Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(37)

So what exactly went down in this security-tight apartment? Yesterday, late morning, Dr. Keynes dropped off Flora outside. Her mother was already upstairs, had made muffins. She fed them to her daughter; they caught up briefly. So, Mom, about last night . . . How did such a conversation go? And what did Rosa Dane think of her daughter’s late-night escapades?

D.D. stood in the kitchen. She pictured herself as the mom, baking muffins. She pictured Flora walking through the door, clad in secondhand Boston PD sweats and covered in garbage. She remembered the smell that had coated her own skin from the crime scene, then, with a short nod, headed for the bathroom.

Sure enough, on the back of the door hung a bath towel, still damp. She removed the lid from the wicker clothes hamper tucked in the corner and immediately wrinkled her nose at the stench. Garbage-scented Boston PD sweats. Check.

So among Flora’s first order of business upon returning home would’ve been to clean up. And then?

Girl had been up twenty-four hours at that point. She would’ve been tired, as well as hungry. According to witness statements, she’d been drinking at the bar, not eating.

D.D. was biased on the subject, but given a choice between eating and sleeping, she’d go with eating any day of the week. Especially given that Flora’s mother would’ve been waiting for her in the kitchen, with the scent of homemade muffins wafting in the air.

Following that instinct, D.D. returned to the kitchen. This time, she discovered a gallon-size freezer bag tucked in the corner containing six blueberry muffins. The leftovers, she would guess. And they still looked delicious.

Next, she checked the refrigerator, where she discovered a brand-new jug of orange juice and bowl of recently cut-up fruit. Edges of the apples were just starting to brown, so she was willing to bet they came from yesterday’s snack with the mom as well.

As for other contents . . . She pulled out some takeout containers, sniffed experimentally, recoiled. Best she could tell, Flora had one edible meal in her whole kitchen, and that was the food supplied by Mom. Which meant?

“She never ate dinner,” D.D. stated out loud.

“Pardon?” Dr. Keynes had come up behind her. He still wore his coat, though it was now unbuttoned. How he didn’t sweat, given the stuffy confines of the small space, she’d never know.

“Yesterday. Flora returned home, showered, ate with her mom a late breakfast, early lunch—”

“Brunch?”

“Sure. Muffins and fruit. Brunch. But that was it. I mean unless she went out. Which, given the lack of credit card activity, let alone her own state of mind . . .”

“She would’ve rested. Post–adrenaline crash.”

“Okay. But she ate with her mom, what, one or two in the afternoon?”

“Rosa confirmed she left shortly after one.”

“So most likely she would’ve lain down for a nap. Too early in the day to go to bed, bed.”

Keynes shrugged one shoulder. “Given the large windows, the overall brightness of the space, I suspect she would retire to her room to rest.”

“You mean the shrine to kidnapping victims everywhere?”

Another elegant shrug. He turned and headed for Flora’s bedroom. D.D. followed behind him.

Like the rest of the apartment, the room was small. The newspaper articles plastered all over the walls offered its main distinction. Otherwise just the modest desk and the rumpled bed, which definitely appeared to have been slept in.

D.D. pushed by Keynes’s larger build, which nearly filled the narrow space, to cross to the bed. She leaned over the thin pillow, sniffed experimentally. When she looked up again, she spotted Keynes studying her.

“Searching for chloroform,” she provided. “It has a distinct smell, which takes a bit to fade. Might be traces on the pillow. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.”

“He would have to have subdued her quickly,” Keynes said. “Otherwise, given Flora’s training . . . Where are the signs of a struggle?”

He had a point there. The apartment appeared relatively untouched, one of the more unsettling things about the situation. And indeed, given what Flora was capable of . . .

“He had already made a key for the locks. It’s possible he was already inside, waiting for her.”

“Not likely. Rosa was here for several hours before Flora returned home. When Rosa is anxious, she doesn’t just cook, she cleans.”

“And if she was puttering around, tidying up this small space,” D.D. filled in, “where could an intruder hide that she wouldn’t have seen?”

“Exactly.”

D.D. nodded, following the train of logic. “All right. So first Rosa arrives at the apartment. Let’s herself in, does her thing. Then you drop off Flora. Mom and daughter catch up, exchange words . . . ?”

She eyed Keynes expectantly. But he refused to take the bait. Apparently, he either didn’t know what Rosa had said to her daughter—which D.D. didn’t believe for a minute—or he didn’t feel it was relevant to the investigation.

“Mom departs shortly after one. At which point, we know Flora didn’t make any calls and didn’t use her computer or credit cards. Which leaves us with?”

“She took a nap.”

D.D. liked it. Certainly, in her experience, unconsciousness was about the only thing that kept a younger person from his or her electronics.