“I’ll get started.”
“And I’ll work on getting my shit together.”
Micki nodded and moved past him and into the kitchen. Big mess. As if someone had decided to go berserk. Groceries all over the floor. Cabinets opened and emptied. Furniture overturned.
Mick smiled grimly. At least they could rule out a cat burglar.
She picked her way to the center of the room, to a relatively clean patch of tile flooring. She moved her gaze over the destruction. Mayo, pickles, and grape jelly jars smashed. Smears of peanut butter and a carton of milk splashed all over the floor. A carton of eggs, dropped and stomped. Clear boot print. And ketchup at the center of the mess—like a heart. Also stomped. The red condiment had shot out like blood from an artery.
The items appeared to have been placed purposely, forming an uneven semi-circle.
Micki skimmed the circle again. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, then turned toward the door. Zach had come to stand on the landing. She indicated the semi-circle. “Seven items. Not an accident.”
“His calling card?”
She cocked an eyebrow, torn between amusement and appreciation. “You google that term on the way over, Hollywood?”
“Yeah.” He grinned, though it looked forced. “Just in case, Mick.”
She returned her gaze to the items. “Why? If the calling card’s the number seven, why the crescent shape? Why not just use the ketchup to write it out? What’s he trying to tell us?”
“Hell if I know.” He hesitated a moment. “What if it’s not a ‘he,’ Mick?”
“A woman?” She pursed her lips in thought. “Can’t exclude the possibility. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.”
She squatted to get a closer look. “Let’s see if he left anything else.”
Sure enough, what looked like drops of blood. She followed them to the refrigerator and found a smear on the door. “Bingo. Sometime during this party, he cut himself.”
Zach didn’t reply and she turned toward him once more. He stared blankly at her.
“You look so strange,” she said again. “Are you all right?”
“Define all right.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Feds have arrived. In five…four…three—”
He stepped back from the door. Two agents, she saw. Both tall, dark, and crisply pressed.
“Detective Harris,” Zach said, greeting the two. Micki noticed he didn’t offer them a hand. In fact, his hands were shoved deep into his pockets.
“My partner, Detective Dare.”
“Agents Culpepper and Roberts. You’ve been made aware of why we’re here?” She agreed and they went on. “We understand you’re investigating a similar incident from a week ago.”
“Yes. The girl’s name is Gwen Miller. No political connections. She also went missing on her birthday.”
“We’ll need you to bring us up to speed.”
“Of course.”
They stepped into the kitchen. The taller of the two muttered an oath. “Was the previous scene like this one?”
“No. And yes.”
Roberts looked back at Zach. “You coming, Detective Harris?”
“Can’t. Severe peanut allergy.” He nodded toward the smear of peanut butter, then shifted his gaze to Micki. “If you’ve got this, Mick, I’ll start the door-to-door.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Saturday, July 13
7:02 A.M.
Zach tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the disappearing row of emergency vehicles. When Mick realized what he’d done, she’d tear him apart.
Abandoned the scene. No word to anyone. Not even her.
He’d had to get out. It’d taken all his concentration to keep up his cop-in-control facade for the two agents.
Now, his head felt on the verge of exploding. The blood thrummed so crazily at his temple his thoughts scrambled. Faster and faster. The pain grew brilliant, blinding. Bright white light.
Zach lowered the car windows. The mild night air rushed over him, bringing him a sliver of relief. He sucked it in, shuddering. Not a who, they were tracking, Parker had said. A what.
Zach believed him now. Whatever that thing at the scene was, it’d tried to climb inside him.
The squeal of brakes and scream of a horn sent Zach careening back to the moment.
He’d run a red light. A mini-van barreled toward him. A woman at the wheel, kids in the back. Their eyes met. Her expression registered horror, realization.
Zach prepared himself for the impact, for the sound of crumpling metal and breaking glass, the force of the airbag slamming him against the seat.
They didn’t come. The miss couldn’t have been by more than a hair’s breadth. He felt the vibration of her vehicle skimming past his.
The enormity of what could have happened hit him. He began to shake. Too close . . . too damn close. He could’ve killed that woman. Or one of her children.