Page 82 of Sinful Promise
“Not a lot to run,” he counters, bringing his eyes back to me. “Home security picked up movement at five-oh-three, but didn’t send up alarms at the time. Footage shows someone—possibly five feet four, to five feet seven inches tall. Approximately a hundred and thirty-ish pounds.”
“So… a woman,” Minka inserts.Despite the no interference thing. “Intruder was female?”
“Likely. She—we’ll call her a she for now—left a message on the Pattersons’ garage door.”
I lean back to peer toward the roller door that was blocked by cops as we walked up. But because of where we stand, I still don’t get to read whateversheleft behind.
“Tagging was done in silence,” he continues. “Cameras watched, but alarms didn’t sound.”
“Who is she?” With a frown, Minka takes three large steps back and works to read what I can’t. “If the cameras saw it all, you know who did it, right?”
He firms his lips and sways his head from side to side. “We got ourselves a cliché case of the black ski mask, Delicious. Gloves. A heavy trench coat to throw us off. The whole caboodle. She spent approximately five minutes writing her message. But then she came to the front door and,” turning, he heads up the steps and gestures toward the picture window by his leg. “Welcome mat has been moved, and Whitney Patterson confirms they usually kept a key beneath. The wire door was locked, and again, she confirmed they never used to do that before Jason’s death. Window,” he crouches, so Minka and I do the same, to find gauges in the wood too small to be the result of a tool. “Typically left open.”
“Not a very secure home,” Minka rumbles. “They weren’t afraid of intruders?”
He only shrugs. “A man might wonder if Jason regularly invited his sidepiece in when Whitney wasn’t home. She knew where the spare key was kept, and that the window was rarely locked.” Taking out his pen, he points to the marks in the wood and raises a brow. “Perhaps the good doctor could confirm what I already suspect?”
She leans closer, scowling in the low light. So when Fletch grabs a flashlight and illuminates the area, she pulls back with a nod. “Fingernails?”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s what I figure too. She wanted in, and she tried multiple entry points to get there. The alarms sounded only after she attempted to force the wire door open.”
“Silent alarms?” I wonder. “Or the out-loud kind?”
“Silent.” Pushing up to stand, he watches as Minka takes my hand and straightens out too. “She wouldn’t have known she’d tripped the alarms, had the teen boy not come barreling down the stairs and lighting the place up. He’s over there,” he points over our shoulders to a fleet of cruisers parked in a line. “I already talked to him once. But we can go get a formal statement soon. My take on the situation is now he’s the man of the house. He was charging to the front line to protect the family from an intruder.”
“And she ran?” I ask. “The vandal.”
“She bolted along the street and hopped into a car. She was gone before he could open the door.”
“What car?” My adrenaline runs just a little faster. “What kind?”
“Honda hatchback.” He flashes a grin the way a hunter might as he closes in on his prey. “She was parked out of the camera’s scope, so we don’t have any stills. But the footage shows her bolting off scene, headlights powering up, then a little zipabout screaming along the street and back into the camera’s view. Patterson’s tech isn’t good enough to get a clear picture. But we got the make and approximate model. Approximate color.” Then he stops and slips his hands into his pockets. “And we sure as shit got an obnoxiously crumpled hood and a smashed windshield.”
“Jesus, is she stupid?” Minka shakes her head and turns to peer at the wife and kids about forty feet from where we stand. “She’s gonna be pulled over by a standard patrol car before she gets far.”
“Women in love have done crazier things,” Fletch murmurs. “Hormonal women in love…” He shakes his head and laughs. “They’re a force to be reckoned with. Don’t fuck with the pregnant chicks, or they’re apt to run a man down with their car.”
“Can you pull the footage from traffic lights leading into this street?” Minka comes back around to meet my eyes. “It seems pretty easy, right? Get the video, run her plates, go to her home and put her behind bars before she kills someone else.”
“Thanks, Detective.” I reach up and tap her chin with my knuckles before looking to Fletch. “Let’s pull street footage for a five-block radius. Grab her plates, track her down, lock her up before Mayet thinks to get a badge of her own.”
Stepping away from the front door and linking my little finger with Minka’s, I start down the steps and come to a stop in the middle of the lawn. Turning to the garage door, I wait as cops disperse. As uniforms get the hell out of our way.
And then I read the messy scrawl sprayed in garish pink paint.
It’s a girl.
“Well, damn.” Minka takes a deep breath until her chest expands and her shoulders sit high. Then exhaling again, she shakes her head. “Hormonal women are certifiable.”
“Only the bitter kind,” I chuckle. “Come on.” I turn us toward a crying Whitney across the lawn. Not only is her husband dead, but it’s now public knowledge that he was a cheating piece of shit. “Let’s go talk to the family.”
“I’ll just observe. I won’t interfere.”
“Mmhm.”
Lies. Lies. Lies. Minka Mayet can’t simply observe when we’re on a crime scene.
I release her hand before we’re close enough to draw attention, then I come to a stop six feet from Whitney and school my expression. “Mrs. Patterson.” Her eyes are raw, and her hands shake. With fear. Or adrenaline. Or something in between. “I’m Detective Archer Malone—”
