After the bustle of the crew and models, the cold air outside felt refreshing. They returned to the sheriff’s vehicle. Inside, she started the engine and turned on the heat.
“What did you think?” Bree asked.
“People who are being honest don’t have to think of their answers.” Matt held his hands in front of the vent, but the air was still cold. “Her face is hard to read. Her eyes are expressive, but she has one hell of a poker face. Feels almost like an emotional disconnect.”
Bree looked at him, then shook her head. “Probably Botox.”
“What?” Matt pulled his head back.
“It’s a shot in the face to prevent wrinkles,” Bree said.
“I know what it is,” Matt said. “I thought cosmetic surgery was mostly confined to Hollywood. I’ve never met anyone who used it before.”
“I’m sure you have.” Bree laughed. “Plenty of regular people use it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s very mainstream, though I saw more of it in the city than here. Usually, docs are subtle about it. Being a model very concerned about stretching her career for as long as possible, Monica might get a higher dose.” Bree pointed to her forehead. “Her forehead doesn’t move at all. Her eyebrows are practically frozen in place, and there isn’t a single crinkle in the corners of her eyes.”
Matt snorted. “That would explain the disconnect between her eyes and her facial expressions. But her body language still suggests she wasn’t being entirely truthful.”
“I agree.” Bree cocked her head to listen to a quick burst of radio chatter. But it was just a traffic stop. “Let’s see if we can verify any parts of Monica’s story. I’ll send a deputy to the convenience store with a photo of her. See if anyone remembers her. If they have surveillance video, we’ll get a copy.”
Bree’s phone buzzed. “It’s dispatch.” She’d turned off the radio on her duty belt during the interview. She answered the call on speakerphone.
“Sheriff,” the dispatcher said, “I just took a call about a dead homeowner.” He read off an address. “Deputies are en route. ETA five minutes. The caller was near hysterical but kept saying his face was covered in plastic.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bree couldn’t keep an image of Adam out of her mind as she and Matt raced toward the scene. She swerved around a pothole, and her stomach lurched.
It’s not him.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not Adam.” Matt read her mind from the passenger seat. He reached behind the seat for his body-armor vest. Shrugging into it, he fastened the Velcro straps. “The caller said the dead guy is the homeowner.”
Bree wore her vest beneath her uniform. “I know.” But with plastic covering the victim’s face, how could the caller be certain it was him? Logically, Bree knew the chances were less than one in a million, but logic didn’t always prevail over emotions, especially when worry about a loved one was concerned. “But I can’t help but think of the worst that can happen.”
“Because you’ve actually seen the worst that can happen.” Both of her hands were on the wheel, but Matt reached over and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. He turned back to the computer. “The residence is owned by Julius Northcott, age forty-two. Northcott has a few speeding tickets but no criminal record.”
Bree turned down a side street and sped to the address. Ahead, the swirling lights of two patrol cars flashed. She pulled to the curb behind her deputies’ vehicles. An older-model Toyota sedan was parked in the street. A deputy crouched in the open vehicle door, speaking with a person in the driver’s seat. A second deputy was stepping out of his patrol vehicle.
Forcing her personal paranoia from her mind, Bree jumped out of her vehicle, opened the rear hatch, and retrieved her AR-15 from the lockbox. She handed it to Matt. There was no one she trusted more to watch her back.
Carrying the weapon across his chest, Matt kept pace with her.
The deputy stepped away from the Toyota and faced Bree. “Sheriff,” he began in a low voice. He nodded toward the sedan. “This is Susan Muckell. She came to clean the house, found the body, and called 911.”
Bree crouched until she was eye level with the witness. She felt Matt stop behind her.
An ultra-thin woman in her midthirties turned her shocked face toward Bree. Susan wore black yoga pants with bleached-out splotches and a ratty army-green parka. “Mr. Northcott is dead.” Her words and breaths came fast, as if she were going to hyperventilate.
“Is there any chance he’s alive?” Bree asked.
Susan met Bree’s gaze, and her head moved in a slow shake. “His skin was cold. Cold and gray. And his face was covered in plastic. You can’t breathe through plastic.” Her eyes reflected pure horror.
“Are you sure it’s Mr. Northcott?” Bree asked.
Susan’s face went blank, as if she hadn’t thought of the question. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure because his face was covered, but I didn’t have any doubt until you just asked.”
“Did you see anyone else inside?” Matt asked over Bree’s shoulder.
Susan shook her head.
“Where is Mr. Northcott?” Bree asked.
“You go through the front door, straight back,” Susan said. “The den is on the left.”
Bree stepped away from Susan. Matt and her two deputies gathered in a circle.
“Have you cleared the house yet?” Bree asked her deputies.
“No, ma’am,” the first deputy said. “We arrived about a minute before you.”
“OK.” Bree pointed to the deputies. “You two go around back. We’ll take the front door.”
Bree headed up the walkway. She bent to examine the lock. “No sign of forced entry here.”
Matt moved to the opposite side of the doorway. “If I was going to break in, I’d use the back door, where no one would see me.” He looked up and down the street. “This feels visible.”
Bree moved into position. “Agreed.”
They shared a bracing look as they opened the front door. A nasty smell drifted out. Of one mind, they each took a deep breath of fresh air before they stepped into the house. Leading with her weapon, Bree scanned the foyer. The vacuum, cleaning supplies, and purse piled by the door likely belonged to Susan.
Bree gestured toward a door on her left. From its position, she assumed it led to the garage. Matt moved into place, and she opened the door to reveal a black pickup truck. Matt took a quick tour around the truck. Bree glanced under it. Empty.
They returned to the foyer.
Matt scanned the walls. “I don’t see—or hear—a security system.”
A feminine groan emanated from the back of the house. Matt lifted his brows. Glock raised, Bree followed the sound. With Matt just behind her left shoulder, they went down the hall.
The hallway ended in a T, with an eat-in kitchen on the right. Sliding glass doors behind the kitchen table overlooked a small fenced-in yard. Bree’s deputies were at the back door.
Matt veered to the sliders. “They’re locked from the inside, and the security bar is in place.”