Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls #3)(13)
Stella would look again, but she didn’t remember seeing it in the bedroom. “What about her calendar and contact information?”
“In her cell phone.” Adam gave Stella the passcode and the phone. “Take anything else you need.”
“A current picture of your wife would be helpful,” Brody added.
“Of course.” Adam crossed the room to a unit of shelves and selected a framed photo.
Stella pictured the broken glass and the blood in the bedroom. The absence of Dena’s purse was odd. “Is it possible she cut herself and called a friend to take her to the ER?”
“No.” Adam lifted his chin. “She would have called me. There’s no one in her life closer to her.” With a stifled sob, he closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his forehead.
Brody called for additional support, and two more patrol officers arrived to help knock on doors and question neighbors. Hours later, they had little information. None of the neighbors had seen any unusual activity. A search of the grounds and neighborhood turned up nothing. No one by the name of Dena Miller had been admitted to the local hospital, and the morgue didn’t have any unclaimed bodies meeting her description. Dena didn’t use social media, and she had no chronic health conditions other than her neck injury.
Standing on the covered front porch, Stella stared out at the rain. Thunder boomed across the quiet neighborhood. On the porch, purple petunias rioted in hanging pots, and a pair of wicker rocking chairs invited guests to have a glass of iced tea. Small but cheerful, it was the sort of house young married couples purchased as a starter home. While it wasn’t a ritzy area, the neighborhood was mature and solid. People took care of their homes. Kids played in the street. Homeowners mowed their lawns on Saturday mornings.
Brody came out of the house, pulling the door closed behind him. “I’m catching a ride with Lance to the nursing home. Hannah called. She needs me there. Can you handle things here?”
“Sure.” Stella was waiting for the forensics techs to finish collecting evidence. “Do you think it’s coincidental that we have one woman kidnapped, tortured, and killed and another gone missing just a few days apart?”
Brody shook his head. “I don’t like coincidences, but it’s too early for assumptions. Missy Green’s apartment showed no signs of a struggle.”
“True, but we don’t know where or how she was abducted.” Stella took a step back, out of the rain’s reach. “But both women have dark hair. They’re close in age.”
“Maybe we’ll find a link.” Brody nodded. “Go home and get a few hours of sleep.”
Stella had called the physical therapist and the spa. Dena had attended both appointments, and had left the spa at one p.m. “I’ll go through her calendar and contacts and get background checks on Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”
“What did you think of the husband?” Brody asked.
“I don’t know.” Stella glanced back at the house. “The spouse is always the first suspect.”
“I’ll take their financial statements home with me, and I’ll focus on Adam. We could get a call tonight that she turned up safe and sound. That’s what usually happens.”
Most missing people turned up within a day or two. But Stella didn’t think that was going to be the case. Too much blood was splattered all over the Millers’ bathroom. No matter how Stella tried to explain it away, she knew deep in her gut that Dena Miller didn’t leave her house under her own steam.
Someone took her.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, June 22, 9 p.m., Scarlet Falls, NY
Mac pulled into the lot of the nursing home and parked his beat-up Jeep. A glance in the rearview mirror told him he looked ragged. He heaved his battered body out of the vehicle. Every inch of him ached. He ran a hand through his rain-dampened hair but knew he still could pass for a guy who lived in a cardboard box under the bridge.
But what could he do? He’d concentrated on not dying and getting home as quickly as possible.
Two villagers had driven him—and Cheryl’s body—to the hospital in Tabatinga. Returning her remains to her family was small consolation. She shouldn’t have died.
Mac had been lucky. The bullet had merely grazed him, and the wound had been shallow. Thirty stitches and a truckload of antibiotics had been followed by a painful discussion with Mac’s boss and a grueling session with the local polícia. As far as they were concerned, Americans should stay out of the jungle, the traffickers were dead, and justice had been served.
After he’d been patched up, he’d embarked on a series of planes, trains, and automobiles. A three-hour layover in Manaus provided enough time to shower and change, and he’d managed to doze off a few times on the flight to LaGuardia. But sleeping in economy class with a bullet wound in his side had proved challenging, and he felt like he’d been dragged behind the train from New York City to Albany instead of riding in the business-class car.
The sliding glass doors of the nursing home opened with a whoosh. After the intense heat and humidity of the jungle, the air-conditioning felt like a refrigerator. He fought his instant claustrophobia. His feet wanted to turn and run out of the building. He’d take the Adirondacks, the jungle, the frigging Arctic Circle, anything to avoid being trapped in a medical facility. With every breath, the scents of disinfectant and human waste flooded his nose. The olfactory representation of human misery—and his childhood—closed in on him.