Split Second

She found the phone under a stack of papers. She dialed from memory and waited patiently, knowing it would take more than five or six rings.

“Dr. Patterson.”

“Gwen, it’s Maggie.”

“Hey, how the hell are you? Did you get moved in?”

“Let’s just say my stuff is moved.” She noticed the Stafford County Coroner’s van drive past. She went to the window and watched the van curve to the left until it was out of sight. The street had no outlet. “I know you’re swamped, Gwen, but I was wondering if you had a chance to check on what we talked about last week?”

“Maggie, I really wish you’d leave the Stucky case alone.”

“Look, Gwen, if you don’t have time, all you need to say is that you don’t have time,” she snapped, and immediately wished she could take her words back. But she was tired of everyone trying to protect her.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Maggie. Why do you always make it so goddamn hard for people to care about you?”

She let the silence hang between them. She knew her friend was right. Suddenly in the distance, Maggie heard a fire engine’s siren, and her stomach turned to knots. What was happening just around the corner? Her knees threatened to buckle at the thought of a possible fire. She sniffed the breeze coming in through the window. She couldn’t smell or see smoke. Thank God. If it was a fire, she would be incredibly useless. The thought alone scared the hell out of her, reviving memories of her father’s death.

“How about I stop over tonight?”

Gwen’s voice startled Maggie. She had forgotten she was still on the phone.

“The place is a mess. I haven’t even started to unpack.”

“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you. Why don’t I pick up a pizza and some beer? We can picnic on the floor. Come on, it’ll be fun. Sort of a housewarming party. A prelude to your new independence.”

The fire engine’s siren began to grow distant, and Maggie realized it was not on its way to her neighborhood. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sighed in relief.

“You can pick up some beer, but don’t worry about the pizza. I’ll have it delivered.”

“Just remember, no Italian sausage on my side. Some of us need to watch our weight. I’ll see you around seven.”

“Fine. Sure. That’ll work.” But Maggie was already distracted as another police cruiser sped by. Without a second thought, she put down the phone and grabbed her badge. She quickly reset the security system. Then she tucked her revolver in her back waistband and headed out the front door. So much for seclusion.

CHAPTER 4

Maggie hurried past three of her new neighbors who politely stayed in the street, a safe distance from the house flanked with police cruisers. The coroner’s van sat in the driveway, already empty. She ignored a police officer on his hands and knees who had gotten a roll of crime scene tape tangled in a rosebush. Instead of tearing it and starting over, he took on the thorns and kept snapping his hand back with each prick.

“Hey,” he finally yelled when he realized Maggie was headed for the door. “You can’t go in there.”

When his voice didn’t slow her down, he scrambled to his feet, dropping the roll of tape and sending it unraveling down the slope of the lawn. For a minute he looked as though he’d go for the tape instead of Maggie. She almost laughed, but kept her face serious as she held up her badge.

“I’m with the FBI.”

“Yeah, right. And this is what the FBI is wearing these days.” He snatched the leather case from her, but his eyes took their time making their way down her body.

Instinctively, Maggie stood up straight and crossed her arms over her sweat-drenched chest. Ordinarily, she paid close attention to her presentation and attire. She had always been self-conscious and aware that her hundred-and-fifteen-pounds, five-foot-five stature did not live up to the FBI’s authoritarian image. In a navy blazer and trousers, her aloof, cold attitude could pull it off. In a T-shirt and faded jeans, she realized she might not be able to.

Finally, the officer took a closer look at her credentials. The smirk slid off his narrow face as he realized she was not a reporter or a curious neighbor playing around with him.

“Son of a bitch. You’re on the level.”

She held out her hand for the badge. Now a bit embarrassed, he quickly handed it back.

“I didn’t realize this was something the FBI would be in on.”

It probably was not. She failed to mention that she was just in the neighborhood. Instead, she asked, “Who’s the lead detective?”

“Excuse me?”

She pointed to the house.

“Who’s leading the investigation?”

“Oh, that would be Detective Manx.”

She headed for the entrance, feeling his eyes follow her. Before she closed the door behind her, he hurried after the tangled ribbon of tape that now trailed over much of the front lawn.

No one greeted Maggie at the door. In fact, no one was in sight. The house’s foyer was almost as large as Maggie’s new living room. She took her time, peeking into each room, stepping carefully and touching nothing. The house looked impeccable, not a speck of dust, until she got to the kitchen. Scattered across the butcher-block island were all the makings for a sandwich, now dried up, wilted and crusty. A head of lettuce sat on a cutting board amongst the remnants of tomato seeds and bits and pieces of green pepper. Several candy bar wrappers, containers left on their sides and an open mayo

Maggie’s eyes examined the rest of the kitchen, shiny countertops, sparkling appliances and a spotless ceramic floor, marred only by three more candy bar wrappers. Whoever made this mess didn’t live here.

She could hear voices now, muffled and coming from above. She climbed the stairs while avoiding contact with the oak handrail. She wondered if the detectives had been as careful. On one of the steps she noticed a clump of mud, left perhaps by one of the officers. There was something unusual in it that glittered. She resisted the urge to pick it up. It wasn’t as though she carried evidence bags in her back pocket. Though at one time it wouldn’t have been odd to find a stray in one of her jacket pockets. These days the only evidence she came across was in books.

She followed the voices down the long, carpeted hall. There was no longer a need to scrounge for evidence. At the doorway to the master bedroom a puddle of blood greeted her, the imprint of a shoe stamped at one edge, while the other edge soaked into an expensive Persian rug. With little effort, Maggie could see a spatter pattern on the oak door. Oddly, the spatter reached only to about knee level.

Maggie was lost in thought and hadn’t entered the room when the detective in a bright blue sports jacket and wrinkled chinos yelled at her.

“Hey, lady. How the hell did you get in here?”

The two other men stopped their work in opposite corners of the room and stared at her. Maggie’s first impression of the detective was that he looked like a wrinkled advertisement for the Gap.

“My name’s Maggie O’Dell. I’m with the FBI.” She opened her badge to him, but her eyes were examining the rest of the room.

“The FBI?”

The men exchanged looks while Maggie took a careful step around the puddle and into the room. More blood speckled the white down comforter on the four-poster bed. Despite the spatter of blood, the bedcovers remained neatly spread with no indentations. Whatever struggle took place did not make it to the bed.

“What’s the FBI’s interest in this?” the man in the bright sports jacket demanded.