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Silence.
He tried the door and found it unlocked. He opened it. “Mr. Knox!”
The hair on the back of his neck rose. He clicked on a light and drew his weapon. Papers and magazines were stacked high in the hallway. There were dozens of pizza cartons. The place smelled of rot and mold.
&n
bsp; He moved slowly, checking left and right as he reached the center room overlooking the lake.
The back of a worn recliner patched in several places with duct tape faced the water. The stacks around the chair had toppled, suggesting the chair had been recently moved.
The air in the room grew heavier, and the worry in the pit of his stomach gnawed like a rat. Bracing, he came around the recliner and found Knox slumped back, a .35 in his lap, clutched loosely in his right hand.
Knox lay in his chair, his jaw slack, his heavily lidded eyes staring blankly into the air. Sharp approached the man and touched fingers to his neck. There was no pulse, but his skin was still warm. He was dead. Next to his body on the cluttered nightstand was a scrawled note. It read, I’m sorry. I should have done more.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday, October 9, 7:00 p.m.
Tessa arrived at the home of Douglas Knox along with Jerry in the medical examiner’s van. The residence was lit up with flashing lights from three squad cars.
“This is a lot of cops,” Jerry said.
Tessa grabbed her kit. “He was a chief of police at one time. Always strikes a nerve with cops when one of their own dies.”
“Right.”
Out of the van, Jerry unloaded the stretcher from the bay. Tessa set her kit in the center and pulled on latex gloves, and the two pushed the stretcher toward the front door, where a state police trooper stood.
Tessa held up her identification badge. “Medical examiner’s office.”
He glanced at the tag. “Go on in, Dr. McGowan.”
One step in the front door and she realized it wouldn’t be easy to get past all the stacks and clutter. “Tight fit.”
“I’ve been through worse.”
They edged the stretcher past the piles, at one point catching several stacks of newspapers with the back wheel. In the center room, she saw the forensic tech shooting pictures of a recliner facing the lake.
“Dr. McGowan.” Dakota’s voice cut through her thoughts, making her stand a little straighter.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Agent. I understand this is a possible overdose.”
His gaze held hers a beat. “No signs of trauma on the body, but there’s a note beside it that reads, ‘I’m sorry. I should have done more.’”
“Let’s have a look.” She moved around him toward the front of the recliner and hesitated a beat when she saw the note. Her gaze shifted to the man’s right shirtsleeve. The button was unfastened, whereas the left cuff was hooked. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, indicating he’d been dead less than an hour or two.
She pushed up the sleeve and saw the small pinprick at the bend in his arm. “Did you find a syringe?”
“No.”
“You checked behind him, in the seat cushions, and on the floor?”
“I did. Nothing.”
“Let’s have a look in his bedroom and medicine cabinet first,” Jerry said. “We might find it there.”
“I looked there,” Dakota said. “But you might see something I missed.”
When someone died, their home often gave clues to the cause of death. Drugs, high-fat foods, too many prescription meds, and alcohol were all predictors of death. It was a short list, but they made up 90 percent of the cases.
She wanted to find the syringe, which could prove he’d done this to himself.
In Knox’s bedroom, they discovered the bed quilt was rumpled but made, and judging by its looks, hadn’t been slept in for weeks. On the nightstand was a collection of pill bottles, including medications for his heart, diabetes, and his thyroid. Another set of pills helped him sleep.
“Guy was a walking pharmacy.” She pulled out her pad from her kit and catalogued the medications.
“All this would support an overdose.”
There were more prescription pills in the bathroom as well as a dozen over-the-counter cold and pain medications. In the kitchen she discovered a dozen frozen meals that had been cooked and their half-eaten containers tossed in the trash. Also in the trash were two large empty whiskey bottles. But no syringe.
“So what do you think?” The question came from Dakota, who stood at the kitchen door.
“I want to have a look at the body again,” Tessa said.
She moved past him and stood in front of Knox. Again her gaze was drawn to the right arm. She touched the mark. “Every detail about this guy suggests he wasn’t doing well. This needle mark is fresh. He could have injected himself, disposed of the needle, and sat back in his recliner to die.” She straightened and studied the disheveled mess around him. “But why worry about being tidy at this stage? Why not just sit in his favorite recliner, inject, and let it randomly fall?”
“Do you think someone killed him?” Dakota asked.
“I don’t know. But it bothers me we don’t have a syringe. We’ll have to run tox screens to see what’s still in his body.”
Dakota stood behind her, his body radiating energy. She looked at him. His jaw tensed, and his right hand was clenched at his side as he stared at the body. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He nodded toward the door. “Outside. Please.”
“Sure.”
She followed, and when they were away from the house, he said, “I interviewed Veronica Hayes this afternoon, and she thought Elena was staying at her family lake house. She wasn’t. Elena is still not answering her cell.”
Tessa glanced around to make sure no one could hear her. “Do you think this killer has taken her?”
“Yes. Veronica said Kara was wearing heavy makeup. Knox told Andrews if he cleaned her face, it was to protect my mother and stepfather.” His abrupt cadence hinted at his frustration over compromised evidence at his sister’s crime scene. “Veronica said he didn’t call for backup right away and he was arguing with someone on the phone.”
“Knox might have known who killed Kara?”
“That’s exactly what I think. At Roger’s funeral, I believe he had an attack of conscience.” He shook his head. “Knox had been friends with Roger for years, and all that time he withheld critical information that could have solved Kara’s case.”
“Who would he be protecting?”
“I wish I knew. But he gave me those files for a reason. I’m convinced now the answer is buried in them. I’m seeing Andrews early in the morning.”
“I can come along if it’ll help.”
“Not necessary.”
“Dakota,” Tessa said, dropping her voice. “If I can help, I will.”
His gaze held hers. “If I need your help, I’ll call.”
Elena opened her eyes. Her mind pulled out of the hazy fog again, and she struggled free of the confusion muddling her thoughts and distorting past and present into an unrecognizable twist. Her blurred vision cleared. The room was windowless, but it was not the same room she’d been in before. A dim light in the corner cast a warm, soothing glow. At first she thought it was a hospital room, but then she saw the large mirror in the corner and the four-poster bed. She blinked and tried to raise her hands to her head. They were still fastened to the chair with large leather straps.
“What the hell?” Her voice sounded harsh, foreign. She breathed in and out, shaking off more of the heavy drugged haze from before.
How had she gotten here? It wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a hospital. Think, Elena. Think!
Her mind tumbled back through the darkness, and she remembered the man. He was attractive and smiling. She’d seen him before. He’d been around her building weeks ago taking pictures. She’d thought he was another art student from the university taking photos of the train tracks running by her apartment building, which had once been a tobacco warehouse. When she’d seen him the second time, she’d noticed he wasn’t carrying a camera. And he’d spoken to her. She’d smiled. And then there’d been the bite of electricity. Her mind swirled. Her legs tumbled.
Now as her gaze swept the room, she felt the steady burn of pain on her face. Panic flar
ed hot in her belly. What the hell was he doing to her?
She twisted her hands in the straps, trying to work free. Her right hand was double-jointed, and the strap still had a little play in it. If she concentrated, she could push her thumb out of joint and pull her hand free. It had been a party trick as a kid. A sure way to make her mother pale and her friends watch in shock as she popped it in and out of its socket.
She closed her eyes. Tried to calm her racing heart. But the sleep swirled around her like a dark fog threatening to wash over her body. She drifted and nearly answered the siren’s call when she caught herself.
“No! I can’t sleep.” She knew in her gut sleep meant death.
Drawing in a breath, she pushed her thumb against the leather strap as hard as she could. At first she felt no movement. So gritting her teeth, she pushed harder until the thumb slid out of the joint with a pop. Pain shot up her arm.
Wincing, she tugged against the strap. On the first pull the leather grabbed her hand and aggravated the pain in her thumb. Biting her lip, she yanked hard. Pain cut up her arm, but this time her hand slid free of the leather. She pressed her thumb against her thigh, shoving it back in place.
Wiggling her fingers, she quickly went to work on the second strap. She tugged at the leather and the silver buckle, scraping her fingernails against the metal. She heard a rip and a snap. Outside the door sounded the rattle of keys. Her heart jumped and she yanked madly on the strap, but it would not give.
Then the door opened, and in the light stood her captor. She couldn’t see his face as he stared at her for a long moment.
“I can see you’ve been up to some mischief, haven’t you, Harmony? I knew you’d be a hard one to control. That’s why I didn’t stray too far.”
He came in the room, closing the door and locking it behind him. He set a tray of food on a table and came around the chair to reach for her free hand.
In a desperate attempt, she jerked her other hand hard, felt the stitching of her restraint stretch, and pulled free. Driven by adrenaline, she balled up her fist and drove it right into her tormentor’s throat. The blow stunned him and forced a sharp intake of breath as he stepped back. The moment was long enough for her to scramble off the chair. She wobbled, turned, and ran for the door. It was locked. Frantically, she fumbled with the lock until it clicked open. A twist of the knob and the door opened. Relief collided with fear and the desperate need to run and get away.
