Peek-a-boo Protector. Rita Herron
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to fuss. “Can you grab that and bring it downstairs? She might be hungry. I’ll give her a bottle.”
He gave a clipped nod, then yanked the frilly pink bag up with one hand as if it were a snake, and she almost laughed.
She started toward the stairs, but John reached out a hand to stop her. “Let me go first just in case the intruder decided to return.”
Her chest tightened, but she nodded. He braced his gun again as they descended the steps, his gaze scanning the foyer and rooms, but the house appeared to be empty.
She headed to the kitchen, but again he stopped her. “That room is a crime scene now, Sam. You can’t go inside.”
She bit her lip and jiggled the baby up and down. “But the baby needs to be fed.”
He shifted, looking uncomfortable, then glanced into the kitchen, which adjoined the den. “All right. Sit down in the den and tell me what to do. We can’t touch the blood or door. I want a crime unit to process the kitchen for forensics.”
She nodded, took two steps and settled in the rocking chair, cradling the baby to her and rocking her.
“Let me call for backup first.” He phoned the station. “I need a crime scene unit out at Samantha Corley’s house along with officers to search the woods.” He hesitated and glanced at Sam. “And bring the bloodhounds. We might be looking for a body.”
A shudder coursed through her as he disconnected the call. Then he turned to her with a helpless expression as he searched the diaper bag and pulled out a plastic bottle. “No ID or wallet inside. What do I do with the bottle?”
She bit back a laugh. “See if there’s formula in the bag.”
He dug inside the bag and removed a can, then frowned.
“It’s simple, John,” Sam said. “Just open the can, fill the bottle, then heat a pan of water and sit the bottle in it to warm.”
John frowned. “Why don’t you just use the microwave?”
She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Because it might get too hot and the formula would burn the baby’s throat.”
“Oh.”
How would he know? With a grim expression, he reached inside the cabinet, removed a saucepan, filled it and turned on the burner. “How long does it heat?”
“A minute or two. You can test it on your arm.”
Again, he frowned, then filled the bottle and set it inside the pan. While it heated, he went to his squad car and returned a moment later with a camera and crime kit.
The water had started to boil, so he removed the bottle and brought it over to her. “You check it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.”
She smiled, took the bottle, then shook out a drop of milk on her arm. “Perfect.”
The baby began to fuss and latched on to the bottle, and she watched as John photographed the kitchen, the overturned chair, the broken glass on the floor, the blood.
Odd that he seemed far more comfortable working a crime scene than he did with a baby.
He gestured toward the door. “That looks like a woman’s earring.”
Sam narrowed her eyes and saw the moon-shaped silver earring, and emotions welled in her throat. “Yes, it does. She must have lost it in the struggle.”
The baby curled her fingers on the edge of the bottle and Sam stroked her soft, fine blond hair. “The mother must have come to me with the baby because she needed help.”
“And whoever was after her followed her,” he said in a gruff tone.
Sam glanced at the stream of dark red blood, her insides churning. Had the intruder killed the little girl’s mother? Or could she still be alive?
A half hour later, sirens screeched up the mountainside, vehicles careening to a stop outside Sam’s house. John met them, then gestured to the patrol officers, Wilkins and Fritz, who climbed out with the bloodhounds.
“There’s evidence of a struggle in the kitchen. Blood,” he said specifically. “It appears that the intruder dragged a woman’s body into the woods.” He paused. “Be careful. This guy might be armed.”
Both men nodded, then headed around back and set off into the dense, dark woods with flashlights, the bloodhounds immediately picking up the scent.
“CSI Turner and Akers,” a heavyset young guy said, flashing his ID. “Where do you want us?”
“The front door was jimmied, so check for prints there. The kitchen appears to be the main crime scene so process it thoroughly.” He flicked a thumb toward Akers. “Follow me around back.” Turner began with the front door, while Akers walked behind him. They studied the back porch, then the grass beneath the steps.
John knelt down, brushing dry crushed leaves aside. “Look, there are boot prints. They’re big, most likely a male’s, and might belong to our perp.”
“I’ll do a plaster cast of a print,” Akers said. “And search for forensics out here.”
“Thanks. I’ll check the car and run the plates, then it needs to be processed, as well.” John glanced at the woods one more time, hoping his guys found something. Preferably the woman alive.
The perp couldn’t have gotten too far, not on foot. Unless he had a car hidden down the road. Of course, once he reached the creek, they might lose his trail.
John strode back to the driveway, then called in the license. Five minutes later, he learned the car was registered to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta.
Hmm, then who was the woman driving the car? His wife?
He pulled on gloves and shined his flashlight inside the sedan. A fast-food wrapper lay on the floor, a soda can in the cup holder, chewing gum wrappers in the ashtray. He snapped a photo of them, then opened the car door and examined the seats and floor. Pollen dotted the windshield, a long blond stray hair was on the dash, a fiber of some kind had caught in the console, and a baby sock the little girl must have kicked off lay on the seat.
He searched the interior but didn’t find a purse or wallet. Slipping around to the passenger side, he opened the glove compartment and searched the contents. No wallet or ID, but he found the registration, verifying the car belonged to Finch.
At least that was something to go on.
He bagged the soda can and wrapper, used tweezers to pick up the hair and fiber and bagged them as well as the infant’s sock.
Surely the woman had a suitcase of some kind. He popped the trunk and found a small overnight bag stowed inside, so he pulled it out and rummaged through it. A pair of jeans, a lime-green T-shirt, underwear—very frilly underwear—a pair of lime-green flip-flops, toiletries, a pair of boxers and tank shirt for sleeping with the words Hot Stuff on the seat of the boxers.
Not much in the way of clothes—maybe she hadn’t planned on staying long.
Or she’d left wherever she was so quickly that she hadn’t had time to pack. In fact, the pj’s, T-shirt, jeans all looked new and cheap as if she’d just picked them up at a discount store.
Still, he found no ID inside. What in the hell had she done with it?
Ditched it so she couldn’t be traced?
Of course. She knew someone was after her, so she’d gotten rid of her ID, used cash. And run here to Sam.
He cursed, his throat working to swallow. And now that the damn perp knew where Sam was, she might be in danger, as well.
He carried