Or not, depending on her medical directive—if she had one.

“A colleague’s on the way. We’ll see if we can find anything more.”

“Call the hospital ASAP if you do.”

“Understood.”

As the paramedics wheeled her out, the older woman continued to mumble. Her eyes were glassy, yet a hint of panic lurked in their depths. Despite her obvious disorientation, on a peripheral level she seemed to realize the gravity of her situation.

Clark followed them to the porch. As they started down the walk, another patrol car pulled up outside.

Perfect timing.

These days, you wanted witnesses and backup if you poked around a private residence without the express permission of the owner—and you better have an ironclad reason for doing so. Like a life-and-death emergency.

In this case, there shouldn’t be any issue. Exigent circumstances would allow them to do a quick walk-through of the house and look for contact information.

But he wanted someone else on hand who would verify they’d restricted their search to the bare necessity.

Gabe Ramirez emerged from the patrol car and walked toward him, veering around the paramedics as they continued down the front walk toward the ambulance.

“What’s up?”

Clark briefed him. “Let’s keep it simple and straightforward. We’ll stick together and tackle a room at a time.”

“Works for me.”

They began in the bedroom. But after a quick pass through drawers and closets yielded nothing, they moved on to the kitchen.

Also a bust.

“Let’s try the spare bedroom, then the living room.” Clark took the lead down the hall.

“You notice something kind of weird about this house?” Ramirez fell in behind him.

“Like what?”

“Everything is super organized. There isn’t even a junk drawer in the kitchen.”

Clark snorted. “Just because some people’s homes are less than orderly—not mentioning any names here—that doesn’t mean everyone’s is.”

“Very funny. You try containing clutter in a household with five kids under the age of twelve.”

“No thanks.”

“You know . . . you don’t have to come to dinner anymore if the bedlam at our place is too much for you.”

“For your wife’s cooking, I can live with a little chaos. Her tamales are to die for. And she’s great with the kids. If patience is a virtue, she’s the poster child.”

“No kidding. I married a saint. And that’s another odd thing about this place. There’s nothing personal anywhere. Not a single family photo.”

Clark entered the pristine back bedroom and motioned for his colleague to take the far side while he concentrated on the area near the door. “Her neighbor said she doesn’t have any family.”

“Yeah, but unless she was an orphan, she must have had one in the past. Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. There isn’t a single picture in this house.”

Now that he mentioned it . . .