Deadly Pursuit (12 page)

And then Alison Taylor had ruined it.

Crossing to the futon, he kicked it, hoping the roaches would get the hint and exit. After shaking out the blanket, he lay down.

Alison Taylor probably had a nice, soft, clean bed. There wouldn't be any bugs in her house. She was one of the lucky ones. The kind of person who lived a charmed life in a perfect world.

But it was within his power to make her world less than perfect. All he had to do was go along with Chuck's idea.

As he stared at the dark ceiling, he could hear the other man beginning to prowl around the living room. He'd be roaming for hours, too energized to sit or sleep. Turning on his side, Daryl tried to tune out the noise and think about his future.

Except that was too depressing.

Once more, he felt as if he was teetering, off balance, on the edge of a precipice. Or trapped in front of a train. Worse, he felt powerless to affect the outcome. A victim of circumstances yet again.

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched the filthy blanket in his fist, crushing the fabric. Wishing he could take revenge on a world that had treated him unfairly.

That was beyond his power. But he could punish one person. Make her pay for ruining his life, then robbing him of his last chance to salvage it.

The black roses had been satisfying, and scaring Alison Taylor had been fun. But Chuck's new plan was even more diabolical. This one would make her suffer. And that outcome appealed to him. A lot.

A mirthless smile tugged at his lips as he punched the hard, lumpy pillow into submission and hoped sleep—and the escape it provided—would come quickly. Yeah, he'd have to talk more about the idea with Chuck.

As soon as he reconciled himself to the blood.

Juggling the cup of coffee he'd bought to go with his drive-through lunch, Mitch slid out of his car, set the locks, and scoped out the crime scene. The yellow police tape was already up around the run-down duplex in South County, and the Crime Scene Unit van was parked in front.

“You got tagged for this one too, huh?”

He turned to find Cole approaching from the other side of the street.

“Yeah. You know anything?”

“Not much. Sounds like it could be a drug overdose.” He gestured toward the front door. “Let's take a look.”

Without waiting for Mitch to respond, Cole gave his name and department service number to the responding patrol officer, ducked under the tape, and headed for the open front door.

Mitch gave the officer the same information and followed, pausing to examine the handle and lock. “No evidence of forced entry.”

“Nope.” Cole gave it a cursory once-over as a woman with short, curly ebony hair streaked with gray entered the living room from the hall. “Hey, Lacey. You done already?”

“For now.”

Cole looked at Mitch. “Have you two met?”

“Not yet.”

“Lacey, Mitch Morgan. New kid on the block.” Cole shot him a grin. “Our block, anyway. Came from NYPD. Mitch, Lacey Stephens. One of our best investigators from the medical examiner's office.”

“Morning, Mitch. Welcome to the department.” She didn't offer her hand, which was still encased in a latex glove.

“Thanks.”

“So what do you think?” Cole inclined his head toward the hallway.

“Looks drug-related. From all appearances, the guy was a longtime meth user. Stroke or heart failure is my guess.”

“What's your best estimate on time of death?”

“Based on the state of rigor, twelve to fifteen hours ago.”

“Who called it in?”

“An anonymous tip, I think. I'll have more for you on cause of death later, once I get him to the morgue. Hank's with him now. In the bedroom.” She peeled off her glove and hooked her thumb in the direction of the hall. “As soon as he's done in there, we'll remove the body. See you guys around.” She lifted a hand in farewell and exited the house.

Mitch did a quick survey of the living room as they passed through. The place was cluttered, dust thick on top of the television. A gray T-shirt had been tossed over a lamp, and an empty, crumpled bag of chips lay on the coffee table.

It reminded him of a guy's dorm room.

They found Hank taking photos in the bedroom. As they entered, Mitch had the same thought he'd had when he'd been introduced to the crime scene investigator a week ago—the man looked more like an aging, absentminded professor than the media stereotype of a CSU technician.

Except he was sharp as the proverbial tack. And just as prickly.

“Hi, Hank.”

The man finished his shot before responding to Cole's greeting.

“Cole. Mitch. I have a feeling there's not going to be a whole lot for you guys to do.” He spared the dead man a quick glance. “I'm not seeing any evidence of foul play.”

Mitch circled the bed to get a better view of the body. As Lacey had indicated, the man's appearance suggested heavy, long-term meth use. “Do we have an ID?”

“Yeah. Lon Samuels. The landlord gave the responding officers the name of the tenant, and this guy matches the photo on the driver's license we found in his wallet.” He gestured toward the nightstand.

“Anybody run him for priors?” Cole leaned forward to inspect the body too.

Hank gave him a wry look. “I've been a little busy.”

“I'll take care of it.” Cole circled around to the nightstand, where the wallet lay open, dialed his cell phone, and relayed the pertinent data.

When he got to date of birth, Mitch checked out the dead man again. The guy was only twenty-eight, but he appeared to be in his late forties. What a waste.

“No priors.” Cole ended the call and slipped the phone back into its holder on his belt. “Okay. We're going to do a walk-through. How long do you think you'll need, Hank?”

“Unless I find something that raises a red flag, I should be out of here in a couple of hours.”

“We'll be around. After we finish in here, we'll talk to a few neighbors.”

“Don't touch anything.”

Cole shot him a peeved look. “How long do I have to be on the force before you stop treating me like a rookie?”

“Another ten years. Minimum. I don't want any slipups on my crime scenes.”

“I'll try not to breathe too hard either.” Sarcasm dripped from Cole's words.

“I appreciate that.”

As Hank went back to work, Cole retraced his route down the hall. “He knows his stuff, but what a grump.”

“You might be too if you had to do his job all day.”

“Maybe. Why don't you take the bedroom and bathroom and I'll cover the kitchen and living room?”

“Works for me.”

While Cole continued toward the main part of the house, Mitch detoured into the second bedroom. The furnishings were sparse—a double mattress and box spring on a frame, covered by a blanket. There was also a nicked chest of drawers. The indentation in one of the pillows and the open closet suggested recent occupancy and perhaps a hasty departure.

Mitch moved on to the bathroom. Some faint traces of white powder on the vanity caught his eye, as did a single strand of long blonde hair. He peeked around the edge of the shower curtain. Beads of water still clung to the chipped tile at the edge of the tub. Someone had used it in the past few hours.

And it hadn't been Lon Samuels.

Exiting the bathroom, he stuck his head back into the room where Hank was working. “There's a long blonde hair and some white powder on the vanity in the bathroom.”

The man was on his knees, peering at the carpet. He didn't look up. “I'll check it out when I'm finished in here.”

Heading down the hall, Mitch met Cole in the living room and shared his findings. “Did you come up with anything interesting?”

“There are traces of lipstick on a glass by the kitchen sink.”

“Looks like Lon had company.”

“Yeah. She might be our anonymous caller. The tip came from a phone booth not far from here, according to dispatch. Let's see if any of the neighbors can give us a description—just in case this is a homicide. But I'm betting it's not.” Cole started for the front door.

“I'm with you. Lon's guest probably found him dead and freaked. Called 911 and took off rather than hang around and be linked to a drug incident.” Mitch followed Cole out and shut the door behind him.

“Or she has something to hide.”

“Also a possibility.” He gestured toward the house on the right as they ducked under the police tape. “You want to go that way?”

“Sure. But I have a feeling this isn't going to lead anywhere.”

Mitch scanned the run-down neighborhood, quiet on this Wednesday afternoon. Eerily quiet. No one stood outside the police tape, gawking. No groups of neighbors clustered on nearby lawns, talking in hushed, shocked voices. No one approached them, asking what had happened. Not in this part of town. Here, people disappeared at the first sign of trouble. Melted into the shadows. Nobody wanted to catch a cop's eyes. It was too risky.

Because a lot of them had something to hide.

But identifying Lon Samuels's blonde friend might be a moot point, anyway. If the death wasn't a homicide, he and Cole were off the hook. The drug unit might want to investigate further, but considering Missouri's dubious distinction as the nation's meth capital, one more dead druggie might not be worth adding to their caseload.

Thirty minutes later, as Mitch headed back toward his car, he was no closer to discovering the identity of the blonde than he had been when he'd started. Few doors had opened in response to his knock, and those that had been answered revealed stone-faced residents who claimed they'd seen nothing. No blonde, no unusual activity in the vicinity of the duplex, no visitors period.

Fortunately, Cole had fared better.

“An older woman two units down said she saw the blonde coming and going for the past few days,” he reported when they regrouped by Mitch's car. “She couldn't offer much of a description, though. Said her eyesight was too bad. Last time she saw the woman was about two hours ago.”

“Not long before the 911 call.”

“Right. She said the blonde appeared to be in a hurry to leave. Bolted through the door, jumped in her car, and took off.”

“I don't suppose there's any chance she saw the license plate.”

“Nope. Best I could get was that the car was midsize and a dark color.”

“That's not going to help a whole lot.” Mitch surveyed the duplex again. “You see any reason for both of us to hang around?”

“No. You go ahead. I'll stick close until Hank is finished. If anything interesting turns up, I'll call you.” With a mock salute, Cole strolled back toward the rental unit.

As Mitch climbed into his car, he took one more look at the seedy dwelling Lon Samuels had called home. Not the sort of place a man would choose to end his life. Yet that's what Samuels had done, indirectly. The choices he'd made in life had led him to this.

His choices.

Not God's.

God hadn't ordained his squalid end.

That unexpected conclusion furrowed Mitch's brow as he pulled out of the parallel parking spot. It had been years since he'd thought about God in connection with his work. Even then, it had been a rare occurrence. Prompted only by senseless carnage or a meaningless death. And it had usually been confined to flinging an agonized “Why?” toward the heavens, never expecting an answer.

Nor had he ever gotten one.

Easing his car into the flow of traffic, he assumed his unusual digression was related to the conversation he'd had with Alison on this topic last week. She'd acknowledged the existence of injustice but believed God could bring good out of it, if people let him.

Mitch wasn't certain he bought that. Not after all he'd seen during his SEAL missions and on the streets of New York. How did good come out of oppressive, totalitarian regimes and senseless killing of innocent people and brutal murders? Or out of a guy dying because he made bad choices and used drugs to escape his mistakes?

No answer suggested itself as he accelerated, blending into the traffic. But Alison had also said it could take time for a clear purpose to emerge. Or not. When it didn't, you had to trust in God's plan without understanding it.

That was a tough assignment. Tougher than a lot of the SEAL missions he'd been handed. Still, if Alison could do it, if his father could do it, maybe he could figure out how to do it too. If he didn't, he knew he'd never get right with God—a task that had skyrocketed in importance since Alison had entered his life. Because as a believer, she'd accept no less in a man with serious intentions.

And his intentions were getting more serious by the day.

Maybe that wasn't the most noble reason to seek God, but it was honest. And perhaps God didn't care why people came to him initially . . . as long as they came.

Unfortunately, he had a long way to go on the trust front. Today was a perfect example. While he'd seen far worse things than a drug addict who'd died in a sleazebag rental unit, it was sad nonetheless. How could there be a greater purpose in that?