Her Stolen Son by Rita Herron Page A

appliances, but no evidence of food or recent use. A Formica table and two chairs occupied one corner, minimal furnishings that looked unused, as well. No family photos, personal touches or signs of Rice and his life in clear view.
    The man had been in hiding. Probably methodically planning how to worm his way into Serena’s life and exact revenge—and/or the money in the attic—from her. But his plan had backfired and he’d ended up dead.
    A few bloodstains dotted the cheap linoleum, but Colt knew the worst was upstairs. Still, he needed information and began to dig through the kitchen drawers and cabinets, searching for a clue as to Rice’s plans and who might have killed him.
    Maybe an old girlfriend’s number or something indicating a partner.
    The kitchen drawers were stocked with cutlery, and the pantry held three cans of soup, a can of beans and some stale bread. The refrigerator was even more bare, the only item inside a piece of leftover pizza in a cardboard box.
    He moved to the den, methodically scanning the room. A plain brown couch and chair, one end table and a small desk. He searched the drawer in the end table, but found it empty. The coffee table was stained with coffee cup rings, and a few magazines lay on top. The first three were finance magazines—had Rice used them as research to plan a new con?
    The second magazine was a publication on coastal living featuring south Florida real estate.
    Hmm, had Rice been planning a trip south?
    He flipped through the pages searching for some indication of Rice’s interest, maybe property that had been circled, but nothing stood out. Except hadn’t Ben said that one of Rice’s former cell mates had died off the coast of Florida recently?
    He crossed the room and rummaged through the top desk drawer, but the only items inside were an assortment of take-out menus. The bottom drawer was empty. A blank notepad lay on top with a pencil beside it, but there were no notes or names or phone numbers listed. He checked the trash, but it had been emptied.
    He wondered about Rice’s car but assumed the police had impounded it. Maybe Gage could find out if they’d discovered anything inside. If he’d had a computer, they’d probably confiscated it.
    Although Rice was a con artist, and Colt doubted he would have left a paper trail on his computer or evidence of his plans lying around.
    Frustrated, he inched up the stairs. One bedroom, one bath. The double bed had obviously been stripped of the blood-soaked sheets and taken to the lab, but bloodstains still dotted the floor. He strode to the dresser and searched through the drawers. Socks, T-shirts, and three packs of unopened boxers were stacked neatly inside. The middle drawer and bottom drawers were empty. Moving to the closet, he noted three suits lined neatly in a row. He searched the pockets and linings in case Rice had sewn something inside, but again came up with nothing. Two pairs of dress shoes sat on the floor along with a pair of work boots.
    Something about those boots niggled at his mind, and he checked the size. Twelve.
    A frisson of unease hit him. The boot prints outside Derrick’s house had been a male’s, size twelve.
    Size twelve was a common size, but still it seemed too coincidental not to examine further. He flipped them over and noticed leaves and dirt stuck in the grooves of the soles.
    Was it possible that the kidnapper had worn these boots? If so, why bring them to Rice’s apartment?
    Other suspicions materialized as he analyzed the situation. Rice was a con artist. He’d tricked dozens of people out of their life savings, committed fraud, altered his appearances, created aliases and disguises and elaborate ruses to thwart the cops.
    Could he have faked his own death, then framed Serena for his murder?
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    S ERENA WAS ANTSY to hear from Colt. Maybe Parker’s killer had given him a lead.
    Or maybe he’d find something helpful