Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [127]
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to take time—not as a punishment. You need to reconnect with your father. Recuperate. Just a couple days. I will keep you informed. But if you find out anything—anything—you call me.” He handed her a thick ivory business card with JTC and a toll-free number printed in bold black type. “I will get the message.”
“Thank you.”
J.T. stood. “You’re one of my best investigators. I would have pulled you into far more interesting and challenging assignments long ago, except for one thing.”
She hesitated, then couldn’t help but ask, “What?”
“You were too rigid. Everything you did was because you were on the side of right, and your opponent was wrong. Black and white, Claire. The world is anything but.” He opened the door, then looked back and said, “You finally see the shades of gray. Welcome to the real world, Claire.”
Mitch hung up his cell phone. Lexie was at Mercy Hospital’s ICU ward, where Steve Donovan had just been moved after surgery. Steve was going to make it. Thank God.
Mitch had talked to Lora Lane’s neighbor, every Rabbit Hole regular, anyone he could think of about Lora and why someone would walk into her house and kill her.
The method was cruel and efficient. No sexual assault, no other physical marks on the body. She knew her killer. She’d let him in the house, turned to him, and he pushed a sharp knife into her navel, then pulled it up until it hit her sternum. The killer pulled the knife out, leaving a six-inch wound in her gut. She’d have bled out in minutes. Even if help had been immediate, nothing could have saved her. The knife sliced clean through her intestines and stomach and nicked her liver and lungs, the latter evidenced by the dried blood around her mouth.
Who would kill the handicapped woman? Had she seen something tonight? Had she seen who drugged Claire? If this was related to Claire, then Frank Lowe hadn’t drugged her.
Mitch stood in the middle of Lora Lane’s bedroom, staring at her open closet and the empty shelves. Her father wasn’t able to give them much help. He was devastated after walking in to find his dead daughter. All he could remember was that Lora had “a lot of shoes” in her closet. But Lora’s shoes were all under her bed. Dozens of shoes, lined up carefully under the bed skirt, out of sight.
He hoped the man could get it together and answer some more questions. Something had been on those shelves. The room was pristine. Even the clutter was neat as a pin. Except the closet doors were open and those shelves were empty. It didn’t make sense.
Shoes.
Mitch crossed over to the shelves. They were all a foot high. Tall enough for shoes, neatly lined up.
Or shoeboxes. Which would explain why her father said there were shoes on the shelves, but all the shoes were actually under her bed.
Shoeboxes. Why would anyone kill Lora Lane for shoeboxes? What did she have in them that was so important?
Lora Lane was a young teenager in a forty-year-old body. Her room was pink and frilly, with shelves of horses, her dresser covered with small, ornate boxes containing single pieces of jewelry. Some of the jewelry appeared to be quite expensive, and Mitch would need her father to document where the pieces came from.
Perhaps Lora had a boyfriend. He killed her. Stole . . . what? Money? Drugs?
Mitch could see how a woman like Lora, with a young girl’s mind, could be used by someone unscrupulous. She worked in a tackle shop at the marina. Drug smuggling? Possibly, especially since drugs had been found in her bathroom.
Grant Duncan, who was heading up the forensic investigation, approached Mitch. He held up an empty vial that looked like it would hold an ounce of fluid.
“What’s that?”
“It tested positive for Rohypnol. It was found in Ms. Lane’s purse.”
“So she drugged Claire.”
“It looks like it. I’m going to have the coroner run tests