Passion Over Time (36 page)

The doorbell was an unwelcome shrill in the hot, one bedroom apartment.

Dustin strode out of the bedroom wearing a pair of long cargo shorts with the top button undone. Tyson Jones, his partner of three years in the Olden City Police Department, homicide division, let himself in. “You sleeping alone?” His friend laughed. “Of course, you are,” he answered his own question.

Dustin’s hair was slightly damp with sweat from his nap. He pushed it off his forehead then took a wrinkled T-shirt off the back of the davenport, a glaring tribute to the nineties with its bright plaid print.

“All you’ve got is warm beer,” Tyson complained.

“I was too lazy to put it in the fridge. There’s ice.”

Tyson peered into the thick, crusted, frosted freezer that had seen its best year in 1984. Room enough for two ice trays, and nothing more, which was fine since it was too hot to cook in the little kitchenette. “Ever think about upgrading to a refrigerator with ice in the door?” Tyson asked.

Dustin took the glass with a measly few cubes and the beer. “Had one.” He twisted the cap off the long neck bottle of MGD. “Trish got it, along with the house, the dog, and the kid.” His lips pursed on the bitter taste of the beer, made more so by the fact that he used to drink locally brewed micro beers.

A lot had changed in the three years since the divorce. Trish had a new husband, and his baby girl now had a brother. Hell, the last time he’d had his daughter overnight had been nearly six months ago at Christmas. Thirteen-year old girls would rather spend time with their friends than with their fathers. At least that’s what Dustin told himself when Janie didn’t want to spend time with him.

Tyson sat in the mesh lounge chair next to Dustin, propping his feet up on the edge of the second floor balcony railing overlooking the parking lot of the apartment complex Dustin called home. “Divorce sucks. My third was the nastiest. She took my fishing pole. Brooklynn hates fishing.”

Tyson took a drink of beer and leaned back, causing the chair to groan and creak under his six foot, two hundred and thirty pound body. With skin the color of coffee and eyes that shimmered with flecks of gold, women seemed to gravitate to Tyson. White, black, lesbian, it didn’t matter. Shemar Moore meets The Rock, with a Glock strapped to his hip. Women couldn’t resist the man.  Which explained three marriages that had all ended in bitter divorces. Tyson loved women just as much as they loved him. “Got to be tough not seeing your kid every day.”

“Yeah.” It was one of the reasons Dustin kept himself busy.

Tyson leaned forward as the pretty redhead from 1A walked to her yellow convertible. “Becca,” he called. “Playing a little tennis?”

Dustin chuckled. He’d have thought that would be obvious.

Becca lifted her racket while her short, pink miniskirt flirted, giving a glimpse of her ass. “You haven’t called,” she teased while her words sounded accusatory.

“Baby,” Tyson smoothly replied. “You know how busy I get down at the station.” He stood and leaned his forearms on the wrought iron railing.

She rested her hands on her trim hips. “You don’t look busy to me.” She turned her brightest smile to Dustin. “Thanks for last night.”

“Glad I could be of service.” Dustin cracked a smile as Tyson nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

“See ya.” Dustin returned her wave as she jumped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.

“Are you tapping that?”

Dustin tipped his glass to his mouth while raising an eyebrow.

“Christ, Dustin, I’m not parking my cock where yours has been. No one’s happier than I that you’re finally moving on after Trish. If you ask me, it’s been too damn long.”

Dustin stood, stepping back through the sliding glass doors into the apartment. The loud rattle and hum of the air conditioner did nothing to chase the heat from the apartment. “I’m not sleeping with Becca. I fixed her leaky shower head.”

Tyson took a deep breath. “Glad to hear it. Not that I don’t think your dick’s been neglected, but I always worry about mine first.”

“She’s all yours.” Dustin didn’t want to date, and casual sex was Tyson’s sport, not his.

Tyson sat on the sofa, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee. “When she gets back from her tennis game, I’m replacing the smile on her face with a look of satisfaction.” He picked up the remote to the television. “What channel is the race on?” He flipped through the Sunday afternoon line up until he found the stock car race. “Ten bucks says Johnson finishes in the top five.”

* * * * *

McKenna wasn’t surprised the house was dark when she arrived several hours later than she anticipated. At twenty-five years old, her father wouldn’t expect her to give an accounting of her time. She had been coming and going at her leisure for as long as she could remember. In fact, he’d bought her first car when she was sixteen because he didn’t want to be bothered anymore with curfews and carpools.

After toeing off her shoes by the front door, she went to the kitchen and slipped his dinner into the stainless steel refrigerator. Elliot had left her a note on the counter of the center island. Sorry I was harsh with you, Dad.

“Dad?” McKenna finished her large bottle of water and set it in the sink. He hadn’t been Dad since she was nine years old. He thought it sounded too much like whining. From that point on, he’d given her a choice of sir or Elliot.

She read the note again. It had been a long time since she’d had much more than passing words with her father. They were roommates in a huge house that ran more like a mausoleum. Neither of them really had a life. Elliot worked constantly. There were times he became so obsessed with his life’s work, she wondered if he’d remember to eat. That was one of the reasons she never moved out into a place of her own. Although they could go days without seeing each other, he needed her. She was all he had and he was the only family she had.

She glanced at the note again. “Sorry I was harsh.”

It had been a long time since Dr. Elliot Porter had said anything that could be constituted as harsh. He hadn’t really said anything kind either. He barely spoke to her. Although, when she was younger, she could remember times when he had been blinded by anger. He’d been more than harsh the time she thought her car was in reverse, but actually she’d put it in drive and went right through the garage door into the back of his classic Mercedes. She’d been sixteen and, for a moment, wondered if she’d see another birthday.

Not that birthdays mattered. Elliot wasn’t sentimental. That was okay with her, really. It didn’t matter that he rarely remembered holidays. He didn’t have to talk to her to let her know he cared about her. She had everything she could possibly need. What she didn’t, she purchased. With her father, money equaled affection. So he must care since she always had access to his funds if there was something she wanted.

Her feet were whisper quiet as she started up the stairs. “Yuck.” Her foot slid in something sticky on the hardwood leading to the bedrooms. Curling her toes, she walked on her heels into the bathroom at the top of the stairs and turned on the fluorescent, overhead light.

She touched the dark, tacky substance and rubbed it between her fingers. Turning on the spout in the tub, she put her feet under the water and watched as splatters of red dotted the sides of the tub. With sickening dread, she realized it was streams of blood swirling and churning like rivers down the drain.

Horror stuck in her throat, cutting off her breath. “Elliot!” she screamed as she scrambled from the tub. In her haste to find her father, McKenna slipped on the tile in the bathroom. Smears of red marked the doorjamb and wall. “Oh, my god!” Nausea roiled in her gut. Light from the bathroom illuminated blood in the hallway.

Wet from the water, her feet slid into more puddles of blood on the way to her father’s bedroom. Too much blood.

She fought the images that only haunted her dreams as she struggled to move. The memory of a night five years before felt like a heavy weight trying to hold her down. Fear kept her from reaching Elliot’s door. Her stomach clenched.

Air swooshed from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet lost grip, and her knees slammed into the floor. Crying out, reaching for support, she brought the marble hall table down to the floor breaking the pillars into several large pieces. The vase of flowers crashed. Crystal splintered into shards reflecting light against red. Water soaked into the shattered picture frames.

“Elliot!” she cried, glass penetrating into her hands and feet. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She struggled with the knob to her father’s bedroom door. Blood from cuts and deep gouges in her palms kept her from gripping the handle. “Elliot!” she pleaded for him to hear her. Finally, the door gave way.

Animal-like screams ripped from her soul as she crawled across the carpet and collapsed near the bed.

“Oh, god, no!” she cried as her mind clouded with black. This couldn’t be happening again.

Chapter Two

Dustin stirred as the tone of his cell phone cut into his fitful sleep. “Pearce,” he snapped, while combing his hair off his forehead.

He fell back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He listened to Tyson on the other end of the connection. A phone call at three in the morning meant his restless night was over.

“I’m at the hospital.” Tyson’s voice was tight with tension. “I’ll fill you in on the details when you get down here. Meet me in the cafeteria.”

Normally, Dustin preferred wearing a tailored suit to work, but at three in the morning he tugged on his favorite jeans and a black T-shirt. He shrugged into his shoulder harness and clipped his badge just above the front pocket of his jeans before walking out the door.

Long shadows from the streetlights played with his imagination. Dimly lit areas in the middle of the night still gave his blood a shot of adrenaline. A cat leapt from a ground floor patio to the balcony above. Alert attention to his surroundings had made him a good cop and now served him well as a detective.

He jerked open his truck door, climbed behind the wheel and turned the key. Tension shifted into relief as his truck roared to life. Rusted and dented, the Ford exemplified another prize he was awarded as part of the divorce while his ex retained the Lexus that cost him two years of 401k because she simply had to have it. She’d simply had to have a lot of things until he’d been injured in the line of duty and then she’d just wanted out. He absently rubbed his left thigh as he headed to the hospital.

The streets were deserted. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot. Entering the hospital, he took a left and followed the signs to the cafeteria. Tyson was waiting.

“I was at the station, catching up on some paperwork when the call came in,” Tyson said. They grabbed cups of coffee before heading over to the emergency wing. The scent of medical disinfectant mingled with the aroma of the stale, black java.

Dustin swallowed some of the bitter brew. “So what’s up?”

“Seems a neighbor called 911 when she heard screams coming from the residence.”

Gray carpet with flecks of blue, orange, and purple led the way to the emergency room. The corridors were empty with the exception of hospital personnel wearing sea green scrubs and running shoes.

“Patrol arrived after the fact. Called a bus to bring in one female.”

“Anyone had a chance to talk with…what did you say her name was?”

“McKenna Porter. Sound familiar?”

Dustin shook his head. “Someone you dated?” He smiled while the scalding hot coffee burned past his lips.

“Daughter of Dr. Elliot Porter. He’s been in the papers lately for some breakthrough research for Ronac Pharmaceuticals. Big name, big money. I haven’t really been following the story, but he’s making the news. Big time.”

They turned into the sterile area of the emergency room. White walls, hard tile on the floor, and uncomfortable straight back chairs left an impersonal touch. In contrast, the floor to ceiling saltwater fish tank lighting up the corner bubbled and gurgled with bright, beautiful life.

Tyson acknowledged the nurse behind the desk. She pointed to a sectioned off area where several other officers clustered.

“Jasper’s here. I wonder if he’s had a chance to question her,” Dustin said to Tyson as he approached the group. “What have you got?” he asked Jasper.

Richard Jasper pulled out his notebook. “She’s not making a lot of sense. The doctor gave her a sedative.”

Dustin and Tyson peered through the doorway. The young woman was still beneath the thin, white hospital blanket.

“Whose blood is she wearing?” Dustin asked.

Ms. Porter’s blood-soaked, blonde hair lay matted to her head. Sterile gauze wrapped around her hands and her face glistened with some kind of ointment.

“Who knows?” Richard looked at his notebook again. “We don’t have a body.”

“Shit.” The night was about to get complicated.

* * * * *

Dustin was silent as Tyson maneuvered his car through the winding roads above the university campus. Well-lit streets and large homes with views of the Beaver Valley below, sat on acres of manicured lawns. Flowerbeds in the shape of kidney beans, with rows of colorful blooms as diverse as a rainbow, surrounded huge pink and beige boulders pulled from the side of the Rocky Mountains towering above.

The driveway to the Porter home was as long as a drag strip at the raceway. An old-fashioned streetlamp at the mailbox had a twin near the house.

A white Durango, with a Crime Scene decal on the door, sat in the driveway along with a patrol car. Blue lights flashed, cutting into the night like a beacon announcing death had come to this doorstep.

Tyson parked alongside the patrol car. Stepping out of the vehicle, they walked along a wide, curving, brick walkway banked by cannas blooming bright red matching the bloodstains leading away from the front door. An officer had circled the drips and footprints with yellow chalk. Yellow tape wrapped around the front porch.

Dustin led the way up the stone steps. The front door stood open. Looking inside, the same dark rich wood of the foyer was used to craft the grand staircase leading to the upper floor. Overhead a chandelier twinkled with dozens of crystal tear-shaped drops.

“Beats the shit out of your place.” Tyson slapped Dustin on the back.

Dustin’s critical eye immediately went to work assimilating the evidence. There were no signs of forced entry through the front door and no outward signs of any struggle in the foyer. However, one detail couldn’t be denied. Death hung in the air like an acrid odor stinging the inside of his nostrils.

Introducing himself, Dustin held his hand out to the uniformed officer stepping from the shadows at the end of the hall. “I’m Detective Pearce, and this is my partner, Detective Jones.”

The officer pointed to the kitchen and began walking them through the house. “Janet’s still upstairs collecting blood samples. Not much else for forensics. Father and daughter live alone. According to the neighbor who called us, both are reclusive by nature. Dad’s been widowed for nearly twenty years.”

“Middle of the night, secluded neighborhood, how’d the neighbor know to call?” Dustin asked.

“Open windows upstairs. Neighbor said she was letting her dog out and heard the screams.”

“Lucky break.” Tyson followed Dustin and the uniformed officer.

Dustin admired the huge painting hanging in the wide corridor leading to the kitchen. Someone had painted the local mountain scene with oils and a delicate, featherlike stroke. A spotlight lit the deep color of the frame blending with the rugged beauty of the mountain.

“Anything missing?” he asked the officer. The Porter’s had money. Lots of it by the looks of things.

Dustin stretched on a pair of latex gloves and handed a pair to Tyson.

“Not that we can tell.” The uniformed officer took a clear plastic envelope and handed it to Dustin. “Found this on the counter.” Sorry I was harsh with you, Dad.

Dustin gave the letter to Tyson, who then returned it to the officer.

“No blood,” Tyson observed. “Nothing appears out of place in here.”

“Upstairs is a real mess,” the officer said with a disgusted sneer on his lips. “It’s been photographed and nothing has been disturbed. Wanted to maintain the integrity of the scene until you had a chance to see it.”

“Let’s go.” They headed back in the direction they came from.

Upstairs, Dustin stopped at the threshold of the door. Tyson grinned. “Hey, Janet.”

“Detectives.” The lead crime scene investigator smiled at Dustin but gave Tyson a cold shoulder.

“I guess she’s still mad,” he said to Dustin.

“Don’t get cocky, Detective Jones. You weren’t that good.” She didn’t look up while she continued to take samples of blood.

Dustin surveyed the interior space of the master bedroom. Centered against the wall, an unmade king size bed with gray satin sheets draping to the floor bore witness to an unspeakable crime. Blood pooled near the edge of the bed and dripped down the side of the mattress. Smudged footprints intersected on the carpet as if someone had repeatedly entered and left the room. The phone lay disconnected covered in bloody fingerprints. “Take the phone and anything else that might have a print,” Dustin told Janet. “Maybe we’ll get lucky in the database. It has to be the perp or the vic.”

“I want the rug.” Janet referred to the ornate woven rug reminiscent of something Native American trampled with blood and debris. “The mattress, too.”

Dustin nodded his agreement.

Tyson wrinkled his nose because of the heavy scent of death and squatted down on his haunches. The muscles of his thighs strained against his tan slacks. “Run DNA on the blood samples even though I’m betting there ain’t a chance in hell this isn’t the good old doctor’s juice.”

“Any sign of the body?” Dustin glanced over his shoulder at Janet.

“No, but I don’t think we’re going to need one.” She grabbed the corner of the mattress. “Put those muscles to some use,” she said to Tyson.

“Fuck!” Tyson lifted the mattress to see the blood had soaked through to the other side. The mattress slapped down on the box spring spattering drops of blood onto both of them. “Sorry.”

Janet wiped her latex covered hands on her slacks now smeared with dark red stains. “Guys, there’s enough blood in here to say for certain that whatever happened ended with a homicide.”

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