“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 flared 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.