Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (3 page)

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 youthful 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.

Missy had claimed to be redeemed, but none of them were. She’d been dirty. Weak. Pathetic. And now she was gone, plucked from society like a dandelion ripped from a lush, green lawn. The grass would fill in, healthier, stronger without her tainted roots.

The news segued to a traffic report. He stopped recording.

How could he make his message clear? Some people were unworthy of life. There were consequences for bad decisions. People should be punished for their sins. What would it take for the world to understand?

He replayed the news clip. When Detective Dane entered the frame, he paused the recording. She was in charge. Therefore, she was the one he needed to convince.

Chapter Four

Monday, June 20, near Tabatinga, Brazil

The booming growl of a howler monkey echoed across the forest. Mac froze. He lowered his binoculars, his survival instincts quivering as the rain forest around him went on alert. Something was wrong.

June was past the official rainy season, but this part of the jungle didn’t really have a dry one. The Amazon River flowed fat and fast past him, sunlight glimmering on its rippled surface. Twenty yards away, a male giant river otter poked its head above the water and stared downstream. Mac followed the weasel’s focus, looking for the snout of the black caiman that had been hanging around the day before.

A pair of scarlet macaws burst from the forest and winged out over the river. Mac shifted his binoculars from the water to the canopy. A hundred feet above, the reddish brown body of a howler monkey poised on a thick branch. The air smelled like rain was coming, but torrential downpours were daily events and wouldn’t bother the monkeys. The big male sounded another throaty warning. Something—or someone—was invading the primate’s territory.

Mac lowered his binoculars. His three-member team had been camped near a small village ten miles from Tabatinga, Brazil, for weeks. The monkeys had become accustomed to their presence. Another group of primates could be encroaching on the home turf of the resident troop. Or it could be something else entirely, maybe a jaguar. The monkeys scattered, the canopy shifting, branches and foliage swaying, as the creatures took flight. If another group of primates were muscling in on their territory, the howlers would have stood their ground, at least for a time. There would have been a vocal protest, posturing, possibly even a physical altercation. The animals’ quick abandonment of their domain meant one thing: predator.

He scanned the river. The young otters had stopped playing and had scurried into the shallows. Three adults swam in circles, agitation evident in their tense posture. Their cute, cuddly appearance and playful antics camouflaged their place at the top of the Amazon food chain. Nearly six feet long, giant river otters had few natural predators except black caimans or jaguars. If the otters were on alert, the threat was likely unnatural.

In the jungle, unnatural equaled human.

Sweat dripped into his eye. He yanked a bandana from the back pocket of his nylon cargo pants and tied it around his head.

“Mac!” Behind him, Cheryl bulldozed through the rain forest.
How could a woman that small make that much noise?
She moved with the grace of a miniature bison. Sweat soaked the armpits of her long-sleeve safari shirt and a camera bounced around her neck.

“Shh.” Mac raised a hand, tilted his head, and listened.

Cheryl stopped and waited. Her gaze roaming the riverbanks. “I don’t hear anything.”

Mac didn’t hear as much as
feel
the tension in the jungle. It rippled along his skin like a swarm of ants.

Cheryl tightened the band on her ponytail. “We’ve been here for weeks. The locals are friendly. All we’ve seen are fishing boats and ecotours.”

She’d worked in São Paulo. She didn’t know jack about life in the jungle. Mac didn’t have the details, but her assignment to his team had been punishment for some infraction.

“Maybe.” He had his doubts about some of the fishing boats they’d seen. The occupants hadn’t look all that interested in the water.

Cheryl swatted at a mosquito the size of a kitten. “The biggest danger here is the bugs. Why don’t they ever bite you?”

Ignoring her complaints, Mac glanced back at the water. The otters had disappeared. Bad sign. He held up a hand to quiet his companion. “The animals know something’s up.”

“Great,” Cheryl muttered. “I had to pull the
Dances With Otters
assignment.”

“I
am
a wildlife biologist,” Mac whispered. “Now shut up so I can listen.”

The faint sputter of a motor drifted over the water. Most of the local fishing boats were man-powered. Engines were faster, but they were also expensive and required fuel. Most locals didn’t have the resources for such luxury.

An ecotour maybe?

This was a particularly dangerous region in South America, where the borders of Peru, Brazil, and Colombia converged. Drug traffickers, both large cartels and small-scale operations run by families tired of hardscrabble, subsistence living, used the river as a key method of transportation.

Cheryl went still. They both knew their university credentials satisfied villagers and officials but garnered no respect from drug traffickers.

The nose of a boat appeared around the bend in the river. The craft was a long, dilapidated vessel with a rectangular cabin and a pair of rusted outboard motors that looked like they belonged in a salvage yard. A man in the bow, wearing only a pair of frayed denim cutoffs, lifted a hand in greeting. His skin was brown, his hair black, his body slim and hard in a way that suggested a lifetime of manual labor and minimal nourishment. A second man sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller to steer the boat.

“See. Fishermen.” Cheryl gestured toward the boat. She raised the camera. The lens whirred and clicked as she snapped pictures.

He pushed the camera’s nose down. “I know most of the villagers, and these guys don’t look familiar. That boat could be full of coca paste instead of fish.” Not to mention men with machetes and machine guns. Mac’s gaze swept the riverbanks.

“Sorry.” She snapped on the lens cap.

Not her fault, he reminded himself. She hadn’t asked for this assignment. She didn’t have the necessary experience. With his eyes focused on the waterway, he asked, “What brought you out here anyway?”

Cheryl and the third member of their team, a guide named Juan, had just returned to the camp for an afternoon siesta. Napping was the only part of South American life she embraced. “You got a call from the States. Your brother.”

An instant ache tightened behind Mac’s sternum, and guilt washed through him with the force of the river. His brother Grant would not have called unless it was an emergency. “Did he leave a message?”

“Yes.” Cheryl waved her hand at a swarm of insects buzzing around her face. “It’s your dad.” Sympathy softened her voice. “Your brother said, ‘This is it, Mac,’ and that you should hurry if you want to get there before . . .”

“Oh. OK. Thanks.” Mac lowered his binoculars, his emotions going into limbo. Their father had been actively dying for the past fifteen months. A paraplegic war hero, the Colonel had been robbed of his mental faculties by dementia in recent years. Mac had thought he’d come to terms with his father’s imminent death, but the scratching sensation inside his chest said otherwise.

“You should go home, Mac.” Cheryl nodded toward the river. She might be a disaster in the jungle, but she was a decent soul. “This will keep.”

“You’re right.” Mac turned toward their camp, dread slowing his movements. Home. A small word with big meaning. He’d spent most of his childhood watching his father suffer. Just thinking about returning to his hometown made the ground feel unstable under his feet. But after his brother Lee’s murder last year and his sister’s close brush with death last November, Mac had sworn he wouldn’t leave his family high and dry again. He’d be there for them this time, no matter what the cost.

“I’ll drive you into the village,” Cheryl said. The team had only one vehicle, and no one wanted to be stranded in the jungle without transportation. The mile to the nearest village would feel like twenty in sweltering temperatures and jungle humidity.

“Thanks. From there I should be able to bum a ride into Tabatinga.” The border city’s airport had limited flights. He’d be lucky to get on a plane in the next twenty-four hours. Once he got to Manaus, catching a flight to New York would be easier. If he got lucky, he could be home in two days. But transportation in the South American jungle was highly unreliable.

In all likelihood, whatever was going to happen at home would happen without him.

“You shouldn’t stay out here by yourself,” Mac said.

“Because I’m a woman?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Because your jungle survival skills suck.” And because she was a woman. As much as he believed in equality, the dangerous men who trafficked drugs on the Amazon didn’t.

“You have a point,” she admitted. “Let’s pack up. I’ll stay in Tabatinga until you come back. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“Couple of weeks.” Long enough to bury the Colonel and help his siblings deal with the fallout. Hopefully not long enough for his troubled youth to catch up with him. The gang he’d been in back then was still active. And still dangerous.

Pushing aside the poke of guilt, Mac turned toward the rough path that led to their campsite just as rain began to fall. Grant wouldn’t have called unless there was a chance that Mac could get there in time to say good-bye. He quickened his steps.

On the bright side, in Scarlet Falls there was the possibility he’d run into Stella Dane, the only police officer he’d ever wanted to see in his life. Since he’d met her last November, dreams of her all buttoned up in her uniform had made some hot South American nights swelter. The chances of anything happening between them were slim. She’d helped find his sister and stop a killer. She was totally out of his league, and since his past wasn’t exactly a secret, he was pretty sure she didn’t trust him. But a man could fantasize.

“Wait.” Cheryl was looking out over the water. Rain speckled its surface. “Where’s the boat?”

Mac pivoted. The river was empty and silent. Even if the boat had rounded the bend, the motor should still be audible. Despite the intense and steamy heat of the jungle, his insides went cold. He shoved at her. “Move. Back to camp.”

She nodded. The rain increased to its usual afternoon torrent. A gunshot rang out, and Cheryl’s body jerked.

He dove for cover, one arm catching Cheryl around the middle and taking her to the ground.

Cheryl
. Mac rolled her to her back. She blinked at the canopy, raindrops beating on her face as blood spread across the chest of her soaked safari shirt.

Another bullet zinged past. Mac draped his body across her torso, shielding her as best he could.

“Hold tight.” Mac lurched to his feet.

He grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her into a patch of underbrush. Then Mac pulled a clean bandana from his back pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound high on her chest. He took her hand, put it over the square, and whispered, “Pressure.”

Eyes wide and shivering, Cheryl pleaded in a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

Another shot rang out. Mac got to his feet and hesitated. He needed to do something about the men with the guns. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

“No.” She shook her head. Rain slicked her hair and face as blood darkened the entire front of her shirt. She reached out for him.

Backing out of the foliage, Mac put a finger over his lips. She needed to be quiet. If they found her, she was dead.

A voice yelled, “Get them!” in Portuguese.

He sprinted down the trail toward camp. He needed the satellite phone, and the SUV was their best hope for escape. If these men had come from the boat, they wouldn’t have land transportation. He also had to warn Juan, although their guide certainly would have heard the gunshots.

Vegetation sliced at Mac’s arms and face as he raced down the rough path. Behind him, over the echo of his thundering heartbeat, men shouted and foliage snapped as bodies crashed through the jungle. He broke into the clearing. No Juan. Odds were he had run. Money could buy interpretive and guide services, but not loyalty. Had Juan sold them out? Mac ran behind the supply tent and skidded to a stop.

The spot where the four-wheeler should have been parked was empty. The SUV was gone.

A figure burst into the clearing. It was the man from the bow of the boat. Brown skin glistened with sweat as he slashed a machete toward Mac’s head. He ducked. The blade kissed his hair.

Mac lunged forward and grabbed his assailant’s right wrist with both hands. A solid front kick drove the ball of his foot into the man’s solar plexus. The machete fell to the ground. Mac kicked out again, this time striking him in the side of the knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he swung out with his left hand. Light glimmered on a short blade. Mac yanked hard on his right arm, throwing him further off balance.

A twig snapped. In his peripheral vision, Mac saw the second man enter the clearing, an AK-47 in his hands.

The bastard who’d shot Cheryl.

Anger surged hot through Mac’s veins. The muzzle of the AK arced toward him. He whirled around, swinging Machete Man between him and the gunman as a shield. Shots burst from the rifle muzzle with orange flashes. The man in Mac’s grip flailed as the bullets cut across his middle. Something hot stung Mac in the side.

The trigger clicked on an empty cartridge. The gunman snapped the magazine off the bottom of the rifle and reached for his pocket. Mac tossed Machete Man’s dead body aside and lunged toward the machete on the ground. He snatched it off the dirt as the gunman shoved a new magazine into the AK.

The muzzle lifted. Jumping forward, Mac swung the blade. The razor-thin tip sliced the gunman’s forearm to the bone. Mac jumped closer, too close for the man’s AK to be of any use. Turning the long blade, he brought the tool up and across the gunman’s body, slicing him open from thigh to shoulder. The AK dropped to the ground. The gunman fell on top of it.

Mac wiped the blood from the machete on the ground.

He’d always wished he hadn’t grown up with a borderline psychotic and highly trained military father obsessed with turning his four offspring into a tiny paramilitary force. But the Colonel—and all the batshit-crazy survival weekends, weapons training, and combat drills he’d forced on his children—had just saved his youngest son’s life.

Mac rolled the gunman to his back to make sure he was dead. No worries. Mac’s conditioning had ensured his strike would be deadly.

The surge of relief was cut short as a sudden wave of agony sliced through his side. He put a hand just below his ribs. Hot blood seeped red through his T-shirt.