Chapter 5
Lights flickered atop patrol cars. The medical examiner was already on the scene. A crowd of curious neighbors loitered in the street, watching first responders come and go from the house. A few uniformed deputies kept them at bay.
Whispers of gossip drifted through the crowd.
Paris Delaney and her news crew hadn't yet arrived, but the ambitious blonde would be here soon.
We stepped onto the imported marble tile of the foyer and followed the commotion up the grand staircase and down the hall to the master bedroom.
All these cookie-cutter mansions looked the same.
The neighborhood offered a handful of different floor plans—all nice, but if you’d been inside one, you'd been inside them all.
Don't get me wrong, they were nothing to sneeze at. But the real money was in Palm Haven.
The bedroom was full of slick furniture and modern art.
Atop the white four-post bed was a stunning brunette with lifeless azure eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Completely naked and uncovered, her skin was pale, and her plump lips blue.
The color had drained from her skin as blood pooled.
She hadn't been this way long, judging by the faint trace of death in the air.
At first glance, there appeared to be no trauma to the body.
No blood splatter. Just a perfect porcelain corpse.
I saw the obvious culprits on the nightstand right away.
A distraught man in his 40s stood in the corner with his hands covering his face, sobbing. Deputy Faulkner talked to him.
Brenda hovered over the woman’s remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves, examining the body.
Dietrich snapped photos, and forensic investigators chronicled the scene.
Sheer curtains blew with the breeze. French doors opened to the balcony, slightly ajar.
The sprawling terrace was home to lounge chairs, tables, and an outdoor bar.
A great place to sit in the evening and take in the view of the pool and the canal beyond that was full of expensive boats. Across the canal, more mansions.
A few prescription bottles rested on a black lacquer nightstand, along with an almost empty bottle of red wine. A few lines of a white powdery substance, which appeared to be cocaine, were cut neatly atop a small mirror. It told me just about everything I needed to know.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Whitney Hollingsworth," the sheriff grumbled with a tight face.
The name sounded like money, and with a place like this, she had a lot of it.
Sheriff Daniels gave a nod to Faulkner, who got the cue to escort Mr. Hollingsworth out of the bedroom.
"Do we have a time of death?" I asked.
"Judging by the body temperature, sometime between midnight and 2:00 AM," Brenda said.
"Cause?”
"Hard to say. No signs of blunt-force trauma. No bruising or petechial hemorrhaging. No indication that she was strangled. My guess is a combination of narcotics, cocaine, and alcohol depressed her nervous system and respiration.” Then she added in a hushed tone.
"I can tell you this, she wasn’t alone last night.
Let's just say there's plenty of DNA all over the sheets. "
Daniels whispered, "The husband was out of town. Came home and found her like this. Or so he says."
I cringed.
"That would certainly put a damper on your day," JD added.
"Do we have any idea who was with her last night?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure you two are going to find out," the sheriff replied. It was more of a command than anything else.
"Has anybody checked the doorbell footage for visitors?"
"That’s a great idea. Why don’t you do that?” Daniels snarked.
I pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, moved to the nightstand, and examined the pill bottles. The prescriptions were written to:
Diesel (canine).
Owner: Winnie Hollingsworth.
Prescribing physician: Dr. Hunter Carlson.
"You want to tell me why a dog has a prescription for Xanax and oxycodone?" I asked.
"Especially in those dosages," Brenda added in a suspicious voice.
I shared a look with JD and the sheriff.
"Looks like we've got a Dr. Feelgood," Jack said.
"More like a Dr. Death," Daniels added.
I grabbed a cell phone from the nightstand, held it in front of Whitney's face, and the security screen cleared. I accessed the video doorbell feed and reviewed the footage. The last clip in the timeline was from yesterday afternoon when a delivery guy had left a package at the front door.
There was nothing that evening.
I grimaced with disappointment. "I'm guessing her visitor came and left by the back door."
"Talk to the husband and to the neighbors," Daniels said. "See what you can find out. Talk to Dr. Feelgood, too.”
While I was in the phone, I scrolled through the recent text messages.
There were quite a few juicy ones between Whitney and Jett Pool Service.
The conversation had been going on for most of the prior evening.
Whitney sent him several sexy photos and told him to come over.
The last text from Jett read: [On my way. ]
I grabbed screenshots of the conversation as well as recent calls, then sent them to my device. I listened to the last several voicemails, but there was nothing juicy.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and told the forensic guys to log it as evidence.
JD and I left the bedroom, strolled down the hall, and descended the grand staircase to the foyer. The stunning chandelier glimmered in the Florida sun as it filtered through the transom windows.
We stepped into the living room, onto the bleached hardwoods. Mr. Hollingsworth sat on the couch with his head in his hands in shock. Deputy Faulkner kept an eye on him.
Hollingsworth was a handsome man with short brown hair, an athletic build, and light eyes.
JD and I approached, and Faulkner stepped back. I flashed my badge and made formal introductions. "I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions."
Mr. Hollingsworth pried his face from his hands and looked up at me with misty, tortured eyes. He nodded and said in a weak voice, "Sure."