The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(77)

Death slid the needle into Knox’s arm with such tenderness, he barely felt more than a slight pinch. Slowly, Death pushed the plunger until the warmth spread through his old body, giving him a temporary boost.

“Thank you,” Knox said.

Death patted him on the arm. “We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve got to look out for each other.”

Knox’s vision blurred. And seconds later, he stopped breathing.




It took Sharp less than a half hour to reach the lakefront community north of Richmond. He showed his badge at the security entrance to the development and drove up to the lake house. It was a massive home full of windows and wide porches to take maximum advantage of the view. Roger once had a friend with a home on this lake, and he had brought Kara and his mother up here often. They’d loved it.

He parked in the circular driveway and walked along the brick path to the front door. Sharp knocked, but he didn’t get an answer. He looked under the flowerpot for the key Veronica had mentioned. Inside the house, he flipped on the lights. The house was utterly still, and he sensed no one had been there for months. He did a systematic search of all the rooms, but he did not find any signs that Elena had been here. For a long moment he stood in silence, tapping his finger against his belt.

Back in his car, he called Vargas and confirmed there was no sign of Elena in the house. As he reached the main road, he turned toward Knox’s house.

Time he and the old man had a chat.

He reached the small rancher lit by a single light in the front window. When he approached the front door, he knocked. He tried the doorbell. No sound in the house. “Mr. Knox.”

Silence.

He tried the door and found it unlocked. He opened it. “Mr. Knox!”

The hair on the back of his neck rose. He clicked on a light and drew his weapon. Papers and magazines were stacked high in the hallway. There were dozens of pizza cartons. The place smelled of rot and mold.

He moved slowly, checking left and right as he reached the center room overlooking the lake.

The back of a worn recliner patched in several places with duct tape faced the water. The stacks around the chair had toppled, suggesting the chair had been recently moved.

The air in the room grew heavier, and the worry in the pit of his stomach gnawed like a rat. Bracing, he came around the recliner and found Knox slumped back, a .35 in his lap, clutched loosely in his right hand.

Knox lay in his chair, his jaw slack, his heavily lidded eyes staring blankly into the air. Sharp approached the man and touched fingers to his neck. There was no pulse, but his skin was still warm. He was dead. Next to his body on the cluttered nightstand was a scrawled note. It read, I’m sorry. I should have done more.





CHAPTER TWENTY


Sunday, October 9, 7:00 p.m.

Tessa arrived at the home of Douglas Knox along with Jerry in the medical examiner’s van. The residence was lit up with flashing lights from three squad cars.

“This is a lot of cops,” Jerry said.

Tessa grabbed her kit. “He was a chief of police at one time. Always strikes a nerve with cops when one of their own dies.”

“Right.”

Out of the van, Jerry unloaded the stretcher from the bay. Tessa set her kit in the center and pulled on latex gloves, and the two pushed the stretcher toward the front door, where a state police trooper stood.

Tessa held up her identification badge. “Medical examiner’s office.”

He glanced at the tag. “Go on in, Dr. McGowan.”

One step in the front door and she realized it wouldn’t be easy to get past all the stacks and clutter. “Tight fit.”

“I’ve been through worse.”

They edged the stretcher past the piles, at one point catching several stacks of newspapers with the back wheel. In the center room, she saw the forensic tech shooting pictures of a recliner facing the lake.

“Dr. McGowan.” Dakota’s voice cut through her thoughts, making her stand a little straighter.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Agent. I understand this is a possible overdose.”

His gaze held hers a beat. “No signs of trauma on the body, but there’s a note beside it that reads, ‘I’m sorry. I should have done more.’”

“Let’s have a look.” She moved around him toward the front of the recliner and hesitated a beat when she saw the note. Her gaze shifted to the man’s right shirtsleeve. The button was unfastened, whereas the left cuff was hooked. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, indicating he’d been dead less than an hour or two.

She pushed up the sleeve and saw the small pinprick at the bend in his arm. “Did you find a syringe?”

“No.”

“You checked behind him, in the seat cushions, and on the floor?”

“I did. Nothing.”

“Let’s have a look in his bedroom and medicine cabinet first,” Jerry said. “We might find it there.”

“I looked there,” Dakota said. “But you might see something I missed.”

When someone died, their home often gave clues to the cause of death. Drugs, high-fat foods, too many prescription meds, and alcohol were all predictors of death. It was a short list, but they made up 90 percent of the cases.

She wanted to find the syringe, which could prove he’d done this to himself.