

He sniffed, a ragged breath shaking him.

Stella gave him a few seconds to compose himself. “Does she have any close family or friends?”

He shook his head. “No. Since her accident, she doesn’t go out much. She’s an only child and her parents are dead.”

“Do you know what your wife’s plans were for today?”

“She was scheduled to see her physical therapist this morning and then get a massage at one o’clock. I
expected
her to be home when I got here.”

“Do you know if she made it to either appointment?” Stella took a small notebook from her jacket pocket.

Adam jumped to his feet, his hand patting his pocket and pulling out a cell phone. “No. I was so upset when I saw the broken glass and the blood in the bathroom, I wasn’t thinking. Let me call them now.”

“We’ll call.” Stella made a note of the phone numbers as he read them to her. “Did she mention anything unusual this week? Was she upset or did she display any odd behavior?”

“No.” His chin snapped up. “You’re not going to write her off as not worth your time, are you? Or make me wait forty-eight hours before you start looking for her?”