The Forgotten Widow

by Layne, Kennedy

  “What I know is that Dwight and Evans are giving us valuable manhours when the majority of our office is busy with that domestic terrorism cell.” Dean was lead on this case, whereas Frank was busy pulling double and triple duty on several pending investigations. He wasn’t about to be short-changed in the support area just to pay homage to the old ways of doing things. “Cut Chaz and his deputies a break. I’d like to get home before midnight, Frank.”

  “Fine, fine,” Frank said with a dismissive wave of his left hand. “Let me grab some coffee and then you can fill me in on where we’re at with those leads.”

  Dean took the time afforded him to get the files in order, even using the whiteboard to list the suspects one by one horizontally. Underneath each name were bullet points of information that still needed to be verified. He stepped back and contemplated what else he was missing that could be run to ground overnight. Frank preferred burning the midnight oil, but he usually called it quits around two or three o’clock in the morning.

  “Benjamin Henry, Daryl Brighton, Lyle Guthfield, and Timothy August,” Frank read after he’d reentered the conference room. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and began to roll up his sleeves as he read over their details. “You didn’t list any connections to the victims.”

  “That’s because there aren’t any connections.” Dean put the cap back on the black marker, but he didn’t put it down. “Yet. Daryl Brighton owns the pub that reopened downtown. He’s the client of one of the potential targets we came up with the other day, which was how he got brought to our attention in the first place. He was born and raised here, returning to town around eight months ago to get things rolling. Basically, he moved back three months before the killings started. You know how I feel about coincidences. Anyway, I’m having Dwight comb through the receipts of the victims to see if any of them frequented the bar under the previous owner’s name. Maybe he ran into them there when he was doing his research or whatever the hell one does when buying a fucking bar.”

  “Why didn’t Dwight or Evans get a hit on him?” Frank asked, catching the fact that Brighton wasn’t one of the names that got pulled from the stats according to the profile.

  “Like I said, there was no connection. Brighton’s parents are both still alive, and he didn’t know the victims, as far as we can tell.”

  “Well, I don’t like coincidences, either,” Frank surmised, nodding his head in approval. “You filled me in on Henry and Brighton, but what about Guthfield and August?”

  “Guthfield fits the profile, with the exception of his job. He travels a lot as a businessman with international ties, but according to a flight manifest, he wasn’t even in the country when Meghan Vance was murdered.” Dean pointed to Guthfield’s name with the black marker. “The only reason I’m keeping his name on this board is that he usually travels via private jet. He may have a working knowledge of unregistered flights. I’ll cross him off once Dwight confirms that he was definitely on that plane.”

  “And Timothy August? What’s his deal?” Frank had taken the seat that Dean had vacated, already having a file opened to the man’s picture. “He looks like he overdosed on steroids. Look at the size of his neck, for Christ’s sake. It’s a damned tree trunk.”

  “August is into bodybuilding competitions. At present, he works full-time at one of the local gyms as a personal trainer,” Dean said, finally relinquishing his hold on the black marker and tossing it onto the table. He then reached for his suit jacket, resigning to the fact that he needed to make a call before driving back home. He’d been putting off talking with Kenna, knowing full well that she’d taken it personally when he and Chaz had interrupted her business meeting earlier today. “Before you ask, there’s not one connection between the gym where he works and the three victims. I’ll be following up with August myself tomorrow morning. I called the gym to confirm his schedule. His first client is at nine o’clock. He doesn’t take on clients outside of the gym that we know of. It’s a condition of his contract, and he seems to be following the terms.”

  There was something else that needed to be brought to Frank’s attention, though Dean wasn’t looking forward to his colleague’s reaction. He picked up the sheet that contained a list of eight other names of potential leads, walking it around the desk and setting it down next to Frank’s steaming cup of coffee. After seeing whose name was on the list, he might want to exchange the acidic beverage for an antacid.

  “What’s this?” Frank asked with a frown, the overhead light glinting off the man’s bald head.

  “Eight other men who could potentially fit the profile.”

  Dean left it at that, waiting for Frank to reach the second to last name on the list. It didn’t take long for his quick inhalation to resonate throughout the conference room.

  “My nephew doesn’t fit this profile, Dean. Is this some sick joke?”

  The fact that Frank had referred to Dean by his first name said it all. He’d gotten into the habit of calling him by his surname, just as Chaz had followed suit.

  “You know that the profiles we’re given aren’t written in concrete. They fit a wide variety of the general populous. We always pull names with varying degrees of suitability. Dwight was able to find eight names where the father abandoned the family, though not by death.”

  Dean was utterly exhausted, and he wasn’t looking forward to the forty-minute drive back to New Haven. He did have a clean suit with him in the car with a small toiletry bag, though he hadn’t had a single second to himself in order to change clothes today. What he needed more than anything right now was a long hot shower, a decent meal that didn’t involve a drive-thru window, and eight hours of sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

  First, he needed to ensure that Frank wasn’t going to go and make an irrational decision based on this latest turn of events, with the end result of this investigation being taken out of the hands of the very local law enforcement who could be instrumental in solving this case.

  “How the hell does Oliver even come close?” Frank asked in disgust, flinging the piece of paper into the middle of the table. “That’s a bullshit list, and you know it.”

  “Oliver is only a year under the age parameter, and his mother is basically a widow.” Dean had actually met Frank’s extended family a few times over the years when they’d visited the office while in the city. It didn’t help the situation that Oliver was a twenty-nine-year-old male, still living with his mother. “Your sister’s husband abandoned them, basically disappearing off the face of the earth. Technically, she’s a widow in every sense. Oliver’s name is just on a list, Frank. Clear him like you would any other citizen. It doesn’t mean anything, but you know for a fact that we need to do this by the book.”

  “By the book means having me nowhere near this case if my nephew is an actual suspect,” Frank countered, leaning back against the mesh of the chair and crossing his arms in frustration. “Does Archer know?”

  “Yes.” Dean met Frank’s stare, not willing to apologize for doing his job. He’d been in this situation twice today, and he didn’t appreciate the lack of trust shown by either party involved. “He’s agreed to let you stay on the case for now, given how stretched thin we are at the moment with that domestic terrorism investigation and the fact that Oliver technically doesn’t strictly fit the profile. He’s letting me make the call if that changes.”

  “It won’t.” Frank didn’t mince words, nor did he hesitate with his reply. “Oliver has his issues, but he’d never kill a defenseless woman. Not one damn chance in hell.”

  Dean came very close to pointing out that was exactly what everyone said about most unsubs in the beginning, but he refrained. It was best to let Frank have time to digest this information, realize that it had more to do with protocol than anything else, and continue forward with the investigation so they could close it before another widow lost her life.

  “I’m heading home. I’ll be in after I meet with Timothy August at the gym tomorrow morning,
” Dean said, purposefully pushing aside any more discussion about Oliver Stevens. “How long do we have you for?”

  “The entire weekend,” Frank said, though it certainly sounded as if there was regret about that decision in his tone. “I’ll be staying with my sister until Sunday.”

  Dean nodded his understanding, trusting that Frank would follow-up on his nephew first thing. If anything of concern was found, it would be reported and well-documented. His mentor might handle investigations a little differently than Dean, but there was a code of honor that not even Frank would cross. If his nephew was determined to be a viable suspect, Frank would be off the team just that quick.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Dean pulled on his gloves after he’d exited the conference room, waving at Angie who was walking out of the kitchen with what looked like a cup of hot tea. The tip line had gone relatively quiet over the last week, but today had spiked in the number of calls after the article came out yesterday regarding the signature rose left at every crime scene. He had a feeling that he and Chaz would be making a lot of visits to florist shops tomorrow afternoon, not that they hadn’t already done so discreetly over the last few weeks.

  There was no bracing for the cold temperature now that nightfall had descended. There was no snow on his vehicle, but the windows did need a bit of defrosting after having been sitting in the parking lot for the last few hours. Once the car had been started and the windows scraped, he sat behind the steering wheel and decided now was the time to make that call to Kenna.

  He’d purposefully memorized her number before Frank had gotten to the station, not wanting to explain why he was calling a potential victim with what might be considered an update on the case. Dean hadn’t crossed any lines, and he didn’t need to explain himself to someone else who had their own semi-personal ties to the investigation.

  As the line began to ring, he adjusted the vents so that the warm air wasn’t blowing directly into his eyes. The gritty sensation was already more than he could take, and he was starting in on a real thumper. The second he was done speaking with Kenna, he was driving straight home and downing two Extra-Strength Excedrin. Frank had mentioned a multi-vehicle accident near the highway on-ramp, so he wouldn’t even bother trying that route first. He knew of some secondary roads that should at least get him ten miles before he needed to reconnect to the main artery.

  By the fifth ring, Dean had thought maybe he’d miscounted until Kenna’s voicemail kicked on. She definitely would have been waiting for his call, accompanied by a long, drawn-out explanation. She didn’t strike him as the type of individual who would let anger get in the way of having him clarify his reasons for doing what he did.

  He pulled the phone away from his ear, thinking maybe she’d left her phone somewhere else in the house when she’d been in the kitchen or bathroom. Not everyone nowadays had their phones attached to their hip, though it wasn’t in keeping with her agreement to take extra precautions. He went to his recent tab and pressed her number before lifting the phone back up to his ear, resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

  One ring quickly turned back into five, resulting once more in a voicemail greeting.

  “Fuck,” Dean muttered, a myriad of emotions washing over him as he contemplated what he would do next.

  His exhaustion was shoved to the side by a simmering anger and what could only be described as festering fear that something was wrong. He didn’t believe for a moment that Kenna was purposefully ignoring his call. She was also a cop’s daughter, and he highly doubted that she would have laid her cell phone down in a place that wasn’t easy to reach in a moment’s notice.

  Dean wasn’t about to send in the calvary based on a theory he made when fatigue was ruling his decision making. With that said, he wouldn’t be able to get the rest he needed if he was constantly envisioning Kenna Burke lying in a pool of her own blood. He resigned himself to the fact that sleep wasn’t in his immediate future.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kenna pressed the palm of her hand to her stomach as it lurched at the dreadful scene laid out in front of her. The alarming act had happened just like she’d seen it on television, and there hadn’t been a thing she could do to stop the impending catastrophe. The result had honestly been horrifying. She could only stare in dread at her drenched cell phone, now surrounded by tiny grains of rice for the foreseeable future.

  The doorbell rang—not once, but three times in succession. She sighed in resignation that today was just not going to end on a good note. She purposefully inhaled slowly and then counted to three as she finished drying her hands on a dishtowel as she made her way to the front door. Her momentary pause to gain a bit of composure back after having been on edge most of the day failed miserably.

  She parted the curtain on the narrow window next to the door, something she should have done last night before opening it up to what was now the root of all her problems. Speak of the devil, and he looked about as unhappy as she did at the moment. Her stomach practically lodged itself in the back of her throat as she reached for the deadbolt to throw it back.

  Had another widow’s life been taken too soon?

  Kenna swung the door open to procure the answer to her question, pushing aside her irritation for being interrupted during her business meeting earlier today. Unfortunately, she never got a chance to really speak her mind.

  “Is there a valid reason you’re not answering your phone?” Dean’s heated gaze raked over her from head to toe, his federal agent persona somehow disappearing under the veil of concern. She’d recognized right away that he’d been worried about her, which was when the gears began to turn and click in place. “I’ve been trying to reach you since I left the station. Are you alright?”

  Kenna was able to back up before Dean bumped into her as he quickly advanced into the small foyer, his gaze searching every open space he could find in her living room and the small office on the opposite side of the foyer.

  “I’m fine, Dean,” Kenna replied, grasping that he’d thought the worst. She’d been quite irritated with him after he’d all but pushed her out the door of the pub with nothing but a pat on the head, but she would never intentionally ignore his calls. Regrettably, he was about to find out about her little mishap. “I dropped my cell phone into the toilet. I’m trying a trick I found on the Internet to hopefully dry it out, but I think it’s a lost cause to tell you the truth.”

  Dean stared at her a bit longer, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not she was telling the truth. It was then that she noticed his eyes were somewhat bloodshot. The adjective she’d chosen was actually an understatement. He looked ready to fall at her feet.

  By this time, the cold air had finessed its way around them and through her front door. She suppressed a shiver as she ushered him inside, wanting to close the door to maintain some heat in the house before they made their way to the kitchen. She regretted causing him needless worry, but she wasn’t letting this opportunity slide by without finding out a reason as to why he and Sheriff Hopkins ambushed her without even a courtesy call to warn her off. Bright had called not an hour after she’d left the pub to fill her in on the result of the questioning, which was when she’d informed him that she was inadvertently partly to blame.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” Kenna said, finally managing to close the door behind him. He was rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, already shaking his head in answer to her suggestion. “No offense, Dean, but you really look like you could use a little caffeine, maybe some sleep.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I was about to drive back to New Haven, but I couldn’t leave Winter Heights without making sure that you were okay first.”

  Kenna figured that what he really wanted to say was that he hadn’t wanted to sound the alarm and look foolish if she were fine. She was okay, and she truly appreciated the modesty he’d afforded her by not having to tell some strange deputy that she’d knocked her phone into the toilet. It was best to remind herself that
she was just part of his case, but she couldn’t stop a vague sense of warmth from invading her chest that he’d been worried about her.

  “I promised you a phone call about what happened this afternoon, but you didn’t answer.”

  Basically, he was telling her that although he had the near impossible task of bringing a serial killer to justice, he was also a man of his word. It was a good thing that Kenna hadn’t told her parents about everything that had taken place in the last two days. Undoubtedly, her mother would have begun the first stages of planning a wedding ceremony. She’d be chirping on the sidelines that it was hard to find a man of integrity, let alone twice in one lifetime.

  The overshadowing guilt that Kenna had experienced at every turn of moving on without Justin returned full stop. That wasn’t to say it hadn’t faded more and more the longer time went on. After almost three years, she would have thought it had passed completely and diminished like the lingering snowflakes outside. Hell, maybe it had, and she was just making excuses to keep things status quo. She’d spent a very long time picking up the pieces and reassembling her life, and Dean hadn’t given her any indication that he saw her as anything more than a potential lead attached to his current case.

  “Kenna?”

  She lifted her gaze to find Dean looking down at her with concern. There was no missing the heat from the slight flush that was indubitably painted on her cheeks. The last thing she needed to be doing was blanking out on such a critical conversation, especially over something her imagination had run away with like being pulled by a team of horses.

  “Sorry,” Kenna muttered, turning on her fuzzy socks and heading back into the kitchen. She made sure that her voice carried behind her so that Dean would want to hear the rest of what she had to say on the topic. “Today has been…well, it’s been one of those days. Bright called earlier, wanting to apologize for our meeting being cut short. He didn’t seem to realize that I was the reason you were at the pub in the first place. I explained what happened. Fortunately, he was okay with the fallout.”