The Sterling residence was eleven miles away from the Kurtzes' townhouse. Mackenzie couldn't help but admire the place as Harrison pulled into the long concrete driveway. The house sat about fifty yards off of the main road, lined with a gorgeous flowerbed and tall thin trees. The house itself was very modern, mostly comprised of windows and distressed wooden beams. It looked like an idyllic yet expensive home for a well-to-do couple. The only thing that broke this illusion was the strip of yellow crime scene tape strung along the front door.
When they started walking toward the front door, Mackenzie noted just how quiet the place was. It was blocked off from the other high-priced neighboring houses by a thick grove of trees, a lush wall of green that looked just as well maintained and expensive as the houses along this stretch of the city. While the property was not on the beach, she could hear it murmuring somewhere in the distance.
Mackenzie ducked under the crime scene tape and dug out the spare key that Dagney had provided from the Miami PD's original investigation. They stepped into a large foyer and Mackenzie was again taken aback by the absolute silence of everything. She took a look around at the layout of the house. A hallway stretched out to their left and ended in a kitchen. The rest of the house was quite open; a living room and large sitting area connected to one another, leading further off and out of sight toward a glassed-in back porch.
"What do we know about what happened here?" Mackenzie asked Harrison. She, of course, already knew. But she wanted to let him display his own smarts and commitment, hoping he would quickly get comfortable before the case really took off.
"Deb and Gerald Sterling," Harrison said. "He was thirty-six and she was thirty-eight. Killed in their bedroom in the same manner as the Kurtzes, though these murders took place at least three days before the Kurtz murders. Their bodies were discovered by their maid just after eight o'clock in the morning. The coroner's reports indicate that they had been killed the night before. Initial investigation's turned up absolutely no evidence of any kind, although forensics is currently analyzing hair fibers found clinging to the front door frame."
Mackenzie nodded along as he recited the facts. She was studying the downstairs, trying to get a feel for the sort of people the Sterlings were before heading up to the room where they had been killed. She passed by a large built-in bookshelf between the living room and sitting area. Most of the books were fiction, mostly by King, Grisham, Child, and Patterson. There were also a few art-related books. In other words, basic filler books that gave no insights into the personal lives of the Sterlings.
A decorative roll-top desk sat against the wall in the sitting area. Mackenzie lifted the top and looked inside but there was nothing of interest-just pens, paper, a few pictures, and other household debris.
"Let's go on up," she said.
Harrison nodded and took a deep, shaky breath.
"It's okay," Mackenzie said. "The Kurtz house got to me, too. But trust me…these sorts of situations do get easier."
You know that might not necessarily be a good thing, right? she thought to herself. How many terrible sights have you become desensitized to ever since coming across that first woman on a post in the cornfields of Nebraska?
She shook the thought away as she and Harrison reached the top of the stairs. The upstairs consisted of a long hallway that housed only three rooms. A large office sat to the left. It was tidy to the point of being almost empty, looking out into the grove of trees along the back of the house. The huge bathroom boasted his and hers sinks, a large shower, a tub, and a linen closet that was as large as Mackenzie's kitchen.
Just like downstairs, there was nothing to paint an accurate picture of the Sterlings or why anyone would want to kill them. Wasting no more time, Mackenzie walked toward the end of the hallway where the bedroom door was standing open. Sunlight came pouring in through a large window on the left side of the room. The light swallowed up the end of the bed, turning the maroon there an alarming shade of red.
It was dizzying in a way, to step into the bedroom of a spotless house to see all of the blood on the bed. The floor was hardwood but Mackenzie could see splatters of blood here and there. There was not as much blood on the walls here as they had seen at the Kurtz residence, but there was some speckled in droplets like some morbid abstract painting.
There was a faint smell like copper in the air, the scent of spilled blood having dried. It was faint but seemed to fill the room. Mackenzie walked around the edge of the bed, looking at the light gray sheets that had been deeply stained in red. She saw a single mark in the top sheet that might have been a puncture wound from the knife. She observed it closer and found that was exactly what she was looking at.
With a single lap around the bed, Mackenzie was sure that there was nothing here that would push the case along any further. She looked elsewhere around the room-the bedside tables, the dresser drawers, and the small entertainment center-looking for even the smallest detail.
She saw a slight indentation in the wall, no larger than a quarter. But there was speck of blood around it. There was more blood beneath it, a slight dribble that had dried on the wall and the smallest little fleck of it on the carpet beneath the indention.
She went to the indentation in the wall and looked at it closely. It was a peculiar shape, and the fact that there was blood centered around it made her think one was the result of the other. She stood up straight and checked the small hole's alignment with her body. She raised her arm slightly and bent it. In doing so, her elbow aligned with the hole almost perfectly.
"What have you got?" Harrison asked.
"Signs of a struggle, I believe," she answered.
He joined her and took note of the indentation. "Not much to go on, is it?" he asked.
"No, not really. But the blood makes it notable. That and the fact that this house is in pristine condition. It makes me think the killer did everything he could do hide any signs of a struggle. He almost staged the house, in a way. But this sign of a struggle could not be hidden."
She looked down at the small blood splotch on the carpet. It was faded and there were even very faint traces of red around it.
"See," she said, pointing. "Right there, it looks like someone tried cleaning this up. But he was either hurried or this last little bit just would not come up."
"Maybe we should double-check the Kurtz house then."
"Maybe," she agreed, although she felt confident that she had thoroughly looked the place over.
She stepped away from the wall and went to the enormous walk-in closet. She looked inside and saw more tidiness.
She did see the one single thing that could have been considered as messy within the entire house, though. A shirt and a pair of pants were crumpled up, pushed almost against the closet wall. She pulled the shirt away from the pants and saw that they were men's clothing-perhaps the last clothes that Gerald Sterling had ever worn.
Taking a chance, she reached into each of the front pockets. In one, she found seventeen cents in change. In the other, she found a crumpled receipt. She straightened it out and saw that it was from a grocery store five days ago…the last day of his life. She looked at the receipt and started to think.
How else can we discover what they did on their last days alive? Or the last week, or even month?
"Harrison, in those reports, didn't the Miami PD state that they had gone through the phones of the deceased to check for any red flags?"
"That's correct," Harrison said as he cautiously stepped around the bloody bed. "Contacts, incoming and outgoing calls, emails, downloads, everything."
"But nothing like Internet search history or anything like that?"
"No, not that I recall."
Placing the receipt back into the pair of jeans, Mackenzie exited the closet and then the bedroom. She headed back downstairs, aware that Harrison was following behind her.
"What is it?" Harrison asked.
"A hunch," she said. "A hope, maybe."
She walked back to the roll-top desk in the sitting area and opened it again. In the back, there was a small basket. A few pens stuck out, as did a basic single-sheet personal checkbook. If they keep a house this tidy, I'd assume their checkbook is in the same condition.
She took the checkbook out and found that she was correct. The figures were kept with meticulous care. Each transaction was written very legibly and with as much detail as possible. Even ATM withdrawals were accounted for. It took her about twenty seconds to realize that this checkbook was for some sort of secondary account and not for the Sterlings' primary checking. At the time of their death, the account held a little over seven thousand dollars.
She looked through the check register for anything that might give her some sort of clues but nothing jumped out at her. She did, however, see a few abbreviations that she did not recognize. Most of the transactions for these entries were for amounts of around sixty to two hundred dollars. One of the entries she did not recognize had been written out for two thousand dollars.
While nothing in the register seemed immediately curious, she remained hung up on the abbreviations and initials that she was not familiar with. She snapped a few pictures of those entries with her phone and then returned the checkbook.
"You have an idea or something?" Harrison asked.
"Maybe," she said. "Could you please get Dagney on the phone and ask her to task someone with pulling up the Sterlings' financial records over the last year? Checking accounts, credit cards, even PayPal if they used it."
"Absolutely," Harrison said. He instantly pulled out his phone to complete the task.
I might not mind working with him so much after all, Mackenzie thought.
She listened to him speaking with Dagney while she closed the roll-top desk and looked back toward the stairs.
Someone walked up those stairs four nights ago and killed a married couple, she thought, trying to envision it. But why? And again, why were there no signs of forced entry?
The answer was simple: Just like with the Kurtzes, the killer was invited in. And that means that they either knew who the killer was and let him in or the killer was playing a certain part…acting like someone they knew or someone in need.
The theory felt flimsy but she knew there was something to it. If nothing else, it created a fragile link between the two couples.
And for now, that was enough of a connection to go on.
