Today's Reading
Jack took off for the house at a jog, stopping at the back door to slip a pair of booties over his shoes and snap on latex gloves.
The interior was quiet as he entered. No surprise. The responding officers congregated around the perimeter knew better than to traipse around inside and risk compromising a crime scene. Only two stood guard in the kitchen, conversing in low tones.
He acknowledged them with a dip of his head and circled the island.
The scene was exactly as Meyers had described it, and if the woman who'd reported the crime was correct, the victim was the homeowner. A wallet would help confirm that, but until someone from the medical examiner's office got here and Hank worked the scene, it was safer not to touch the body.
He pulled out his phone and did a quick Google search. Everyone had an internet presence these days. Especially the movers and shakers who tended to live on estates like this one.
Identity verified. The victim was James Robertson.
He edged closer to the body. No murder weapon had been left in plain sight, but the location and quantity of blood suggested either a knife or bullet wound to the front midsection.
After giving the rest of the kitchen a fast perusal, he signaled one of the officers to join him and did a quick walk-through of the house.
Nothing but the bedroom raised red flags. In the master suite, dresser drawers were pulled out, a few pieces of clothing lay puddled on the floor, and the walk-in closet door was ajar.
Jack crossed to it.
The doors of a free-standing jewelry armoire were open, and many of the hooks inside were empty.
It was possible the homeowner had interrupted a robbery, and—
Voices spoke in the vicinity of the kitchen, and Jack retraced his steps.
Hank glared at him as he entered. "I hope you're not mucking up my crime scene."
"Perish the thought. I have booties and gloves." He lifted his foot and wiggled his fingers.
"Hmph." Hank pulled a baseball cap out of his kit and yanked it over his flyaway gray hair. "Lacey here yet?"
"I haven't seen her." But in light of past experience, the assistant ME wouldn't be far behind.
"I'll have to work around the body."
"You could start in the bedroom at the end of the hall." Jack waved that direction. "There was activity there."
"We have a warrant yet?"
"In the works."
Hank hefted his kit and brushed past. "Get out as soon as you're done. I don't want any contamination in here. You too." He poked a finger in one officer's chest as he passed. "We don't need two of you hanging around."
The guy waited until Hank disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom before speaking to his colleague. "Guess I've been ousted. I'll take up a position outside the door if you want to follow Mr. Personality." He hooked a thumb in the direction the grouchy tech had disappeared.
"Thanks a lot."
"I'm leaving too." Jack walked toward the back door. "I have people to interview."
He exited, ditched his protective gear, and circled the house. After catching Meyers's attention, he signaled for the man to unlock his cruiser.
The officer beat him there.
The back door swung open, and Jack took a swift but thorough inventory as a thirtysomething woman emerged.
Slender, about eight inches shorter than his six-foot frame—and gorgeous.
Not even her bleached complexion or the severe hairstyle that corralled her russet-colored hair into a barrette at her nape could take away from the delicate jawline, full lips, and high cheekbones that gave her a classic beauty.
She didn't look like any chef he'd ever met.
And she certainly didn't look like she belonged in the middle of a murder investigation.
But looks could be deceiving. So he'd approach her as he approached anyone at a crime scene—with a healthy dose of suspicion.
Hands buried in the pockets of her quilted coat, she waited for him by the cruiser.
As he drew close, Meyers backed off.
...
