Page 4 of Trap ’N’ Trace

“After you came out of the house to call 911, did anyone else go inside?” he asked.

“No, I’m sure of it. I sat here the whole time and could see the door.” Again, she shook her head. “I suppose that was stupid. I should have driven away in case whoever did this was still nearby.”

Maybe so, but he gave her credit for having the backbone to stick around until the PD showed up.

“Let’s dial this back to when you first got here.” Twenty feet away, the press hounds eyed them like vultures scoping out their next meal. Only the uniforms prevented the reporters and their video guys from charging over. “Sometimes, a witness doesn’t realize they’ve seen things that are critical to an investigation. Try closing your eyes. Visualize everything from the moment you turned onto the street. Say anything that pops into your head, even if you think it’s not important.”

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. Perfectly arched brows furrowed. “As soon as I turned onto Kings Highway, I saw the commercial sign on the front lawn then pulled in front of the house and parked.”

“Was there a vehicle in the driveway?” He glanced at Becca’s Toyota Highlander.

“Yes.” She nodded, smoothing her hand over the puppy’s head while he chewed on his toy. “A blue SUV. I didn’t notice what kind.”

“Were there any other vehicles parked in front of you or behind you?”

Again, her brows furrowed. “There was a gray car parked halfway down the street. When I came back out of the house and got into my car, it drove away.”

“Was the driver a man or a woman?”

“I think it was a man. Or a woman with short hair.”

“Could you tell what the make of the car was?”

“No.” She rolled her lips inward. “But there was something about the back of the car.”

“A bumper sticker?” he suggested. “Or a parking sticker?”

“No, nothing like that. I got it!” Her eyes flew open. “The bumper was dented pretty badly on one side.”

“Right side or left?”

“Left.”

“Could you read the license plate?”

Again, she closed her eyes. Angus dropped the toy onto his little belly and licked Katrina’s chin. “No. I’m sorry.”

“What state license plate was it?”

“New Jersey,” she said firmly. “Black on a beige background.”

“Good.” Might be nothing, but some murderers liked to stick around for that moment when the body was discovered or when the press showed up. “That’s all I have.”

“Detective,” one of the uniforms called out, holding up a cell phone. “The chief wants you.”

“Miss Vandenburg, thank you for your time.” Paulson beat feet to take his boss’s call.

“If you don’t mind, Mister Dayne,” Katrina said, standing and cradling the puppy in her arms like a baby, “I’d like to leave before Angus pees on my lap.” The dog toy fell to the sidewalk beside the Escalade.

Dayne scooped up the toy then held it out to Angus, who promptly clamped his jaws around it. The huddle of reporters closed in tighter, some photographers snapping shots.

“Oh no.” A tortured expression clouded her features. “I hate reporters.”

Dayne held back a snort. That might be the one and only thing they had in common.

Katrina twisted her neck in all directions, searching for an escape route. Patrol cars blocked in her Escalade. Dayne’s Interceptor, however, was in the clear.

She bit her lower lip, looking more panicked by the second. He could never leave a woman in distress. It wasn’t his way. Besides, if he did, his mother would smack him upside the head. When it came to courtesy, his mom was a drill sergeant.