Hothouse Orchid (Holly Barker 6)

“Every one,” Hurd replied.

“We’re gonna have to bag all this again,” the man said.

“Well, you can put it back in the Dumpsters, then use your equipment to dump everything into the truck.”

“I guess that makes more sense. Get some pitchforks and brooms, Eddie,” the man said.

Lauren picked up her bagged towel and took one last look in her Dumpster. “Hang on!” she shouted. She vaulted back into the bin and peered into a corner. “Car keys,” she yelled, and tossed them to Hurd.

She climbed out of the Dumpster and went to take a closer look at them.

“Hertz,” Hurd said. “Ford Focus.” He read out the license plate number. Then they both started walking around the parking lot: not a single Ford Focus.

Lauren walked back to the parking lot entrance and looked up and down the road. “Hurd?” she called. “What color is the Focus?”

“Blue,” he called back.

“I’ve got one,” she said and began trotting down the road. She came up on the car and walked carefully around it, looking inside.

Hurd drove up in their car. “Anything?”

Lauren struggled out of the dirty jumpsuit and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Rental folder,” she said, opening the car door and reaching for the folder, which had been tucked into a cup holder. She opened it and read the contract. “Patricia Terwilliger,” she said, “Atlanta address. Rented the car at Melbourne Airport three days ago. Here’s her Georgia driver’s license number,” she said, walking toward the car.

Hurd was already tapping computer keys. In seconds, the driver’s license was displayed on the screen. “Looks like our girl,” he said.

“You saw her?” Lauren asked.

“At the morgue.”

“Can I have the keys, please?” Lauren asked.

Hurd handed them to her.

She walked around to the rear of the car, inserted the key and opened the trunk. “I’ve got a wheelie carry-on and a purse here,” she said. She lifted the carry-on out of the trunk and set it on the ground, then reached for the handbag and stopped. “Hurd, when you saw her corpse, was it missing anything?”

“No,” he replied.

“Then y

ou’d better get out an APB for a female body missing the right hand.”

Holly, naked and sweating, was lying in her bed with Josh next to her. “What time do you have to be at work?” she asked.

“Noon,” he panted.

“Good,” she said.

The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Holly, it’s Hurd.”

“Hey, Hurd.”

“Your idea about checking marina Dumpsters paid off, right out of the box.”

“You found her clothes?”

“First her car keys, then her car-a rental out of Melbourne three days ago. The contract was inside with her license number, and we pulled up her license: Patricia Terwilliger from Atlanta. Then we opened the trunk and found her carry-on, her purse and another woman’s right hand.”