Miranda flexed her fingers in an attempt to shake off the sensation. Stark’s house came into view; the crime-scene tape was gone and a silver Infiniti sedan sat the driveway.
She stopped at the mailbox and climbed out, scanning the area. Other than the car, the property seemed deserted. She approached the vehicle cautiously, peered inside, and confirmed it was empty.
Miranda turned her attention to the home’s entry. Upon their exit of the scene the other night, the Sheriff’s department had sealed the home’s entrance. That seal was still intact. Once law enforcement determined they had gathered everything they needed from the scene, it would be cleared, the seal removed. That was Buddy’s call to make.
She peeked through the front window. Again, nothing.
A neighbor could be using the driveway, she thought, although with the driveways on either side of this one empty, that was unlikely.
She went around to the back entrance. This door, however, stood slightly ajar, and she eased her weapon from her holster and made her way inside.
Ian and Catherine Stark. He rifling through drawers, she standing slightly behind, a framed photograph clutched in her hands. She saw Miranda and the photo slipped from her grip and hit the tile floor with a loud crack of the glass shattering.
At the commotion, Ian Stark swung around, whatever he’d been about to say dying on his lips.
Miranda lowered her weapon. “What are you doing in here?”
He glared at her. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I was driving by, saw a vehicle, and came to investigate.”
“Now that you know it’s us, get out.”
“I’m sorry, President Stark, but breaking the seal on that door was a crime.”
“That’s ridiculous. This was our son’s home. It belongs to us now. We have every right to be here.”
Miranda ignored him and looked at his wife. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stark, but you’ll have to wait to collect any valuables until the home is cleared for entry.”
“There are a few things … family things—” He gaze dropped to the shattered photo. “I wanted to make certain they were … safe.”
Her voice trailed off and Miranda felt bad for her. “Ma’am,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry for your loss. But you don’t want to be here, not yet.”
“Don’t tell my wife what she wants. You have no idea.”
Miranda looked him straight in the eyes. “I think I do. This no place for your wife, your son’s mother, to be. Not yet, anyway. Whatever your problem is with me, don’t subject her to this.”
Catherine Stark whimpered and plucked at his sleeve. “Let’s go, Ian. Please.”
“It’s our property. You have no right to deny us access.”
“Take it up with the Sheriff’s Department or Chief Cadwell. I suspect you can get him to clear it, but until then, if you don’t immediately vacate these premises, as a sworn officer of the Harmony Police Department I’ll be forced escort you out, forcibly if necessary.”
Catherine tugged at his arm. She looked a hairbreadth from completely falling apart. And suddenly so did he. It was as if all the bluster that had puffed him up evaporated, leaving him looking small and shrunken. She wouldn’t have thought she could ever feel sorry for the man, but she did.
Miranda escorted them out, a hand on Catherine’s elbow to help support her. She helped her into the vehicle and the woman’s faded eyes held hers for a long moment. In them Miranda saw regret, so palpable a lump formed in her own throat.
“Be well, Mrs. Stark,” she said softly, and slammed the door.
Miranda watched them drive off, then went to her car and retrieved a pair of gloves.
Stark was going to call Buddy as soon as possible; he may be on the phone with him already. She had missed something the first time through, because they hadn’t been certain what they were looking for. She was now.
And she was on the clock.
She fitted on the gloves and headed back inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
7:05 A.M.
Miranda shut the kitchen door behind her. Oddly, it seemed as if Ian and Catherine Stark’s presence still hung in the room. Her gaze dropped to the broken picture frame and shattered glass. She bent and picked it up.
A young Catherine Stark with a handsome little boy. Miranda stared at the image, heart hurting as she thought of what the woman in the picture had already lost—and how much she would suffer if this search proved successful.
She slid the photo out from what was left of the frame and tucked it into her pocket.
The kitchen was as good a place to start as any. Obviously, Ian Stark had been looking for something here. But whatever it was, she didn’t think he’d found it.
Miranda began her search to the right of the refrigerator and moved clockwise. Every drawer and cabinet. She moved as quickly as she could while still being thorough. Thumbing through paperwork, sifting through items in a catch-all drawer—bits of this and pieces of that. She shuffled through the pots and pans, peeked inside mixing bowls, and checked beneath every plate.
Nothing. Nothing yet, she told herself. She had a feeling of purpose. And urgency. It thrummed in her blood and spurred her on.
The pantry was nearly empty. That made things quicker but possibilities dimmer. She looked beneath each can, shook boxes, bags, and multipacks.
Still nothing.
The refrigerator was next. Again, very little on the shelves. Leftover pizza and Chinese. Catsup and mustard. Alcohol—champagne, beer, chardonnay, Irish cream liqueur—the guy obviously liked to drink more than eat.
Or he just entertained a lot.
Miranda checked the cheese and meat drawer—salami and several cheeses—then the fruit and veggie drawer, finding only strawberries and grapes, both well past their prime.
She took a deep breath and moved on to the freezer. More in here. Meat—steaks and chops and hamburger patties. A carton of ice cream—she checked it—no-frills vanilla. Several mystery meals in plasticware; she wondered if his mother had prepared those for him.
There, tucked in back was a lone box of frozen peas—with the exception of the mold growing on the cheese, the only green in the man’s entire kitchen.
She knew even before she closed her hand around the box, before she saw it was already open, before she looked inside, that she had found what she was looking for.
Hands shaking, Miranda lifted the box’s side flap and peered in. Tucked inside was a zip-style plastic bag. She eased it out. Not peas—small, round, white pills. A dozen of them.
Miranda knew exactly what they were. Rohypnol, commonly called roofies. The drug most often used in drug-facilitated sexual assault and no longer legally sold in the US.
Anger took her breath. That was how the bastard was doing it. He’d gotten a lot slicker in the last fourteen years. No more tape and rope—who needed that when he could render a woman unconscious and unable to resist with nothing more than a smile and a little white pill?