Scarlet Rain (The Escaped #2) (7 page)

“Thank you.” She sniffled and tucked the card into her pocket.

James smiled and hastily walked to the front door of the house before Ms. Jenkins’s attorney arrived and created a new mess of problems. He stood in front of the grand double doors admiring the iron detail. It transported him back to a time when life was simpler, happier. Before returning to Tulsa, James had spent his fair share of time in neighborhoods like Terwilleger Heights, clinking glasses and making small talk with the who’s who of Texas businessmen. All with Mel by his side.

Mel.
He stared down at the beautifully stained concrete, savoring the memories of his old life. Sleepless nights tangled together, covered only by the glow of firelight. The fit of her lips against his, and the soft curve of her back as she arched into him.

“You going in, or just working on your x-ray vision?”

Startled, James took a step forward, clearing his throat and bringing his thoughts to the present. “Just waiting for you.”

“I fucking doubt that,” Schilling grumbled.

“Look, Schilling, I—”

“Right now, all I need to know is that you have my back and it’ll all be water under the bridge. We’ve got something more important to deal with, so there’s no use in acting like school kids.”

“Yeah, I have your back. All the way.”

“That’s all I need.” Schilling gave him a hearty slap on the back and nodded toward the door. “You going to open that?”

James pushed open the door and let Schilling take the lead into the house. He took in a sweeping stretch of gleaming hardwood floors, soaring vaulted ceilings, and enough crystal chandeliers to keep a cleaning crew busy for months.

Like most of the homes in the pricey neighborhood, Monica Carroll’s mini mansion was constructed in the early twentieth century, when oil gushed from the land and coated the pockets of Tulsa’s elite. The small details throughout the home remained the same, but the bright and uncluttered interior was straight out of a Restoration Hardware catalogue. The expansive two-story entryway set the stage for a grand staircase to the left, through to a wide hall leading into the spacious, open living room and kitchen.

Schilling let out a shrill whistle as he took in the meticulous details of the home. “That’s one thing about this job I never get tired of seeing. Old-money mansions.”

“It could do without all of this.” James nodded to the yellow evidence placards identifying the trail of blood, footprints, and tufts of hair. They stretched through the living room and disappeared up the blood-spattered stairs. “You think that’s the husband’s?” He leaned over one of the brunet clumps. “Must’ve been some struggle to rip out the hair and scalp.”

“But it doesn’t look like there was any kind of fight here. There’s just one set of footprints. And the only sign of a struggle is the hair.” Schilling turned in a tight circle, taking inventory of the surroundings. “The pictures hanging are all straight. There’s no blood on the walls. If there was some kind of altercation here, it’s pretty strange that the perp would go out of their way to clean up everywhere except the floor.”

“You’ve got a point. That wouldn’t make much sense.”

“Yeah, but then again, I have seen stupider shit go down. Let’s take this party into the kitchen.”

“This is where our witness says she first noticed things out of the ordinary,” James informed Schilling as they slowly and carefully tiptoed around droplets of blood and into the living room and kitchen. “Apparently Mrs. Carroll kept everything extremely neat.”

“My guess is it wasn’t Mrs. Carroll at all. She probably had an army of people running around making sure lint didn’t land wrong,” Schilling carped.

“Either way, I’ll bet it never looked like this.” Scarlet flecks dotted the island’s white marble countertop. Bloodstained paper towels and splashes of red littered the floor, and rivulets of crimson coated the outside of the kitchen window. “You want to head out back and start with Mr. George, or go upstairs and take a look at Mrs. Carroll?” James asked.

“We’ll leave him to bake until Pierce gets here. Let’s go up while I still feel like climbing stairs,” Schilling replied.

James led the way back down the hall and up the stairs. Smudged and bloody fingerprints peppered the iron bannister and the wall bordering the staircase. “There’s a lot more blood up here,” he said, glancing back at Schilling. “Watch where you put your feet.”

Schilling grumbled something undecipherable and continued to heft himself up each step.

James paused on the top stair. Monica’s well-manicured hand rested in a pool of blood. The stark contrast between the pale flesh and deep ruby brought goose bumps to James’s arms.

“You do know she’s not going to stand up and invite you on a tour of the second floor, right?” Schilling said.

James chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah.”

“Scootch.” Schilling squeezed past James and up the final stair. His face contorted as he scanned Monica’s body. “What a mess. You coming?”

James swallowed his trepidation and carefully rounded the puddle of blood, keeping his gaze focused on Schilling.

“Some seriously sick fuck did this one.” Schilling’s knees popped as he squatted next to the victim.

James kept his eyes up, noticing an ignored layer of dust resting on the blades of the ceiling fan.

“Putting it off isn’t going to make it look any less disgusting. We all have to see some bad shit, as I’m sure you know. Goes with the job.”

“Yeah.” James prepared himself for whatever condition her corpse was in. He flicked his gaze down to Monica’s body. “Jesus. I was not ready for that.”

Monica Carroll was unrecognizable. Her face looked like the sunken, gooey remains of a rotted pumpkin. Brain matter dappled the floor and wall next to her. James searched the meaty cavern for any human resemblance.

“I don’t think anyone could’ve been prepared for it.” Schilling shooed away a few flies circling the body. “Doesn’t even look like a person anymore. They’re going to have to apply some real science down at the ME’s office to get a positive ID on her.”

“How do you think this happened?” James averted his eyes and looked around the room for a possible murder weapon. Streams of dried blood coated the wall closest to Monica’s body and clumps of flesh clung to the paint. “I’m not seeing anything that could’ve been used to cause all this.”

“Maybe it’s not here. Whoever did this might have taken it with ’em,” Schilling said.

“You think this is the point of entry?” James walked to the French doors and looked out at the balcony. “Actually, scratch that.” He stepped through the large opening created by the broken glass and onto the deck. Glass popped under his feet, and he bent over, inspecting the shards littering the wood. “Schilling,” he called over his shoulder. “The broken door is definitely not how anyone got in.” James stood and looked over the guardrail. “I’d say it’s more how he got out.”

Schilling peered over the edge of the balcony, the ornate iron railing pressing into his gut. “That’s one way to get out of a bad situation.”

Tyson George’s towering, muscular body lay on the ground-level patio covered in a white sheet. His black tennis shoes poked out from the end of the blood-soaked cloth covering him; more blood spatters arched in a halo around the body.

James surveyed the scene. “So, he can’t protect his wife, and instead of also getting beat to a pulp, he smashes through the glass and jumps over the balcony?”

Schilling lifted his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side.

“I know, I know,” James sighed. “Jumping to conclusions. Rookie mistake.”

“Detective Graham!” Winslow stuck his head through the hole in the broken glass. “Pierce is here. She’s about to go outside with the other victim.”

“Thanks, Winslow. Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.” James lingered stiffly next to his partner before speaking. “We’re good, right?”

Schilling shrugged. “Depends. You coming over for dinner?”

“You got me on that one.” James shook his head and smiled. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

“Perfect. You come over, get my wife off my back about meeting you, and we can pretend like your prima donna hissy fit never happened.”

“I can deal with that,” James said, heading for the French doors.

“Wait a tick. There’s one more thing. I need to know what really went down out in those woods.” James opened his mouth to protest, but Schilling held up his hand. “We’ll just be going in circles if you try to deny it. Look, you don’t have to tell me now, but you do have to tell me. I’m your partner. We can’t have secrets between us. Not when it’s about the job. Now, go downstairs. I’ve got this covered up here. Let me know what you find out from Pierce.”

James pushed Schilling from his mind as he trotted down the stairs and through the house. If twisting the truth wasn’t going to work, he’d have to figure out what really happened, and fast.

Pierce met him at the back door and handed him a pair of blue gloves. “Here, you’re going to need these. ”

“Can’t be any worse than what’s upstairs.” He stretched the latex over his thick knuckles.

“I’d say we should bet on it, but I don’t want to take your money.” Pierce smiled and shook strands of her short, blonde bob from her eyes.

“Detective James!” Veronica’s dazzling smile flashed against the warm bronze of her skin.

“Veronica?” His cheeks warmed when her chest grazed his back as she squeezed passed him through the open door. “What are you doing here? I thought you only worked in the office.”

“I am here to assist doctor Pierce.” Like a proud student, she held up the iPad and stylus she held nestled under her arm. “Kirby is on vacation, so I finally had the chance to leave that boring
oficina
. Don’t look so surprised. I take night classes to one day be a talented dead body doctor like Catherine. But no one told me I had to wear flat shoes. They are hideous.” Her lip curled as she looked down at her feet in disgust.

“You look great. I mean, your
shoes
look great.” James was sure his cheeks revealed everything, and he fidgeted awkwardly with the tight gloves. “I am a little shocked that you’re getting your degree to be a medical examiner. I thought you hated Pierce’s job. You call her the crypt keeper.”

“Ay!” she shouted, smacking him on the forehead with the stylus. “Why do you say that in front of her?”

James rubbed his forehead. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Just like a man, not to think. But I forgive you.” She smiled a sultry half smile and bit the end of the stylus.

James’s lips parted, and his mouth hung open slightly as he watched her tongue trace the end of the pen.

“Hey, Vee.” Pierce’s voice made him jump. “Will you run back out to the car and grab that case I put in the back? I’ll need it set up upstairs.”

“This job is nothing but running here and running there in ugly flat shoes and this bag outfit. I should have gone into cutting hairs like
mis hermanas
,” Veronica grumbled as she disappeared into the house.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was an episode of
The Bachelor
and not an active crime scene. Especially not one where a victim’s face had practically exploded. Now, do you want to take a look at the vic or should I get the old man to come down instead?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. You really mean exploded? As in, from the inside out?”

Pierce nodded. “Come take a look.” She lifted the cloth covering Tyson’s body and folded it down over his chest.

James gritted his teeth. “It
is
worse than upstairs.”

“Told you it would be. We should’ve made that bet.”

Pulp bloomed from Tyson’s face. His jaw hung loose and rested on the ground next to his ear. And his eyes…. James looked toward the bloodstained house, not wanting the bulging, red-veined orbs to put down roots in his memory.

“Blood must have shot up pretty high for there to be such a large spray radius around the body,” James said, taking in the expanse of crimson surrounding the corpse. “Could the fall have done that?”

“Not likely. I’d say it was whatever caused the detached mandible. I’m going to head upstairs and take a look at the female. I’ll have more information for you once we get them transported back to the lab, and I can get him cleaned up and run some tests. Looking at this kind of stuff, it’s rough. Take care of yourself while you figure this one out.” She smiled gently and walked back into the house.

James ambled to the edge of the large patio and looked around while he slipped off his gloves, thankful he hadn’t had to use them. Several small cameras glared at him from the yard next door. He stuffed the blue gloves into his pocket and walked to the tall privacy fence.

“Can I help you?” a delicate, shaky voice asked.

“Yes, hi, I’m Detective Graham,” he introduced himself as he peered over the top of the stained wood. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but where are you?”

“Down here.” A petite, sun-spotted hand entered James’s view, and he pushed himself up on his tiptoes for a better vantage point. “Hang on a second. I have a step stool inside.” The back door slid open and closed again, and James resumed studying the cameras set up in the yard.

Each slim, black camera was attached to a tall pole and placed in a random part of the yard. In total, James counted six cameras, and one of them pointed straight toward the crime scene.

The door opened again and the shaky voice returned. “It takes me awhile sometimes, but I eventually get to where I’m trying to go.” Something heavy plopped on the ground, and her perfectly coiffed white hair popped into view. “That’s better. It’s lovely to meet you, Detective Graham. Although I’m sure sorry about the circumstances.”

“You know about what happened over here?”

“Only what’s been going around the neighborhood. That Tyson and Monica were found dead by that vulture Robyn Jenkins.” Her crepe-paper eyelids sagged as she spoke.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re one of Ms. Jenkins’s top supporters,” James said.

“Well, I’m not saying not to believe what she says, but don’t believe her if you want to keep hold of your money. That woman will rattle off any bunch of nonsense if she thinks it’ll get you to write a check. She and Monica were the same in that regard,” she said matter-of-factly.