Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Read online

  Stella studied the spongy ground between the parking area and the field. “Two sets of footprints. Forensics will have to match the treads, but let’s assume those are Taggert’s.” She pointed to a line of footprints that ended next to the vomit. The second set stopped a few feet earlier. “And those belong to the uniform.”

  Brody studied the ground. “If the victim or anyone else walked back here after yesterday’s storms, we’d definitely see footprints.”

  “So she’s been here since before the rain,” Stella said. “But probably not until late Saturday night, after the games were finished.”

  The thick, humid air intensified the odor as they neared the entrance to the dugout. The almost sweet, metallic scent seeped past Stella’s sinuses and penetrated her taste buds. She clamped her mouth closed and breathed through her nose. Didn’t help much. Next to her, Brody exhaled as they faced the body.

  In damp jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, a woman was sprawled on the aluminum bench. Long hair spilled across her face in a brown curtain, and a pale blue silk scarf was knotted loosely around her neck. Flies buzzed around her head. One hand trailed off into a mud puddle, and animals had found the corpse. Stella spotted a hypodermic needle in the mud under the bench and a brown leather purse on the bench.

  She turned in a circle. “The back of the dugout shielded her from view of the street or parking lot.”

  Frank came around the dugout and stood next to Stella. He put on gloves as he scanned the scene. “What do we know?”

  “Little League coach found her about an hour ago.” Stella gave him a summary while the forensic photographer snapped long-range, medium, and close-up shots from varying angles. When the photographs were complete, Frank moved closer. He lifted the victim’s hair. Bruises trailed down the left side of her face. “Insects have been busy, and it looks like someone used her as a punching bag.”

  Stella’s legs weakened as she studied the women’s face.

  It couldn’t be.

  Brody touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  Even with the bruising and insect activity, the woman looked familiar. Too familiar.

  Stella’s stomach did a slow tumble. “I think I know her.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow.

  Hoping she was wrong, Stella moved toward the woman’s purse. With unsteady, gloved hands, she drew the zipper, pulled out a wallet, and opened it to view the woman’s driver’s license. Shock slid over her in a clammy wave. “Her name is Missy Green. We graduated high school together.”

  “She was a friend?” Brody asked.

  “Yes, but I haven’t seen her in a long time.” Stella noted her address was not the house where her parents had lived, but then, not many people still lived at home at thirty. Except Stella. “There’s thirty dollars cash in here, so she wasn’t robbed.”

  “Is there a cell phone in her purse?” Brody asked.

  Stella looked past the usual tissues, tampons, and lipstick and found a cheap cell. “Yes. Battery’s dead.”

  “No obvious cause of death on initial inspection.” Frank lifted the woman’s arm. The limb moved with no resistance. “Rigor’s come and gone.” His gaze moved over the dugout. “The heat and moisture would have accelerated decomposition.” He frowned at the body. “She’s been dead at least thirty-six hours.” Frank tapped his assistant on the arm. “I doubt she’s been dead longer than three days, but I want live and dead maggots just in case.”

  Stella breathed. The bugs always got to her.

  Brody leaned close to her ear. “You can step away if you need to.”

  She shook her head. “This is a small town. It isn’t the first time I’ve encountered someone I know.” Sadness clogged her throat as she corrected herself. “Knew.”

  “Considering the hypodermic, overdose is a definite possibility,” Frank said.

  “Did you look for track marks?” Stella asked.

  “Her sleeves are snug. I don’t want to disturb her hands until after I’ve scraped under her nails.” Frank stepped back. “Not sure when I’ll get to her autopsy. We’re tied up with multiple victims from that residential house fire. I’ll call you.” Frank stood and signaled to his assistant.

  “What do you think?” Brody asked, stepping back as the morgue assistant wheeled a gurney to the dugout. Arranging a white evidence sheet inside the black body bag, he and Frank transferred the body. Stella flinched as the bag closed over Missy’s face with a final zip.

  Poor Missy.

  “The needle indicates drugs, but someone beat her.” Stella turned back toward her car.

  Brody fell into step beside her. “Drugs and violence often go hand-in-hand.”

  “They do.”

  Reporters swarmed her as she ducked under the crime scene tape. She raised a hand to block the microphone shoved in her face.

  “Detective Dane, are you handling this case?”

  She breathed through her first instinct, which was to tell the reporter to go away. Police Chief Horner was adamant about polite press-police relations. As long as Stella worked for the Scarlet Falls PD, she had to give the press her attention and company manners. “I’ll be working on this case, along with the rest of the Scarlet Falls Police Department.”

  “What can you tell us about the victim?” Another reporter waved his mic at her. “How did she die?”

  Stella leaned closer to a mic. “Cause of death will be determined by the medical examiner.”

  “Can you identify the body?”

  “The deceased’s identity will be publicized after next of kin are notified,” Stella said.

  The shouts continued. “What can you tell us about the death? Was it murder?”

  Stella held up her hand. “We’re just beginning our investigation. It’s too early for any assumptions. We’ll issue updates as information becomes available. Now you’ll have to excuse me.” Stella threaded her way through the throng to her vehicle. But the reporters’ questions hit home. She knew nothing about Missy’s adult life.

  Stella and Brody got into the car, and she drove to the address listed on Missy’s driver’s license. Parking at the curb, she surveyed the one-story, gray house. “A 2004 blue Toyota Corolla is registered to Missy Green. I don’t see it here.”

  “It wasn’t at the baseball field either.” Brody climbed out of the car.

  “So how did she get there?” Stella followed him to the sidewalk.

  Missy had lived in an apartment behind the house. Painted to match the house in front, the small unit appeared to be a converted workshop or storage building. A single cement step led to a tiny stoop and front door. They climbed the step, and Stella knocked. No one answered. Covering her eyes, she peered through the glass panes in the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  Stella turned. An elderly woman stood on the walkway. Her black polyester slacks swished as she pushed her four-wheeled walker forward.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Stella moved her blazer to show the badge on her belt and introduced herself and Brody. “Could I have your name please?”

  Under a poof of dyed brown hair, the woman’s penciled-on eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m Mrs. Sterling. I own this property.”

  “Missy is your tenant?”

  “She is.” Mrs. Sterling’s wrinkled lips pressed flat. “Did something happen to her?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Stella evaded the question. Missy’s family deserved to hear the news first.

  Mrs. Sterling splayed a hand above her saggy bosom. “She was that woman found at the baseball field, wasn’t she? I just saw it on the news. They didn’t give her name, but why else would two detectives be here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stella admitted.

  “I knew there was a reason I hadn’t seen her for a few days.” Mrs. Sterling turned and sat on the padded seat of her walker. “I was hoping maybe she’d met someone.” Taking a tissue from the pocket of her sweater, she blotted her eyes. “Missy was a nice girl.”

  “No
trouble with her as a tenant?”

  “No. None. Missy kept to herself. She worked two jobs, day shift as a cashier at the grocery store on Elm Street, and she cleaned offices at night. Didn’t leave her much time for trouble.”

  “I guess not,” Stella said. “How long has she lived here?”

  “Just a few months.”

  “Do you know if she has any friends?”

  “I’ve never seen any around, but I know her mother lives nearby. If you want to look in her apartment, I can get my key.” She rocked back and forth twice to gain enough momentum to shift to her feet.

  “Did she live alone?” Stella asked.

  “Of course. I specified no roommates when she signed the lease, and she was too busy working for any entertaining. My last tenant was a college student. He was a problem. Loud music and girls coming and going at all hours.” Mrs. Sterling’s mouth puckered. “But there were no parties or other shenanigans with Missy.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Let’s see.” Stuffing the tissue back in her pocket, she pressed a forefinger to the corner of her mouth. “I don’t remember exactly. A few days at least. Missy works a lot. Sometimes she’s gone before I get up and not home yet when I go to bed.” She shuffled up a cement path toward the house. “Let me get that key.”

  “Mind if I look around?” Brody asked.

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Sterling said over her shoulder. “How did she die?”

  “We’re not sure,” Stella said.

  Stella followed Mrs. Sterling to the back door and retrieved the key.

  Missy’s apartment was small and Spartan, but a skylight in the center of the living room admitted plenty of light. A kitchen was visible through an archway, and a short hallway led to the bedroom and single bath. Missy’s furniture was limited to the basics. Stella walked down the corridor and peered into the bedroom. A full size mattress and box spring rested on the carpet. An overturned shipping crate served for a nightstand and a floor lamp was positioned next to the bed.

  “This won’t take long,” Brody said.

  Stella opened kitchen drawers and found the usual contents. Magnets affixed a few recent snapshots of Missy and her mom to the fridge. Below them, a paper listed phone numbers: two places of work, Mrs. Sterling, and a number labeled “Mom.”

  “Do you know where her mother lives?” Brody asked.

  “I know where she used to live.” And going there was the very last thing that Stella wanted to do. They didn’t find a laptop, but a calendar hung on the kitchen wall. The majority of the notations appeared to be work shifts, but a few abbreviations caught Stella’s eye. She took down the calendar, slid it into a yellow clasp envelope, and filled out the Evidence label.

  They left the apartment and drove across town to a mature neighborhood. Tall oak trees lined the street. One-level box homes squatted on tiny lots defined by chain-link fences. Stella parked in front of a yellow house that seemed unchanged from high school. Peeling gold letters spelled Green in block print on the mailbox.

  None of the scripts Stella had rehearsed in her head seemed to work. How did you tell a woman her daughter was dead?

  “When I gave you this case, we didn’t know you’d been friends with the victim. It’s all right if you need to pass it back.” Brody put a hand on her shoulder. “Notifying next of kin is hard enough when it’s strangers.”

  It was tempting to hand off the duty, but Stella shook her head and headed for the front gate. “It’ll be easier on Mrs. Green coming from me. That’s what’s important.”

  Her hand lingered on the gate. How many times had she opened and closed it during her teen years? Mrs. Green had had a yappy little dog that had liked to chase cars, and she’d been vigilant about keeping the gate closed.

  The air had gone still, and her blazer was stifling. Sweat broke out under her arms. She took a shaky breath and pressed the doorbell, half hoping that no one was home. But footsteps approached, and the door swung open. In her late-fifties, Mrs. Green was tall like her daughter had been. Her hair was cut in a chin-length bob and dyed medium brown. Her cheekbones and jawline had softened, but she’d aged well.

  Mrs. Green tilted her head. “Stella? Stella Dane. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Smiling, she stepped back. “Come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Green.” Stella gestured to Brody. “This is Detective McNamara.”

  “I heard you were a policewoman.” Mrs. Green’s smiled faded, as if she suddenly wondered why two police officers were standing on her doorstep.

  Stella crossed the threshold. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What can I do for you?” Mrs. Green’s voice lifted with apprehension.

  “Can we sit down?” Stella felt Brody’s steady presence behind her as Mrs. Green led them into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Green’s eyes were worried as she eased into a chair.

  Stella turned a chair to face her. “Did you see the news today?”

  “No.” Mrs. Green’s smile was weak. “I just got home from work.”

  Stella breathed. “The body of a woman was found at one of the township baseball fields today.”

  Mrs. Green gasped. One hand covered her mouth then dropped into her lap.

  Stella reached out to take her hands. “It’s Missy.”

  “No.” Mrs. Green shook her head as if she was trying to shake out the thought. “That can’t be. I just saw her Thursday. I took her to lunch. She was fine.”

  Stella squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” Mrs. Green wrenched them away. She jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over and backing up until she was trapped against the kitchen counter. “No.” She slid down the front of the cabinet to the floor. She pressed a fist to her mouth and rocked. In her eyes, shock and denial warred with the truth. “It has to be a mistake.”

  Stella went to her. She dropped onto her knees beside Missy’s mother and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. The older woman’s grief seemed to flow into her.

  A long minute later, Mrs. Green pushed away. “How?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Stella said in a gentle tone. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Green wiped tears from her face with her fingertips.

  “Did Missy use drugs?”

  Mrs. Green nodded. “Alcohol, too. When she was living in Los Angeles. She had some success writing screenplays, but threw away all her money on drugs. I warned her about that lifestyle. Too much money. Too many wild parties. It took me three years to convince her to come home and get straightened out.” She looked up, her gaze sharpening. “How did you know?”

  “We found a needle at the scene,” Stella said gently.

  Mrs. Green shuddered. A trembling breath left her body. “I can’t believe it. She promised me she’d never use again, and you know how stubborn she is.”

  Stella thought of the bruises on Missy’s face. “Was there a man or other friends in her life?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did she have any contact with her friends in California?” Stella asked.

  “Not that I know of. She was determined to stay far away from everything that reminded her of that life. She wouldn’t even consider writing again.” Mrs. Green hugged her own waist. “What happened to her?”

  “We’ll do everything we can to find out,” Stella reassured her. “How did she get clean?”

  Mrs. Green sniffed and blotted her eyes with a tissue. “I borrowed money from my sister to put her in rehab.” Fresh tears overflowed Mrs. Green’s eyes. “She was doing so well, working two jobs to earn the money to pay back my sister. I was so proud of her.”

  Sorrow filled Stella’s heart until she couldn’t draw a deep breath.

  “Tell me you’ll find out what happened to my baby,” Mrs. Green pleaded. “I know she didn’t do this to herself. Missy wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Stella put a hand on her forearm. “I’ll do my best.”

  Images of a youthfu
l Missy spun through her mind: sitting on the floor of Stella’s bedroom painting her toenails, floating in an inner tube on the river behind Stella’s house, tossing her cap at high school graduation.

  And now she was dead.

  Chapter Three

  He pushed the Record button on his cable box as a Breaking News Report banner scrolled across the screen. A reporter stood in front of the baseball field, as close as she could get to the dugout without crossing the crime scene tape barrier.

  Finally! They’d found her. He never thought it would take so long.

  The reporters intercepted a beautiful brunette in a serious suit. He turned up the volume just in time to catch her name. She was a police detective?

  “It’s too early to make assumptions,” Detective Dane said before she ducked the reporters.

  Too early? Assumptions? How did they not understand? They just didn’t get it. No one appreciated the irony. His sigh was long, deep, and full of disappointment.

  He’d left Missy at a baseball field with a hypodermic needle at her side, a junkie in the middle of America’s symbol of wholesomeness. He’d thought the contrast was interesting, even artistic. He’d positioned her carefully. Hell, he’d even wrapped a fucking bow around her neck. But apparently he’d been too subtle. Maybe if he’d left an apple pie in her lap, the police would have gotten the message.

  He opened his folder. Eight-by-ten color glossies of Missy lying on the bench, arms folded across her midsection Sleeping Beauty-style, hypodermic needle tucked beneath her overlapping fingers. He’d positioned her late Saturday night. Since then, an entire day of severe storms had raged through the area. Maybe the weather or time had affected the precise positioning of Missy’s body.

  Next time he’d be more careful. He’d make sure his message was delivered on time.

  On the TV, behind the reporters, two men in coveralls rolled a gurney toward a white and red van. Missy had been zipped into a black body bag.

  Too bad.

  The public should see what happened to the fallen. She’d deserved what she’d gotten. He’d performed a public service: judgment, punishment, and execution of the depraved.