Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Mac paced his cabin. When had it seemed so small and isolated? Never. Before this week, he’d craved solitude like a drug. Now, the silence around him sounded dead. He pivoted, took three strides, and crossed the living room again.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t get Stella out of his head. The defeated look in her eyes at the crime scene was permanently etched in his brain. He viewed Dena Miller’s death as a personal failure, and he knew that Stella did, too. But unlike him, Stella couldn’t escape the sight. She’d spend the afternoon studying the body and the scene. Even from a distance, the sight of Dena Miller posed on that bench had brought back images of Cheryl that left him shaken. Close up, the sight must’ve been horrifying, and Stella would see it for the rest of her life.

Enough.

Mac strode for the front door. Grabbing his sunglasses and helmet from the counter, he retrieved his bike from the shed. The throaty rumble of the engine drowned out the quiet. He navigated the rutted lane that led to the main road. As soon as his tires hit blacktop, he opened up the throttle. The wind whipped at his clothes, and the vibrations under his body hummed in his bones, mirroring the fury coursing through his veins.

A prickly sensation drew his gaze to the mirror. He wasn’t surprised to see a black SUV hovering ten car lengths behind him.

He was being followed.

Son-of-a . . .
He was not in the mood for this. Or maybe he was.

He turned off onto a narrow road that snaked through the woods to the Scarlet River. Two wooden tables occupied a picnic area near the water. A trail opened off the clearing. Mac parked his bike in plain sight and jogged twenty feet down the trail. Then he looped around through the underbrush and picked a spot at the bend in the road, right where a driver would see his parked Harley.

Mac waited behind the fat trunk of an oak tree.

The SUV came around the bend and slowed to a crawl, as if the driver was deciding whether or not to follow. If he was smart, he’d turn around.

The vehicle stopped exactly where Mac predicted. Only one figure was visible through the windshield. The man got out. As soon as he closed the vehicle door, Mac launched himself at his midsection and tackled him. They rolled in the damp earth. The man was thin and wiry and squirmed out from under Mac. Jumping to his feet with the speed of youth, the man whipped out a switchblade.

“Oh, you want to play with knives?” Mac pulled his father’s KA-BAR from its sheath on his ankle. The KA-BAR was more than a knife. It was a jungle survival tool that could chop wood, slash through foliage, and still maintain an edge sharp enough to slice ripe tomatoes. That flimsy, folding blade was a butter knife in comparison.

Mac lifted his gaze from the weapon to the man’s face and got his first good look at him. The man was just a kid.

He was beyond thin, nearly gaunt. The sallowness of his skin and the hollows in his cheeks marked a lifetime of poor nutrition. Silver hoops pierced his ears, nose, and one eyebrow. Shaggy jet-black hair hung in points across his forehead like a Japanese anime character. From behind the thick fringe, insolence shone from stubborn dark eyes. His gaze dropped to the KA-BAR. He licked his lips and shifted his weight, uncertainty crossing his face.

“Drop the knife. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Can’t do that.” The kid adjusted his grip.

“Who told you to follow me?” Mac asked. “Freddie?”

The kid didn’t respond, but Mac could see the affirmation in the surprise on his face.

“I know Freddie a hell of a lot better than you,” Mac said.

Silver rings swayed as the kid shook his head. “Then you know I can’t cross him.”

Mac sighed. This kid could be the Christmas Past version of him. But damn it, he didn’t want to hurt him.

With a stubborn sneer, the kid lunged. The awkwardness of the movement suggested he hadn’t trained with Freddie very long.

Mac stepped aside, out of the path of the knife, and brought the hilt of the KA-BAR down on the kid’s wrist. The knife fell to the dirt.

“Ow.” The kid clutched his wrist and turned to run away.

In one motion, Mac kicked the switchblade away and grabbed the kid by the neck of his shirt. He hauled him against the side of the SUV. Pinning him, Mac searched his pockets for weapons but found only a bag of weed and a cell phone. “What’s your name?”

“Rabbit.”

“OK, Rabbit, here’s what’s going to happen.” Mac guided the kid toward his bike. “You’re going to leave town.”

The kid spun and jabbed a finger at Mac’s nose. “If you know Freddie, you know why I can’t do that.”

Mac had been close with Freddie’s son Rafe in high school. At the time, Mac imagined that they’d folded him into their family right when he’d felt very much alone. But the reality was a far cry from his teenage impression. Freddie used Mac for all sorts of duties.

“What were you going to do if you caught up with me?” Mac asked, staring pointedly at the kid’s finger.

Rabbit dropped his hand. “I wasn’t supposed to catch you. Just watch you.”

This was just the kind of task Freddie used to assign to Mac. He watched people and buildings, delivered messages, and ran back and forth between Freddie’s camps. Freddie’s attention hadn’t been free. Mac had paid a high price for that “friendship,” and it was still costing him.

“How long have you been working for him?”

The kid blew long bangs out of his eyes. “Couple of weeks.”

“I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Get out now, kid, while you still can.” Mac released the teen. “Once Freddie sets his hook, you’re on the line forever.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

The kid’s simple statement hit home.

“Parents?”

The kid didn’t hesitate. “Dad’s in jail. Mom’s dead.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Could have passed for much younger. That was what a life of chronic malnutrition did to a growing body. Mac might have lacked emotional support, but he’d always had a roof over his head and food in his belly.

“So you aged out of foster care.” What the hell was Mac going to do with him? “What about other family?”

“Got an aunt in Jersey I haven’t seen in ten years.”

Mac held up the kid’s cell phone. “Did Freddie give you this?”

Rabbit nodded.

Mac took the battery and memory card and ground them both under the heel of his boot. Then he tossed the phone into the woods and handed the kid his helmet. “We both know the only way you’re going to get away from Freddie is to leave town. I’ll give you two options: jail or Jersey?”

Rabbit took the helmet.

“Good choice.” Mac straddled his bike. The kid climbed on the back. The train station was a twenty-minute ride. They used Mac’s smartphone to look up Rabbit’s aunt’s address. Inside the small lobby, Mac studied the schedule and route maps, then he bought a ticket and handed it to Rabbit. “This will take you to Penn Station. From there, you’ll have to grab a local train into Jersey.” He handed the kid fifty dollars for food and sat with him until the train arrived. Mac didn’t leave until the train pulled out of the station. Then he climbed back on his bike and headed back to Scarlet Falls.

The kid should be safe.

But Mac couldn’t say the same about himself. No good could come of being on Freddie’s radar.

The man replayed the news footage he’d taped earlier. Detective Dane strode across the grass in front of the park. Weariness slowed her long lean legs, and with her hair contained in its usual tidy bun, there was no softening the exhaustion lines on her face.

Lovely. Wholesome. Strong. The women he’d kept in his basement prison were nothing compared to that stunning creature.

Detective Stella Dane was perfection.

But why was she working so hard against him? He didn’t think she fully understood his mission. The fallen were a waste of her precious time. That was the whole point. The women he’d killed hadn’t been worthy of her efforts. They hadn’t deserved the air they’d breathed.

Perhaps he’d better send her another message. The police seemed to be missing the meaning of his work. How could he get his point across?

He had to make Detective Dane understand that they were on the same side.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Finished with the scene, Stella practically ran for her car.

Brody caught up with her. His own vehicle was parked on the road. “Where are you going now?”

Sweat dripped down her back. She swigged from a bottle of lukewarm water. A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull. She’d missed lunch, but there was no way she’d be able to stomach food for a long time.

“I have to go tell Adam Miller his wife is dead and hope he doesn’t already know.” Leaning into the sweltering vehicle, she shoved the keys into the ignition and started the engine. Hot air blasted from the dashboard vents. “I need to call the chief and give him an update.”

“I’ll follow you. Let’s hope no one leaked the victim’s identity.”

“Miller shouldn’t find out about his wife’s death from a news report.” Stella shot an angry glare at the news vans crowding the parking area. On the blacktop in front of the fluttering yellow crime scene tape, the brunette spoke into a microphone.

“Murder is big news in Scarlet Falls,” Brody said, turning toward his own vehicle. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Stella jammed the car into drive. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel all the way to the Miller house. En route, she called Chief Horner and gave him a brief update on what they’d found at the scene. Then she parked at the curb, and Brody pulled in behind her. As they got out of their cars, the door burst open. A wild-eyed Adam stood on the front porch. “Was it her?”

Brody stayed close as Stella approached him.

“Was it my wife they found at the park?” Adam demanded, moving closer.

“Let’s go inside.” Thinking he might want privacy, Stella gestured toward the door. Her hand accidentally brushed his arm.

Adam jerked it away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Mr. Miller—” Stella soothed.

“Fuck you. Fuck your whole police department.” He cut her off, leaning in. Sweat coated his skin, moisture brightened his eyes, and the vein on the side of his neck bulged. “My wife was being murdered by a madman while you investigated me.”

“We need to ask you more questions,” Stella said. “I’d like you to come down to the police station.”

“I can’t believe this. My wife was kidnapped from our home and killed and you still want to question me? You are fucking unbelievable.” Adam shook his head. His fist curled at his side. He wanted to hit her. She could see his barely contained rage rimming his eyes with white.

Apparently so could Brody. He inched forward.

But Stella didn’t budge. “Mr. Miller. I want to find out who killed your wife. You didn’t tell us she had a drug problem.”

Adam ground his molars. “That was two years ago.”

“It might be a factor in her death.” Stella gestured toward the street. Hedges might block the neighbors’ view, but sound traveled. “Are you sure you want to discuss this out here?”

Red-faced, Adam spun and strode into his house, leaving the front door open. Stella and Brody followed him into his kitchen.

Adam poured himself a generous two fingers of whiskey from a bottle on the counter and dropped into a kitchen chair. “As I told you before, she fell down the stairs four years ago and broke a bone in her neck. Even after surgery and rehab, she was in constant pain. The doctor prescribed oxycodone. I knew she was taking too many, but what could I say? She was hurting all the time, and the doctors didn’t have any options for her.” He set his glass down. “I knew she was in trouble when I found a needle in the back of her car.”

Stella took the chair facing Adam. Brody backed up and leaned on the counter.

“She said she went to heroin because oxy wasn’t enough for her pain. She’d built up a tolerance.” Adam took a deep swallow of liquor. “The second I found out, I got her into rehab.” Was he trying to convince Stella or himself that he’d done his best?

“Was it an inpatient rehab center?” Stella asked.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Where?”

He frowned. “It’s been years. It had a long name. New Life something.”

“The New Life Center for Hope?”

“That sounds right. Dena did well there. Everything seemed to be working out for us. She found her new physical therapist, who seemed to help her get some relief from the pain with diet, exercise, and meditation. She joined Narcotics Anonymous. She still goes to a meeting almost every night.”

“Do you know where she attended meetings?” Stella held her breath.

“The Catholic church. Our Lady of Sorrows.” He sipped his drink. “I can’t believe she went back to using, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

“Dena was moving forward. She didn’t have any interest in going back to being an addict. She told me once that she never wanted to feel that out of control again. It had been terrifying for her.” Adam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Had your wife been tested for drug use lately?” Stella asked.

He hesitated. “Not officially.”

“What do you mean, officially?”

Staring at his glass, Adam spun the tumbler on the tabletop. “I administered tests to her here at home.”

“At home?”

“Yes. You can buy the kits at the drug store. It’s a simple urine test. Gives you the results in minutes.” He tossed back the remaining whiskey and slammed the glass onto the table. “I did it randomly for her own good. I had to make sure she stayed clean.”

“Did she ever test positive?” Stella couldn’t imagine her significant other forcing her to pee in a cup.

“I feel responsible for not getting her help sooner. How did I not know she was using heroin? What kind of husband pays that little attention to his wife? I couldn’t allow her to fail again.”

Stella shifted her weight forward. “Why didn’t you mention your wife’s former addiction before?”

Adam stiffened. “That was years ago. I doubt it’s relevant.
I
wanted to find my wife while she was still alive. But you let her die.” He pointed at Stella’s nose, his finger inches from her face.

Guilt was an anvil on Stella’s shoulders. He was right. She hadn’t found Dena and now the woman was dead.

“You need to back off, Mr. Miller,” Brody said quietly.

Adam dropped his hand, but his focus remained fixed on Stella. “Listen up, bitch. I’m through with you. Either arrest me or get the fuck out of my house. If you want to question me again, make an appointment to talk to me through my lawyer. I’ll have him call your boss.” He jumped to his feet and gestured to the hall. Brody and Stella left the house. The door slammed shut behind them, and the deadbolt shot home.

Stella stared at the house. Frustration pounded in her temple.

Brody steered her back into the car. “None of this is your fault. We’ll get him to the police station for an interview. It will just take a little longer than we’d planned.”

“What if he’s right?” Stella asked. “What if I’ve been wasting time investigating him when a stranger took his wife?”

“His behavior has been suspicious since the beginning,” Brody assured her. “And you haven’t neglected looking for other suspects. You even arrested one, but Adam’s name keeps coming up.”

“He has an alibi.” She moved toward the car, her stomach twisted and sick.

“His alibi is weak.” Brody’s voice rose. “Dena Miller’s death is not your fault.”

If she’d been a better detective, she could have saved Dena’s life. And if her aim had been truer last November, she could have prevented the deaths of two cops. But she’d come up short both times, and that knowledge would weigh on her forever.

But Stella didn’t admit that to Brody. “I guess I can’t get a roster of everyone in that NA group.”

“I think they take the anonymous seriously,” Brody said.

“Dena and Missy were also admitted to the same rehab center, although their stays were a year apart.” Stella reached for her car door handle. “I already ran background checks on Dr. Randolph and his assistant, Reilly Warren. They were both clean. Maybe I should dig deeper. I wish privacy laws didn’t prevent us from getting the medical records of the other patients.”

“I’ll check out the staff at Our Lady of Sorrows.” Brody got into his car. “Again.”

She drove back to the station while she checked her messages. Still no response from Gianna. Stella tried to call Mac, but the call went directly to voice mail. She headed to the chief’s office.

Horner stood in front of his open closet, straightening his uniform in the mirror that hung on the back of the door. His eyes met hers in the mirror. Frowning, he turned. “You snapped at a reporter this afternoon. That isn’t acceptable. The media can be your ally or your enemy. Trust me. You don’t want them as an enemy.”

“Yes, sir.” Stella shoved a stray hair behind her ear. “I want to bring Adam Miller in for more questioning.”

“No. Adam Miller’s attorney was on the news claiming we’re to blame for his wife’s death because we focused on him as a suspect while she was being murdered.” Horner tugged the creases from his sleeve. “You are to leave Mr. Miller alone.”

“But Brody thinks his alibi is weak.” Stella protested. “And he lied to us.”

“When I give an order, I expect you to follow it. Adam Miller is a publicity nightmare. Let it go. We have a perfectly good suspect. Prove he did it.”

“But what if he didn’t?” Stella wanted to reel her words in as they left her lips.

“That’s an order, Detective.” The chief stared. “You’ll be joining me at a press conference in thirty minutes. I expect you to be gracious. The media has been on your side since that shooting back in November. They love you. I want to keep it that way. We’ll focus on the fact that we have a person of interest, which refutes Mr. Miller’s claim, and that we’re pulling out all the stops on this investigation.”

“But we now know that Dena Miller had a drug addiction. She attended the same Narcotics Anonymous meetings as Missy Green.”

“All the better. Noah Spivak was seen outside those meetings. That places him in proximity to both victims. He’s our man. There will be no mention of serial killers running around town.”

“But it’s possible we have one.”

“Spivak is in custody. You should be proud. You caught the killer. Now you have to tighten the noose tightly around his neck. Build your case before the judge grants bail.”

“Yes, sir.” Stella’s teeth hurt from clenching her jaw.

Studying her, the chief wrinkled his nose. “Get cleaned up. Fix your hair. Put on some makeup, and give your jacket to my secretary to steam. And for God’s sake, put on your poker face. You look as if you want to strangle someone.”

She did.

Stella exited the office, anger a red haze in her vision. Handing her blazer over to the polished blond, Stella retreated to the ladies’ room. Humiliation burned the back of her neck. Two women were dead, and the chief wanted her to look pretty for TV. Arguing with Horner was no use. He wanted to use her as a PR tool for the department, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. She wanted to be a detective. Unfortunately, this was part of the deal.

Frustrated, she jammed her hair back into place.

The chief’s secretary, Cecily, entered the bathroom and handed Stella her jacket. She also held out a small container of makeup. “Concealer. The chief wants you to cover up that bruise on your jaw.”

Stella sighed.

“I know.” Cecily smoothed her perfect blond chignon. “It seems ridiculous. But if you want to work for him, you must understand that your personal appearance matters.”

Stella dabbed concealer on her bruise.

With a frown, Cecily took over, her movements deft and efficient. She opened a compact. “The powder will make the concealer last longer.”

“Horner doesn’t care if Brody is wrinkled.” Stella winced as Cecily pressed the applicator on the bruise.

“Brody’s a man.” Cecily stood back, assessing her work. “Wrinkles make Brody appear to be working around the clock. They make you look sloppy.” She slid the cap off her lipstick with a pissy snap. “Don’t give me that look. It’s not my opinion. I’m just laying it out for you. If you want to get promoted, you’d better get with the chief’s program.”

She smoothed her expression back into what Stella now recognized as a mask.

Stella looked in the mirror. The bruise had vanished. “Thanks for the makeup. And the advice.”

“You’re welcome.” Cecily gave her a nod of approval. “Now break a leg.”

Thirty minutes later, Stella stood next to the chief on the front steps of the station.

Horner tilted the microphone toward his face. “Two women were killed this week. We are conducting a thorough investigation into the deaths of Missy Green and Dena Miller.”

“Is there a serial killer loose in Scarlet Falls?” a reporter called out.

Horner shook his head. “No. Miss Green and Mrs. Miller were acquainted, so their cases are linked.”

“Should women be afraid, Chief?”

He gave the questioner a solemn nod. “Women should always be careful, but we don’t feel there’s any special danger because of these murders. Dena Miller and Missy Green did know each other. Their deaths weren’t random acts.”

“What are you doing to catch the killer?”

“We have several of our detectives working the case, including Detective Dane.” The chief gestured to Stella. “We would also like to ask the public for any help. We’re setting up a tip hotline. If anyone has any information regarding the murders of Missy Green or Dena Miller, they can call the number on the bottom of the screen. A one thousand dollar reward is being offered for any valid tip that results in an arrest.”

“Does this mean you aren’t close to solving the cases?”

The chief answered, “As always, we appreciate any help the public can provide, but we have several leads, including one person of interest, and we expect to solve these murders quickly.”

“Detective Dane, is it true that both victims were drug addicts?”

Chief Horner stepped aside so Stella could access the mic. His gestures were polite, but she caught the warning in his eyes.

She lowered the mic a few inches. “I can’t divulge details in an ongoing investigation, but this case is my number one priority.”

“But we heard both women died of heroin overdoses.”