The Trigger by L.J. Sellers

needed to see the crime scene. He tried to visualize the scenario: An assailant killing the woman and dragging her to the pool. Then what? Back to the room to get rid of her luggage and anything incriminating. “How often do your dumpsters get emptied?”
    “Once a week. They came on Monday.”
    Shit
. He hoped he didn’t have to search the damn landfill.
    Down the walkway, he found the maid in room nine. The tiny Latino woman remembered nothing unusual about room eight on any recent morning. Charlotte Archer, the mystery woman, had left nothing behind—except a rental car.
    An inspection of the room turned up nothing obvious: no blood stains in the patterned carpet that he could see, no broken or scratched furniture. He didn’t even know for sure that the dead woman had stayed in this room or if Charlotte was her real name. He took one last look around to visualize the crime. What would he use for a weapon if he hadn’t brought one with him?
    A lamp on the nightstand caught his eye. The heavy ceramic base could do a lot of damage to someone’s skull. It looked clean, but trace evidence was hard to completely eliminate. With gloved hands, he carried the lamp to his car and placed it in an evidence bag. He would overnight it to the crime lab at Quantico. Maybe they’d find a fingerprint, blood, or scalp tissue.
    If not, the case looked impossible. Still, he had to give it his best effort. A woman had been killed and dumped, and her family, if she had one, needed to know what had happened. McCullen gathered up the orange-floral bedspread, thinking it might not have been washed and could possibly contain DNA. As he stuffed it into a plastic bag from the trunk of his car, the maid hurried out from next door.
    “I think I remember something,” she said, sounding a little winded. “The worried lady from room eight asked me where she could buy a sledge hammer.”
    What the hell?

Chapter 8
    Wednesday, May 8, 6:45 a.m.
    Spencer woke feeling upbeat for a change. For the first time in two years, his thoughts were not about his sick wife or the uncertain future. Instead, Sonja Barnes was on his mind. The young woman had commented on his blog a few days ago, then engaged him in a lively conversation about water-purification tablets versus portable purifiers. Yesterday, after she’d applied to join their community, he’d checked out her Facebook page. Her photo had pulled him in like a magnet. She was more than pretty—she was intensely compelling, with bright blue eyes that dared anyone to tell her no.
    Now she was here in Redding and wanted to meet for lunch! The thought gave him a rush of pleasure. He headed for the bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Not bad for forty-two, he thought. No stomach fat, no gray hair. He could still attract a younger woman.
    Lisa’s feeble voice called to him from the next bedroom, and a stab of guilt sliced through his heart. He was still a married man who loved his wife. Spencer pulled on a robe and rushed to see what she needed.
    “I’m thirsty, hon.” Her cracked lips had dried blood on them.
    Had he forgotten to apply lip balm the night before? He’d given her a gentle rubdown with lotion. “Your water bottle is right here.” Spencer grabbed the container and handed it to her. Had she been unable to reach it or did she just need attention? Others in the community helped care for her, but Lisa was still alone for periods of time.
    He worried she no longer had the strength to even stay hydrated. How many days did she have? Would she die before he set off the financial trigger? That could be a problem. He would need to report her death to the county coroner—who would want to come out. Spencer shook off the worry. They had made it through rounds of FBI questioning about Emma, and they would get through this.
    After a workout on the weight machine, which he hadn’t used in a while, Spencer headed for the data center. Raff was already at work, and he’d been there at