said. Clifton Heights, which was situated on a cliff with a seventy-five-feet overhang, consisted of small rustic townhomes and cluster homes with manicured lawns and flower beds filled with purple, red and yellow petunias and red-tipped azaleas that provided privacy for the individual homes. Nestled close to the parkway, they were close to the highway for easy access to both the mountains and the small-town tourist attractions along the highway running from Atlanta to North Georgia.
Considering how well-to-do the area was, it struck Ellie as odd Carrie Winters, with her career as an exotic dancer, would have lived in the neighborhood.
As they walked around the side of the property, Ellie noted that the closest unit to Carrie’s was empty while the one on the right had lights on. Stopping at each window to search for clues indicating the killer had abducted Carrie from her home, Ellie didn’t see a broken window or signs of forced entry. Needing a look inside, she jimmied the door open, wincing when it screeched and a gray cat meowed, rubbing up against her leg.
“Hey, kitty,” she said as she petted the shorthaired animal.
An array of scents hit her—some kind of potpourri and burned coffee and the litter box, which needed to be cleaned.
Ellie scanned the kitchen but nothing seemed amiss. They moved onto the living area, where there was a plush black leather sofa, a white leather club chair, and a cowskin rug. Carrie clearly had expensive taste and the décor of the place was very contemporary, at odds with its rustic exterior.
Derrick gestured toward the hallway and Ellie inched to the right, with Derrick following. The first room was a guest room, with a white desk and daybed. Everything neat and orderly.
In the master suite, the king-sized iron bed was draped in a bright red comforter with an accent wall of black. Again, sleek and modern.
Everything was perfectly in place, as if Carrie hadn’t been here for some time. Or perhaps she was OCD or had a housekeeper.
The bathroom held an array of cosmetics, perfume, and lipsticks in a dozen different colors, all expensive brands. Derrick ducked into the closet while Ellie checked the dresser. Sexy, lacy lingerie was folded neatly in the drawers––the opposite of the plain white cotton panties and bra she’d been dressed in by the killer.
“Did you find anything?” Ellie asked Derrick as she looked over his shoulder into the closet.
He stepped aside with an eyebrow raise and indicated the wall of wigs and dance costumes, complete with feathered boas, sequin bras, and tiaras.
“Well,” she said wryly. “She obviously dressed the part.”
Just as she was feeling uncomfortable, looking at lingerie with a man she had slept with, Ellie’s phone vibrated. Glad to escape the closet, she stepped back into the bedroom to answer the call. It was the sheriff.
“Hey,” she muttered as she imagined him at the strip club where Carrie worked. Loud music boomed in the background, blending with male jeers. Bryce was probably front and center tossing dollar bills at the young women who gyrated and shook their tasseled tits.
Shoving the images aside, she said, “We’re at Ms. Winters’ house. I don’t think she was taken from here.”
“Me neither,” Bryce said. “Her car is still at the club. Manager said sometimes she leaves it here after work for extracurricular activities, then comes back for the car in the night. I took a look at it and found her purse and phone in the alley. Doesn’t look like she made it to her car at all.”
Ellie sucked in her frustration. “Did the manager or any of the employees see her leave with anyone?”
“No, but they’re all protective of the clientele.”
“Cameras?”
“Not working,” Bryce said. “They’re there to deter crime, but again, he doesn’t want customers shying away because they’re on film.”
“He’s more worried about protecting the men who frequent the bar than his employees,” Ellie said in disgust.
“It’s adult entertainment, Ellie,” Bryce said sardonically. “The men have a right to go to a bar without worrying about being blackmailed by someone who might extort them.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Talk to the waitresses and bartenders and other dancers. Dust her dressing room and look for DNA left by one of her clients.” She shook her head at the fact that she was going to suggest this but did it anyway. “Do whatever you have to, Bryce, but find out if one of the customers is the man you dubbed the Weekday Killer. For all we know, she could have been blackmailing