Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(12)

She went to the window and peered through the thick curtains at the crowded parking lot. Beyond it was an interstate busy with Saturday night traffic, people headed out to bars and restaurants. She thought of her sister and her brother-in-law’s college friend. She could be having Tex-Mex and margaritas right now, but instead she was working. Again. And it wasn’t just because of the trial Monday. Not even her sister knew that she’d worked every Saturday for the past seven months. It was her routine. Her choice.

Her coping mechanism.

When she worked, she didn’t have to think about what a mess she’d made of her personal life.

Another shrill noise made her jump. Cursing, she grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

Silence.

Then “Ms. Holloran?”

“Yes?”

“This is Erik Morgan.”

“How did you—” She didn’t finish. Of course he knew where she was—he was picking her up in the morning.

“Everything all right there?”

“Fine. Yes. I’m just getting some work done.”

“I won’t keep you,” he said. “I wanted to let you know we processed your cell phone, and everything looks clean.”

“Clean?”

“No bugs or viruses or extraneous tracking software.”

She sank down onto the bed, unable to believe she was having this conversation. Sure, she knew phones could be used to track people, but she couldn’t really believe someone would do it to her. This whole thing seemed surreal. Imaginary.

But there was nothing imaginary about Jen’s death. Because of her job, Jen had always been careful about her security. And yet someone had broken into her home and shot her.

“Thanks for the update.” Brynn tried to sound casual.

“I’ll have it back to you in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Eight o’clock,” he reminded her.

“I’ll be ready,” she said with confidence.

But she wasn’t ready for any of this.

Lindsey Leary knew it was bad the second she set foot in the house. The humid air was thick with the coppery scent of blood. Lindsey made her way down the hallway, her paper shoe covers rasping softly against the hardwood floor.

She stopped in the doorway, and the officer behind her whistled.

“Damn. You ever seen so much blood?”

She tore her gaze away from the stain on the floor to look at the shattered patio door. A sheet of black plastic had been taped over the opening.

“Linds?”

She glanced at Dillon. “Huh?”

“You ever seen anything like this?”

“No.”

Although, actually, she had. Looking at the floor again, she remembered visiting her uncle’s farm in South Texas. He’d just slaughtered a pig, and Lindsey had arrived in time to see it being butchered in a giant cast-iron kettle by the back porch. The blood on the ground had been a similar shade of dark red, and Lindsey hadn’t been able to eat bacon for years.

She stepped closer to the stain. Bandages and other detritus from the paramedics lay scattered across the floor, and Lindsey didn’t envy the CSIs who’d had to sort through all this mess.

Dillon stepped back, covering his nose. “This heat isn’t helping.”

No, it wasn’t. Lindsey looked across the room at the busted-out door. Gaps in the plastic had let flies inside and let the air-conditioning escape. Today’s temp had hit one hundred degrees, and the interior of the house had probably gotten close to that.

Lindsey dug into the pocket of her blazer and realized she’d left her flashlight in her car. Before she could ask, Dillon handed over the Maglite from his duty belt. It was big enough to double as a club.

Lindsey scooped her long brown hair over her shoulder to keep it out of the way as she crouched down to examine the floor. Normally, she wore a ponytail to work, but she’d been on her way out to a bar when she’d gotten the call from Max Gorman. The veteran detective had asked for Lindsey’s take on the crime scene, and she’d been so flattered that she’d snagged a patrol officer and come over here on her night off.

“What’s with the glass there?” Dillon asked as she swept the beam of light over the shards. “That’s got to be, what, fifteen feet from the patio door?”

“I was just wondering that.” Lindsey stood up. She walked into the kitchen, where yellow evidence markers denoted places where CSIs had collected evidence.

Lindsey pulled her phone out and scrolled through the photos from Max. She found the one she was looking for, a shot of a mostly full bottle of merlot that had been sitting on the counter beside a bottle opener when detectives arrived at the scene. The bottle was now at the lab, being run for prints.

In Lindsey’s mind, what was more interesting than what had been found at this crime scene was what hadn’t been found: fingerprints, footprints, hair from the perpetrator. They’d found no murder weapon, slugs, or even shell casings. No communication from the killer, such as a note or a symbolic object, which might have been expected if you bought into the working assumption that Judge Ballard was murdered by the vengeful escaped convict James Corby.

But Lindsey didn’t buy into that. Not yet. And she didn’t like assumptions. Max didn’t, either, which was why he had wanted her opinion on this case.