Exposed (4 page)

She swept her flashlight over the walls, the baseboards,
the ceiling—a spot often overlooked by fleeing suspects. She glanced at the undisturbed bed again and at the victim’s jeans, which were zipped and buttoned. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Maddie’s gaze went to the lipstick, and she composed a narrative: Isabella is home, putting on makeup, maybe getting ready for an evening out. No car out front, so maybe the burglar assumes no one is home. He pries open the door, surprises the victim, strangles her, grabs her valuables, and flees the scene.

Maddie studied the bed again. She turned to Craig. “I need to use the UV light.”

“Fine by me.”

Craig and Buzz Cut stepped out of the room, and she flipped off all the lights. She took the handheld alternative light source from her bag and donned a pair of orange-tinted eye shields. She shone the ALS on the bedspread and the floor but saw no bright spots that would indicate bodily fluids.

“Anything?”

“Nope.”

She glanced at the ME’s assistants as they spread out the body bag. She looked at Isabella. She heard the chilling sound of the zipper.

“Wait.” Maddie crouched beside the body with the light.

“What?”

“Look at her arm.”

She pointed to the bruises, four distinct ovals in a line. Maddie carefully lifted the shirt. Isabella had marks on her abdomen, too, and a large bruise above her eye, which was now staring sightlessly up at the ceiling as she waited to be loaded into the body bag.

“These are old,” Maddie said.

“How old?”

“Days, weeks. The ME can determine with better accuracy when he does the autopsy,” she said. Clarke County wasn’t large enough to have its own ME’s office, either, so they used the one in neighboring Travis County.

After carefully photographing the marks, Maddie stood up. “That’s it.”

She followed the two men back to the living room and watched them carry the stretcher out the back door.

“Find anything?” Craig asked.

“Subcutaneous bruises,” she said. “They can show up under ultraviolet light days, sometimes even weeks, after the fact. She have a boyfriend that you know about?”

“We’ll find out.” He glanced at the younger deputy. “The neighbor still out there?”

“I’m on it.”

He disappeared, and they turned their attention to Brooke, who was now dusting the front door frame for prints. Maddie crouched nearby. She examined a wood splinter on the floor atop a droplet of blood. She set up her mini tripod and took half a dozen pictures with the camera facing straight down. She moved on to another splinter a few inches away.

Brooke glanced at her. “When you finish with that, can you do this door? I want to get it off the hinges and take it to the lab.”

“For the tool marks examiner?”

“That, and there’s a shoe print. Lot of good detail.”

Maddie glanced at the front of the door, where there was, indeed, a clear print in the shape of a man’s shoe. It looked as though the killer had jimmied the lock and then kicked open the door.

Maddie stood up. “You find her phone?”

“Still searching,” Craig said.

“I’d be interested to know who she’s been calling or texting tonight and what her plans were.”

Craig watched her steadily. “You don’t like this for a burglary.”

“Do you?”

“Nope.” His gaze scanned the messy living room. “This scene is off.”

Maddie crouched down and took another picture of the splinter. “This is your case, right here.”

He knelt beside her. “A wood chip?”

“Damn, you’re right.” Brooke stepped over to look at it.

“Right about what?” Craig frowned at the floor.

“The blood trail’s leaving the house. See?” Brooke crouched down and pointed at it. “You can tell by the shape—like a comet.”

“The blood didn’t drip
on
the wood splinter,” Maddie said. “The splintered wood landed on dripped blood.”

She watched his face as her words sank in.

“The door was busted open after the murder. Damn, I think you’re right.”

“I don’t think this is a burglary at all,” Maddie told him. “I think she let him in. I think she knew her killer.”

Brian turned onto Maddie Callahan’s street just as a familiar white Prius swung into a drive. He parked in front of the house, and she eyed him warily as he climbed out of his Bureau sedan.

“Working late?” he asked, joining her on the driveway.

“What makes you say that?”

Uh-oh. Defensive. And he hadn’t even asked a real question yet.

“Just a guess.” He nodded at the mud on her boots. “Outdoor crime scene?”

“Something like that.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, and he tried his damnedest not to look at her mouth.

“Where’s Dulles?” She glanced at his car. “Don’t you guys travel in pairs?”

“He’s back at the office, wrapping things up. How come you didn’t tell me you were a CSI?”

“How come you didn’t tell me you were investigating the theft of a person? They have a term for that. I think it’s called kidnapping.”

Brian rested his hands on his hips and gazed down at her. She had him there, but he wasn’t ready to concede the point.

He looked up and down her street. She lived in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood in a relatively safe part of San Marcos. He shifted his attention to her house. The grass had been cut maybe a week ago, but the hedges badly needed trimming. Her porch light could have used a brighter bulb, but at least she had a security system, according to the sign in the flower bed.

She was watching him, still waiting for an answer.

“I can’t disclose details—”

“—of an ongoing investigation. Yada, yada, yada.” She tipped her head to the side and looked at him.

A car sped by, and Brian followed it with his gaze. He looked back at her. More curls had come loose from her ponytail, and it was obvious she’d had a long night. But she seemed wide awake, probably running on caffeine and adrenaline, same as he was.

“Listen, Ms. Callahan—”

“It’s Maddie.”

Exactly the response he’d wanted. “Is there somewhere we can talk, Maddie? I’ve got some questions I need to go over with you. About this evening.”

She watched him for a moment, and he wondered if she thought he’d come here to hit on her. Maybe he should have brought Sam along as a decoy.

“How good are you at ignoring details?” she asked.

“Not very.”

“Hmm. Well, at least, try not to put in your report that I’m a chronic slob.” She started across the yard. “It’s been a hectic week.”

She led him up the steps to a narrow wooden porch that looked freshly painted but lacked the decorative touches that many women liked to scatter around.

She ushered him inside and deposited her purse on a small table already stacked with mail. He glanced at the keypad beside the door as she switched on a light and walked into her kitchen.

“You don’t activate your alarm during the day?”

“I don’t activate it at all.” She pulled open the refrigerator and took out a jug of orange juice. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.” He stood in the arched doorway
between the kitchen and the living room and looked around. Most of her furniture was beige and nondescript, but one wall of the dining area had been painted vibrant red and covered with framed eight-by-ten photographs. Brian edged closer.

“Wow. You take these?” He glanced up as she came to stand in the archway.

“Yep.”

He scanned the shots, which showed soaring cliffs, snowcapped mountains, and water crashing against rocks. Another series showed llamas and birds.

“Is this South America?”

“Tierra del Fuego. I lived there for a year.”

“What took you down there?”

She shrugged. “I needed to get away. It was the farthest place I could think of.”

He glanced up at her. Then he turned to a tall shelf where she kept a collection of photography books: Annie Leibovitz, Ansel Adams, a bunch more that didn’t ring a bell. On one of the shelves was a framed photograph of a smiling little girl at the top of a yellow slide.

“That’s Emma, my daughter.”

He looked up and instantly knew what she was going to say next.

“She died when she was two.”

Brian’s chest tightened. He studied the picture again. The little girl had thick blond curls, sparkling brown eyes, and a wide smile.

“She looks like you.”

“You think?” She stepped closer and gazed at the photo. “People always say that, but I see Mitch. My ex.”

He saw a shadow of something in her eyes, a sadness that would probably never go away. He didn’t know what to say.

She stepped back into the kitchen and poured a glass of juice. “You were asking about the alarm,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s from the previous owners. I’ve been meaning to have it hooked up since I moved in, but . . .” She shrugged. “It’s on my to-do list.”

“And you moved in . . . ?”

“Three years ago.” She gulped down the juice and plunked the glass on the counter beside a pile of dishes. “Sorry it’s a mess in here. I’ve hardly been home in days.”

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at him.

“We could go get a sandwich or something. I noticed there’s a diner a few blocks over.”

“Thanks, but my appetite’s gone for the night. Occupational hazard.” She placed the empty glass in the sink. “So, you thought of more questions, huh? Fire away.”

He watched her. Everything she’d said sounded cooperative, but there was an edge to her voice, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her.

Maybe it was just that she’d had a shit day. Or maybe she didn’t like investigators showing up at her house at midnight and asking lots of questions.

Or maybe she just didn’t like him.

But he doubted that was it. Truth be told, women liked him. He took a lot of crap about it from the guys at work, but it was a fact. Part of it was probably the
badge—some women had a thing for authority. Part of it was probably his looks, which had always gotten him second glances. Part of it was probably that he liked women and made a point of treating them with respect.

But this particular woman seemed immune to all that. She obviously didn’t have a badge fetish.

“Seriously, ask away,” she said. “I’m officially off the clock for the night.”

“First, I need to know how you heard about the kidnapping.”

“That’s easy. Grapevine.”

“Could you be more specific? We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep the media away.”

She crossed her feet at the ankles. “I haven’t seen a newscast, so maybe you succeeded. But I spent the evening surrounded by cops, and it’s common knowledge you guys misplaced a witness in front of the bank today.” She paused. “Who is he, some hedge fund manager?”

Brian reached into his jacket and pulled out a color photo. It was a graduation picture, the kind people tucked into printed announcements and mailed to relatives.

“Her name’s Jolene Murphy.”

Maddie’s brow furrowed as she took the picture. “God, how old is she?”

“Twenty-three. That was taken a year ago. She works at CenTex Bank here in town. She was about to become a key witness in a federal investigation.”

Maddie looked up at him, and her feisty expression had been replaced by genuine concern. “And you think she was kidnapped?”

“We don’t know for sure. But she didn’t show up for a meeting with us today, and this suspect we’re investigating has been known to intimidate witnesses.”
Intimidate
. There was a euphemism. “The stakes here are high.”

She met his gaze. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

There was a shitload of stuff he wasn’t telling her.

“Do you think you might have seen this woman today?” he asked. “Even a glimpse?”

“I wish I could help you, but I really don’t recognize her.” She handed the picture back. “And I have an eye for faces. Do you have a picture of the people who took her?”

“I don’t even have IDs.”

“But you think it might be the man who mugged me—him and the driver?”

“Could be connected, yeah. We’re probably looking for a crew of four, maybe five people, and you ran into two of them.”

She watched him, and the gravity of the situation was clearly sinking in.

“You might still be able to help us,” he told her. “I read the paperwork. Officer Scanlon was thorough, like you said.” He smiled faintly, hoping to lighten the mood. No dice. “He reported that you swung your tripod at the man who attacked you. Any chance you connected?”

“I sure hope so. Otherwise, that’s six years of softball down the tubes.”

Score
. It was the first break he’d caught all day.

“Where is it now?” he asked.

“What?”

“The tripod. If I send it to the lab, they might be able to get prints or touch DNA.”

She just looked at him.

“You’re familiar with touch DNA? It’s from sweat, skin cells?”

She was a CSI, for Christ’s sake. Why did she look at him like he was speaking Chinese?

“So . . . can I get it from you?”

“Actually, no,” she said.

“No?”