Winter Frost (A Chris Matheson Cold Case Mystery Book 2)

by Lauren Carr

  The burner phone in his hand vibrated. Hoping it would be Murphy with some answers, Chris answered on the first ring.

  “Murphy?”

  “Chris, it’s me.” His tone was more serious than usual. He paused. “Chris, I’m sorry.”

  Chris dropped his head. He rubbed his face with his hand.

  “They’ve found Blair’s body,” Murphy said.

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as she learned about the discovery of Blair’s body, Doris jumped up from the table where she and Elliott had been talking and followed Chris into the mudroom. Before she could shrug into her coat, he took it from her.

  “You can’t go.” He returned it to the hook.

  “I’m not going to let you go through this alone.” She snatched her coat from where he had hung it. “I wasn’t there for you the first time Blair died—”

  “Yes, you were.” Chris grabbed the tunic.

  “Not physically.” She seized one of the sleeves. “I should have driven out to Reston to be with you the second you called,” she said while attempting to yank it out of his grasp. “I don’t know what I was thinking that I had to be here because of that open house at the animal shelter. You needed me!”

  Chris released his hold on the coat, which caused her to tumble back into Elliott. “Mom, I’m a grown man.” He wrapped both arms around her and held her tight. “I can handle anything that anyone throws at me. You came out after the open house, and the girls and I didn’t doubt for a second that you weren’t with us emotionally.” He pulled away and looked into her eyes. “You have always been there for me and the girls.” He took the coat from her. “Now, the girls need you more than ever.” He returned it to the hook. “Emma and Nikki are coming home at noon. You need to be here for them.”

  “What are you going to tell them?” Elliott asked while putting on his coat.

  “Nothing for now,” Chris said. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain it. I need more answers. How can I expect them to understand it if I don’t?”

  “She was dead before, and now she’s dead again,” Elliott said. “Maybe you can get away with not saying anything.”

  Chris shook his head. “I promised all of them a long time ago that I will never keep any secrets from them. If they ever want the truth, the good, the bad, the ugly, they can come to me and I will give it to them straight. I’m not breaking that promise.”

  The thought of her granddaughters discovering that their mother had allowed them to believe she had died caused Doris to be overcome with a wave of emotion. Her lips trembled. “How did she die this time?”

  “They found her body dumped in Lake Audubon,” Chris said while slipping on his coat. “A runner found her. That’s all I know.”

  “You used to live on Lake Audubon.” Doris’s brow furrowed.

  “They found her at the end of the same block where we used to live.”

  “Could she have gone there looking for you after seeing you on the metro?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Elliott gave Doris a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll keep you in the loop about what’s happening, my love.” He winked at her.

  “Hi, Tristan.”

  Tristan almost dropped his tablet when Chloe, the server behind the counter, approached his sofa from behind. That was one thing he didn’t like about Chloe. He could never hear her coming. Always, she would be watching him with her big glassy eyes. Her tone oozed of so much sweetness that he felt like he was going to go into insulin overload.

  She had even startled Monique, who hopped from his shoulder down onto his chest.

  Hoping she didn’t see the café’s security recordings on his computer screen, Tristan snapped down the lid.

  She pointed at his empty mug. “Would you like another expresso?”

  He considered her offer deciding a seventh expresso would be overdoing it. He turned around to decline her offer when he spotted a familiar face behind her.

  He’s back! Tristan looked at the time on his phone. Two hours after leaving the restaurant with Daniel Cross’s travel mug, the young man was back. Tristan rose from his seat to watch as he moved through the café, which had thinned out since the morning rush. Their suspect took a seat at the same bistro table he had been sitting at previously.

  “Sorry, Chloe, but I just remembered that I have to be somewhere.”

  Quickly, Tristan placed Monique in her plastic box, fitted with airholes, and packed his backpack. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw that the young man was reading the same magazine he had left before.

  Wait for it. If he keeps to his routine, then the switch off will happen in a few minutes—just enough time for me to get into position.

  He placed Monique’s box on top of his belongings in the backpack and zipped it only enough to hold everything inside. Checking over his shoulder, he stacked the used cups and dishes onto his serving tray and carried it to the trash, where he took his time clearing them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a red-headed woman with a black travel mug in her hand step from the service counter to the condiment station. She removed its lid.

  On cue, the young man went to the condiment station. He set his mug next to hers and removed the lid. He turned to toss the magazine onto the table, and then picked up her mug and lid. He placed the lid onto the mug and made for the side door.

  Reaching the door at the same time, Tristan held it open for him. The young man gave him a polite nod.

  Several inches shorter and slightly built, Tristan thought he didn’t appear to be much older than himself. He may not have even been twenty years old.

  Once he was outside, the young man turned right to continue down P Street toward Dupont Circle. Tristan paused on the street to adjust his backpack in order to not appear too obvious while following the man with the travel mug.

  From his position behind him, Tristan saw that he carried the mug in his hand, which was interesting because his backpack had a sleeve made specifically for holding mugs. Tristan’s own pack had such a sleeve.

  He could be carrying it because he wants to drink it.

  After two blocks, Tristan saw that he was not drinking it.

  He’s delivering it to someone. Who?

  At the corner of 20th Street NW, the young man stopped at the news stand and picked up a newspaper. He set the mug on the counter to pay the vendor. Then, he walked away without the cup.

  For a second, Tristan was torn. Should he follow the young man from the restaurant or stay with the mug?

  Stay with the mug! Tristan swore he heard his father’s voice scream inside his head.

  Trying to appear as casual as possible, Tristan stepped up to the newsstand to read the headlines.

  “Can I help you?” The grossly overweight, stubble-faced owner of the newsstand picked up the mug and set it behind the counter.

  “Just looking.”

  After several minutes of the man glaring at him, Tristan bought a paleontology magazine and sat on a bench nearby where he pretended to read it. With one eye on the newsstand, he hoped the travel mug would start travelling again soon.

  It was close to an hour later before the newsstand owner placed the mug back on the counter. Moments later, a woman on a bike rode by. As she past the stand, she reached out, snatched the mug, and peddled away.

  Damn!

  Tristan took out his phone and snapped her picture while trying to follow her as best he could. His fingers flew across the screen as he opened up Nigel and ordered him to tap into traffic security cameras to track her.

  “Where is she, Nigel?” Tristan gasped into the phone while chasing the bike.

  “She is going into Dupont Circle Metro.”

  “Swee-eet!” He slowed to a comfortable pace. “It’s the weekend. The trains are running twenty
minutes apart. Which direction is she going, Nigel?”

  “Red Line heading to Glenmont.”

  At the metro station, Tristan used his monthly fare card and descended the stairs on the side for the trains heading deeper into the city. He hoped she was not planning to get off at the Metro Center, the subway hub of the city. Four subway lines converged at the center to take travelers in every direction. If she got off there, Tristan knew it would be a challenge to follow her.

  Late Saturday morning, the subway stop was sparsely populated. Tristan easily spotted the girl with the bike standing on the platform.

  The travel mug was in a mount on the handlebars of the bike. If it was the same mug. Aware that he had lost sight of it, Tristan had to accept the fact that she could have already made the hand off.

  Then, Tristan recalled that she simply took the mug from the newsstand. There wasn’t a switch. She didn’t give the newsstand operator a mug to replace that one. Therefore, odds were, it was the same mug.

  It has to be the same mug.

  The train arrived, and she climbed aboard. She took the first seat next to the doors with her bike propped up in front of her.

  Trying not to appear too obvious, Tristan waited for everyone else to board before sauntering on. The train was moderately filled—mostly with tourists. Tristan stood at the pole directly next to her bike, which was practically resting against his leg.

  “Red Line to Glenmont Station.” Chimes signaled the doors closing.

  The train rolled out of the station.

  “Next station. Farragut North,” the automated announcer said.

  If she was planning to get off at the Metro Center, which Tristan was willing to bet money she was, he only had minutes to act. He adjusted his backpack and opened the back to check on Monique, who was curled up inside her box. Reaching deep into the bag, he extracted a small black case and quickly unzipped it.

  The train slowed.

  Tristan glanced up to see if the girl showed any indication that she was getting off. There was none. He reached into the case of technical goodies that he had collected through the years. The case contained a hodgepodge of stuff. Tiny micro computer chips that acted as spyware, spy cameras, bugs, and stickers that contained almost invisible GPS chips that he had pre-programmed to transmit to Nigel.

  “Farragut North.”

  The doors slid open.

  People bumped and cursed while making their way around him to board the train. Tristan clung to the pole to stay close to the bike and the travel mug.

  He peeled the black GPS sticker off the waxed paper. He had only a split second to note the number on the chip.

  “13”

  Seriously? Thirteen? Why did I mark a chip with that unlucky number? I must have been in a weird mood that night.

  With the chip stuck to his fingertip, he closed the case and slipped it back into his backpack. He slung the backpack onto his shoulder.

  Just then, a big man slammed into him while rushing to board the train before the doors shut.

  Tristan fell into the bike and the girl. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

  “No, that’s okay!” She helped him back up onto his feet.

  “Is your bike okay?” Tristan examined the bike. “I think I knocked your cupholder loose.” He took the travel mug out of the mount and slipped the sticker onto the bottom while checking the mount.

  With one quick move, she grabbed the mug from him. “It’s fine.” Clutching the cup, she righted the bike.

  Looking down at her, Tristan saw that like the young man who had collected the mug at the café, she was young—barely out of her teens if that. She had a slender—almost boyish figure—not unlike his girlfriend—a midshipman at the naval academy in Annapolis.

  Seeing that, he felt a tinge of guilt about tagging the mug. Depending on what type of mess she was involved in, she could get into a lot of trouble if they discovered it.

  The guy at the café had definitely collected something from Daniel Cross. Any information Cross had was not small potatoes. It was the type of stuff that could get people killed.

  Would they hesitate to kill this girl for bringing them a marked travel mug?

  Clinging to the pole, Tristan vacillated between warning the girl and not doing anything. He was on the side of warning her that she could be in danger when the train rolled to a stop again.

  “Metro Center.”

  The doors swung open and Tristan was swept into a tidal wave of tourists rushing off the train. By the time he broke free, the girl was in the elevator going to the lower level.

  Tristan stuck a wireless bud into his ear. “Nigel, activate GPS chip number thirteen.”

  “GPS chip thirteen activated.”

  While he was confident that Nigel could follow the travel cup, Tristan felt there was nothing like a human pair of eyes. He took the escalator to the lower level where trains from three lines rolled through.

  “Silver Line to Wiehle-Reston East.”

  The train rolled into the station.

  Standing back against the far wall, the girl held the cup in one hand and the bike with the other. She made no move to board the train when the doors opened.

  Since the train was heading into the suburbs, only a few passengers boarded. Most remained on the platform. Tristan moved down the platform to get as far from her as possible since she was suspicious of him.

  Mentally, he made a bet of which train she was waiting for—the Orange or Blue Line. Both crossed the Potomac River. The Orange Line went beyond Rosslyn and Arlington to go out into Falls Church. The suburbs that in recent years had become more urban than suburb. The Blue Line turned right after crossing the river to go to the Pentagon, Pentagon City, and Crystal City, which was home to a host of government contracting companies.

  I bet a thousand bucks it’s the Blue Line. That’s the biggest market to sell information.

  The Blue Train rolled into the station.

  She stood up from where she had been leaning against the wall and moved to the door.

  Tristan smiled. He had won the bet against himself. On second thought, he also lost the bet since it was against himself. When am I going to learn to stop betting against myself? With a shake of his head, he boarded the train.

  She guided her bike onto the train, which was not as full as the train on the Red Line had been. Tristan noticed that she had placed the travel mug back into the mount. To not make her any more suspicious, he got onto the same car but sat against the wall far in the back.

  The doors closed, and the train eased out of the station. Tristan could feel the train descending into the tunnel to race under the Potomac River before rising to the surface again on the Virginia side.

  “Arlington Cemetery,” the automated voice announced.

  Tristan was surprised when the girl moved her bike to the door. He had expected her to get off at Pentagon or Crystal City. He was so anxious to follow her that he almost tripped over his own big feet to make it to the platform.

  She carried her bike to the street before climbing on and riding off into the cemetery. At that point, Tristan decided she would definitely become suspicious if he ran after her. So, he went into the cemetery and took a seat on a bench.

  “Nigel, do you still have the GPS signal?” he asked while taking Monique out of his backpack to give her fresh air.

  “It’s on the move,” Nigel said.

  Tristan brought up the map on his phone. He could see the GPS signal moving at a steady pace through the cemetery.

  After several minutes, it came to a halt on the other end of the cemetery. Seconds later, the GPS chip was moving again, in the opposite direction and at a much faster pace.

  “It’s coming back to you, Tristan,” Nigel said.

  His finger on the blinking light on the tablet, Tristan followed the signal moving through the
cemetery. Not only was it moving fast, but it was moving with no regard for the roads or bike trail. As the signal moved toward him, he looked up to the sky.

  As the drone flew overhead, Tristan saw the signal sweep across the screen on his phone.

  Ah, you clever spy.

  Tristan watched it fly toward the river and out of sight.

  Patting himself on the back for thinking of the GPS chip, he turned his attention to the map with the blinking light travelling across the freeway.

  Don’t tell me it’s going back across the river.

  It didn’t. At the river, the drone turned right and flew a half mile before coming to a stop.

  “Nigel, where is it now?”

  “According to the address, our target is now at Slade industries.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “There he goes.” Bruce pointed across the street to where Oliver Hansen had trotted out the door and made his way down toward Union Station.

  “Maybe he’s just going to get some lunch.” Jacqui tossed her empty bottle of water into a trash bin and fell in step with Bruce.

  “Maybe,” Bruce replied. “What I’m interested in is who he’s having lunch with. You saw his reaction to learning about Stephens’s murder.”

  “Shock that someone he worked with got murdered.”

  Bruce looked at her. The corners of his lips curled.

  “Equally mixed with guilt,” she added.

  “Tell me he didn’t contact whoever he leaked to first chance he got.”

  Together, they crossed Columbus Circle toward the Christopher Columbus Memorial Fountain.

  Four body guards clad in black suits surrounded a long black limousine with smoked windows. There was a black SUV parked in front of the limousine and another behind it.

  “Is the President eating in the food court now?” Jacqui asked.

  Bruce took note of the license plate on the limousine: SLADE