JD and I held up at the doorway to the master bedroom and surveyed the scene as forensic investigators marked and chronicled evidence.
A mix of blood splatter and bloody footprints stained the cream carpet around the bed.
The victim lay atop the sheets, naked with multiple stab wounds. From the looks of him, he was mid- to late 60s with gray hair, a square face wrinkled and sagging with age, and a bit of a beer belly. He was a big guy, but all of his muscle tone had diminished over the years. Now he was hairy, saggy, and flabby.
Black Velcro restraints wrapped around his wrists and ankles were secured to the four bedposts. A silk blindfold covered his eyes. A coat of crimson covered his body and stained the bedsheets.
He wasn't just stabbed a couple of times. There were multiple punctures.
Somebody really didn't like this guy.
That typically indicated the killer was known to the victim. Only somebody you knew could make you mad enough to stab themthatmany times. With a personal connection to the killer, it might make our job a little easier, but there would be nothing easy about this case.
Sitting on the chaise lounge by the glass doors that opened to the terrace, a brunette woman sobbed with her head in her hands. Dressed in a seductive Chinese red silk robe, wearing nothing else, she was covered in blood—her hands, the robe, her face, her deep valley of exposed cleavage.
The deputy standing by her asked a question. She lifted her head from her hands and gave him a quizzical look with those ice-blue eyes. She shrugged and said, "I don't know."
I didn't hear the question.
She was gorgeous. Maybe 25. Straight raven hair, smooth tan skin, and a figure that would make most men salivate.
The sheriff stood with folded arms near the foot of the bed, looking on with a grim face as Brenda hovered over the remains, examining the body.
JD and I joined him, moving across the room with caution, taking care not to contaminate the bloody footprints or other evidence.
A pair of blood-soaked pruning shears lay on the floor beside the bed—clearly the murder weapon.
"Is that…?” JD asked, finally recognizing the victim.
Sheriff Daniels nodded. "This is about to be a media circus.”
I gave a subtle nod to the brunette. "Is that his wife?”
Daniels nodded again.
"Think she killed him?" I whispered.
At first glance, it looked pretty incriminating.
The sheriff shrugged. "I'm counting on you two to figure that out. Don't screw this up. The world's going to be watching.”
“When do we ever screw anything up?” JD said with a straight face.
The sheriff gave him a flat look.
Brock Madison was a legendary football coach who’d taken his team to three Super Bowl championships. Maybe that explains why three of his fingers had been snipped off with the shears and were now lying like breakfast sausages near his hand. Maybe somebody was after the Super Bowl rings. They weren’t on his fingers now.
Brock’s Super Bowl victories were only the beginning for him. After he retired from coaching, he undertook several business ventures and a plethora of endorsements that brought him to billionaire status. Of course, the tabloids had a field day with his divorce and recent marriage to a much younger woman.
I didn’t really keep up with the tabloids.
We stepped across the room to the brunette. I flashed my badge and made introductions. She told me her name was Tiffany, and by the size of the rock on her finger, it was easy to assume that she was the latest Mrs. Madison.
I offered my condolences and said, “I know this is a difficult time. We just need to ask you a few standard questions.”
She looked up at me with weepy eyes and nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
