The Note (Unsolved Mysteries Book 1) by Kim Knight (red seas under red skies .TXT) 📗

of his men to tackle taking the front door off its hinges.

The officer rammed a bollard into the door. It shifted slightly on the hinges, but on the second shove, it caved in. When it did, Dunne and his team of men stood back and waited for a reaction from inside the house—there was none.

Dunne inched toward the door. He glanced left then right, clearing the pathway. There was no sign of any movement in the front of the house.

“Hello, this is Detective Dunne. I have a warrant to search the property—anyone home?” Again, there was no response.

He stepped over the threshold, followed by an armed officer, McDonald, and the rest of the team. Clearing the living room, he noticed it was unfurnished.

Turning to face the team of men behind him, he shouted. “Stanley, you guys take upstairs. We’ll handle the lower level.”

The men asked no questions. They raced up the stairs to search every inch of the upper level of the house.

Dunne and McDonald headed to the kitchen with Dunne in the lead. His detective instincts heightened under the circumstances.

What the hell are we looking for, who and what. The idea of walking into a situation like this, pulled him in different directions.

He paced through the lower half of the two-story house.

On one hand, being a seasoned detective had taught him to have formulate an idea, a direction, something to go off—and to follow his gut. The random approach of clutching straws wasn’t something he was fond of, or even existed in his detective DNA.

This unsolved murder had haunted him. It was a case he had to put to rest. He hoped he wasn’t on a wild goose chase like McDonald had joked around about.

Following the events of the last seventy-two hours, several things had come to light. And both he and his partner had changed their tune.

Chelsea might not be as innocent as she claims to be, he thought. Plus, Manisha may or may not be behind the note sending game.

As for Lance, he helped to back up the motive he theorised Chelsea had for wanting Tony dead.

“Nothing looks out of place. It’s an empty property,” McDonald’s sceptical voice called out over his shoulder.

Dunne ignored his partner and walked farther into the house. “Keep looking—eyes peeled.”

“Tony was a high-flying property investor, right? Owned a couple of restaurants too,” McDonald said. His gaze moved around the hallway behind Dunne.

“Yep, he rented his homes out to high earners from what I remember.” Dunne pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

“Nice. Earned a decent income each month I suppose.” McDonald flicked his eyes around the pristine, white kitchen, then turned to Dunne.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Dunne. “All we’ve got is these damn notes that keep showing up.”

McDonald followed suit and removed gloves from a pocket.

“If we don’t follow up, there could be hell to pay if something’s missed,” Dunne responded. He headed over to the kitchen counters and started to open the drawers.

“Find anything?”

“Empty, there’s nothing here.” He turned to McDonald, slamming the drawer shut.

His partner raised an eyebrow in his direction, then headed into the living area.

Dunne remained in the kitchen and sighed.

“All clear here too,” McDonald’s voice called out to him from the living room.

All that was there was a dining table, chairs, and a sofa. None the less, he tipped over the sofa and rummaged through it. He came up with nothing.

“Fuck,” Dunne whispered, removing his gloves.

“Detective! Detective! We found something,” Officer Stanley called out from the upper level of the house.

Dunne left the kitchen. He met McDonald by the staircase, then followed behind him to the upper level of the house. Together, they entered one of the bedrooms.

“Looks like this is what we were meant to find.”

Officer Stanley held out clear plastic bag. Inside was a large, rusty screwdriver with dried blood and what looked like a set of decayed human eyes.

“Jesus,” Dunne said and pulled out his phone. “Yeah, it’s Detective Dunne, can you send over a forensic team to the address we put a search warrant on this morning? ASAP.” Dunne paused, listening in on the line. “Yeah, no problems. Forensics needs to go over the property for prints and see what turns up.”

He placed his phone back in his inside pocket and faced his team. “Keep looking, search the place. Top to bottom,” he snapped, then left.

McDonald took hold of the plastic bag from officer Stanley and followed Dunne downstairs.

Ten minutes later, the house was crawling with a unit from forensics. Satisfied, McDonald and Dunne headed back to the station.

Back in the office, at his desk, cross-checking the case files from months ago, he glanced at the clock.

Okay, should be ready now, he thought, then picked up the phone. He punched in a few numbers and waited for an answer.

“Detective Dunne, how are you doing?” A familiar voice asked.

“I’m good, Casey, what’s the latest on the notes? Did you find any prints?”

“No, sorry, same result as the last set,” Casey confirmed.

Dunne swung his legs off his desk, then sat up straight. “Okay, what about the screwdriver and body parts?”

“Good news, it’s a match to Tony Patel’s blood. They’re his eyes, all right. But no prints.”

“Arrrgh, jezzz.” Dunne rested his elbows on his desk.

“Sorry, Detective.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I needed this confirmation. Thanks for the update.”

Dunne placed the phone down, happy that the murder weapon had turned up, but pissed at a lack of prints.

McDonald knocked on the door and entered.

“What’s up?” Dunne called out.

“I ran a further search on the property, no one has been registered as a tenant there since a month before Tony’s death,” McDonald stated.

“So, it’s been empty for four months?”

“Right, but someone must have had access to that property, to place the evidence there. Tony turned up dead three months ago, while his family contested his will arrangements. Up to this point, someone had access. They had to.” McDonald took a seat opposite Dunne.

“Yep, no forced access at all. Chelsea’s the legal owner.” Dunne kicked his feet