Storm Gathering by Rene Gutteridge Page A

Randy approached. “Look.” He pointed out several pictures that were slightly tilted. Shep dragged his hand along the wall, and as he did, he showed how each picture would have tilted if a hand had hit it. “Get a picture of this. There may have been a struggle down this hall.”
    Randy went to get the photo tech.
    Shep walked back to the bedroom. He’d been in there earlier, but people had bustled around him, and he liked to work alone. He scanned the room, but the only face in his mind was Mick Kline’s. What kind of loser was he? And why would a classy woman like Taylor invite him back to her apartment? Weren’t women smart these days? savvy? Didn’t they understand what made them vulnerable?
    He’d fought off anger through the morning and now realized he had an immense challenge ahead of him, but he always liked a challenge. He was just going to have to control his anger. For a man who always liked to be in control, his anger was certainly a thorn. Behind him, he heard Randy walk in.
    Shep’s gaze went to her bedside table. The phone receiver and base were at an odd angle. He smiled and glanced back at Randy, who seemed like he didn’t really know what to do other than stand there. “Look at the phone.”
    Randy looked at it, shrugged a little. “Yeah. What about it? I think they already ran her phone records. Nothing unusual showed up that they saw right away, anyway.”
    Shep walked over to it and picked it up. “Let’s see who Miss Franks called last.”
    “It’ll be on her phone records.” Randy sighed as if he couldn’t imagine anything more boring.
    Shep pushed redial without turning the phone on. After reading the numbers on the display panel, he handed the phone to Randy.
    Randy’s eyes widened. “Nine and one. This didn’t show up on her phone records.”
    “That’s because the call never went through. She didn’t get a chance to turn the phone on or apparently finish dialing 911,” Shep said. He headed back down the hallway toward the living room.
    Someone called out his name. He turned and saw Halloway leaving the bathroom. “Come look at this.”
    Shep walked back to the bathroom. Halloway had flipped on the light and was pointing to the tile floor.
    Crawford squatted and saw it immediately. Six droplets of blood, each about the size of half a dime, made a short trail ending next to the bathtub. “Tell the techs to get in here and see if we have blood down this drain.”
    Halloway nodded and vanished.
    Shep returned to the living room and announced, “We officially have a criminal investigation, folks.”

    Mick swallowed the feeling that told him this was the last place he should be. Sitting in his car across the street from the elementary school, he glanced in his rearview mirror, half expecting to be followed. But it seemed when the detective said to let him go, they really let him go. Aaron appeared as shocked as anybody, but that was his brother. Perpetually skeptical.
    Sour bile swam in his stomach, reminding him that his not-so-noble decline of the drink earlier was costing him now. This was the stupidest thing he’d done in a while, but desperation made people do stupid things. If only he still had that accounting job, he would have somewhere else to go other than here.
    He checked his rearview mirror one more time, then his watch. Getting out of his car, he crossed the street and walked toward the school. Above him, a few straggling, heavy, gray clouds were joining the large thunderhead out west, casting random shadows that cooled his sweaty skin. The atmosphere warned that things could get violent very soon. All the right ingredients were there.
    He stood for a moment and observed the clouds. His dad still liked to think of himself as an amateur meteorologist. And he supposed those were the days when the family had been tight, when brotherly rivalry extended only to treasured toys and T-ball.
    Mick walked inside the school. At the front desk, he signed in and then waited