Aftermath (31 page)

And pray he remembered something in the meantime, because he had no recollection on why he
’
d scribbled this address on his palm.

And, after everyone had gone to bed last night, it had taken her a few hours of research to find a matching address that warranted a visit.

She ducked a low lying tree branch and circled back to the front. Weathered particle board covered every window and door with nothing to suggest anyone had been inside, in the last fifteen years. The front shrubbery was overgrown, reaching across the cracked sidewalk. A once white picket fence sat in disrepair, the gate rotten and half gone.

The home sat in a slowly dying neighborhood, as developers bought plot after plot in an effort to build an upscale outlet shopping mall. A mile from some of Charlotte
’
s more influential residences.

Davis shifted the folder in her hands open. “Don
’
t see how this relates to Kimberly
’
s case. This murder happened fifteen years ago. In broad daylight, slaughterhouse style.”

That tidbit had caught her attention, too.

“For Mrs. Carter, anyway. Mr. Carter appeared to have been electrocuted by standing water and frayed lamp cords. Discovered by—”

Amanda snatched the file, including graphic but grainy crime scene photos the other woman hadn
’
t had a chance to examine. Couldn
’
t bear to hear Beth
’
s name or see how Davis reacted to it. “It
’
s not the old crime I
’
m after. It
’
s...”

The setting. The woman involved. The investigators—including her former partner—working a case more dead end than anything. The address matching the numbers on Jonas
’
hand.

Fifty-five, seventy-nine Bellvine Drive. The fact that there had been a murder here couldn
’
t be coincidence. Something had led Jonas here. And, eventually, to the warehouses near Robinson
’
s house.

“Looks like it’s been a cold case for seven years.”

“You got that off one glance?”

Davis shrugged. “Photographic memory.”

Beth had detailed how she
’
d tried to revive husband and wife, in an almost clinical form. A detachment a coroner used when composing notes. And, like a puppet on a string, Amanda couldn
’
t resist coming.

And yet, she didn
’
t want to go inside. Wanted to hightail it back to her car and forget this misadventure. Pack it away with the
nothing going on there
stack.

Because she didn
’
t relish the idea of more pity settling in her stomach. Screwing up her thought processes and mingling with the past twenty-four hours.

Your anger is driven by love. Even for...her.

Handsome man had to go and see past the obvious and point out the truth. And she’d always respected him for his stance in complete chaos. Even when it didn’t pan out in her favor.

“Where
’
s Mr. Hunk-of-love, anyway? He send you out here on another clandestine mission?”

What? “
Mr. Hunk-of-love
has his own life. His own job. An actual name.” And a surly attitude stemming from her refusal to negotiate their upcoming Raleigh adventure.

Davis scratched the bridge of her nose, her sight on something in the distance. “Trouble approaching. Your six.”

She turned. Spotted a tall woman running toward them, in black leggings and a demure blue tank top. An iPod was strapped to one arm, earbuds lodged in both ears. Blonde hair was in a pristine ponytail.

With any luck, the woman who
’
d carried Amanda for nine—eight months would run right past without a word. “Ignore it.” She headed toward the house and the crowbar she
’
d set near the front door. Picked it up.

“Hello, Amanda.” The voice was professional, but shock tinged the edges of the words. As if the older woman had hoped their paths would never cross again.

The feeling was beyond mutual.

“Don
’
t try to say you didn
’
t see me.”

Amanda turned around. Clenched the tool in her hand.

Davis hadn
’
t moved from the edge of the broken walkway. The younger detective tracked Sandra Porterville’s movements as she started toward them. Avoided the rotting fence as if she might catch some sort of disease walking by.

“I saw you. I
’
m a little busy.” She used the crowbar to point at the boarded front door.

“Breaking into abandoned houses?” Sandra took her time wrapping her earbuds and tucked them inside her armband.

“A lucrative side-job. You should give it a try.” She bit the corner of her lip. Miss Sass was teaming up with Naive Youngster in a miserable way, inside her mind.

Robinson would have a field day with that one. Might fix his cantankerous disposition.

“Very cute.”

She took a deep breath. Pasted a smile on her face. “That
’
s why they keep me around. Cute and funny are attributes on my official resume.” She turned toward the front of the house. “Davis, give me a hand, would you?”

Her partner met her at the door. Hazarded a glance backward. “You really think she
’
s gonna disappear just because you
’
ve dismissed her?” Her voice was the barest whisper.

One could hope. She placed the crowbar between the exterior of the house and the wood keeping her from getting inside. Applied pressure.

“The other gentleman went in through the backdoor, dear Amanda.”

She stilled. The way the older woman said her name always grated on her nerves. Sent little slivers of glass charging through her veins. Made her want to curl in ball and cover her ears.

Davis shot Amanda a glance, one blonde eyebrow raised above the other on her forehead. Gave a slight shake of her head.

Nothing looked out of place, but neither of them had ever been here before to attest to that with full accuracy.

Amanda lowered the tool and turned. Couldn
’
t help herself. “Oh? And when was this, Sandra?”

A sarcastic burst of air erupted from the woman beside her. “Like you can believe anything she says.”

Sandra straightened to her full five-eleven stature. Her arms folded across her chest and her lips pressed together. If she stepped up to them, she
’
d be the same height as Amanda and tower over Davis.

She tilted her head to one side as if studying them through a glass jar. Her cold, blue eyes bounced from Amanda to Davis and then back. “Somebody obviously never taught your friend any manners. It
’
s rude to make assumptions about people one doesn
’
t know.”

“Lady, it
’
s rude to—”

Amanda sent her elbow into Davis
’
ribs, but didn
’
t take her eyes from the second to last person she wanted to see. Ever. Tried to stamp down a healthy dose of irritation. “When?”

“Four days ago. Same time of day. Gave me the same attitude as your friend, here.” A manicured hand pointed toward Davis,
Vanna White
style.

“Probably because he knows you should be in prison, too.” The vehemence in Davis’ tone left little to the imagination.

Amanda glanced in her direction. The other woman didn’t take her eyes from Sandra.

The sudden defense was odd, but she wouldn’t question it.

Sandra shook her head. “I’ve done nothing to warrant life behind bars.”

Yeah.
Nothing
being the key word. “This man have a name?”

The older woman’s gaze left Davis and lit back on Amanda, regal and sure. “Said he was a cop.”

Jonas.

As if her legs weren
’
t her own, Amanda stepped down from the porch. Ducked the same tree branch as she rounded the house and climbed the rotting steps to the back door, careful to avoid a section of soggy boards two feet from it. Up close, a few scrapes marred the surface of the paneling keeping people out.

No way Jonas had found something and not alerted anyone. He wasn’t that secretive.

She repeated the motion she
’
d begun in the front and jammed the bar between the surfaces. Near the bits of splintered particle board.

“Maybe we should wait.” Davis sidestepped the same risky looking area. Her weight still shifted both of them on the wooden stoop. “You know. Call in Robinson
’
s geek squad.” She brought her hands together and blew them apart, complete with a
ka-boom
sound effect.

Amanda hesitated. Hated that she even had to. “Should I worry about being murdered, too? Because I deal with that a lot.”

Davis crossed her arms and shrugged.

Sandra
’
s profile appeared in her peripheral vision, the same disproving stance riding her frame. Arms across her chest, as if she were awaiting the perfect opportunity to pounce.

“Did this cop have a name, Sandra?”

The older woman lifted her nose toward the sky as if Amanda were the one wasting her time. “Agent Williams. Same guy that
’
s been all over the news with...”

Beth. Among others. She returned to her work. Didn
’
t have time for second guessing. Four well-placed yanks had the board ripped from the home. Davis set it aside. Termites had found a nice snack between the surfaces, much of the center of the front door gone.

Amanda peered through the misshapen opening, mid door. A blast of putrid air rushed into her sinuses, worse than month old garbage left out in the sun. It pushed her stomach upward. And had her stepping back so fast she sunk into the opening in the landing.

Something sharp scraped across her shin. A burst of white light filled her vision, for a second, as pain shot up her leg. And then her shoe found soggy ground beneath the structure.

A string of horrifyingly awful curse words zipped through her mind on blaring repeat.

“Whoa.” Davis jumped back as the wood beneath her feet slanted toward Amanda. Moved across the porch and hit solid ground before offering a hand.

Amanda shook her head. Took a breath and wiggled her toes. Didn
’
t feel any pain. “I
’
m good. Just give me a minute.” Or twenty.

Careful not to brush her leg on anything, she pulled herself into a crouched position to the left of where she
’
d fallen. Didn
’
t bother glancing downward.

Eye level with the opening in the door, she peered inside. The wafting smell of ammonia and rotting flesh hit her again.

“Amanda.”

“What?”

Hardwood floors, with a heavy layer of dust, covered what looked like a mudroom floor. It led to the discolored, green linoleum flooring, in a kitchen sans furniture or appliances. Checkered wallpaper hung from some of the surfaces, the countertops covered in the same coating as the floor.

“Your leg.” The structure beneath her shifted as Davis neared.

“It
’
s fine.”

Two bloated feet peaked out between the edge of the mudroom and the beginning of the kitchen.

No. No. No.

She grabbed her phone and stood. Winced as pain shot to her knee. Dialed Robinson
’
s number and opened the door with the edge of her shirt. The metal hinges groaned with the movement. “Don
’
t move. Either of you.”

“What can I do for you?” As if he had the president standing in front of him, Robinson’s voice was terse.

“I
’
ve got a body.”

Davis
’
face went from passive to shocked, in the time it took to blink. She tried for a peak over Amanda’s shoulder. Then her footsteps dashed in the opposite direction, the sound of retching coming from the overgrown bushes, to the left of the porch.

Muffled tones came through the phone and then the creak of an office chair. “Denise?”

“Don
’
t know.”

Beyond the porch, Sandra still had her arms folded across her chest. She rolled her eyes as Davis straightened and rubbed a hand across her mouth. “Looks like your partner has a weak stomach.”

Davis opened her mouth.

Amanda covered the receiver. “Don’t worry about it. Davis? You good?”