I See You

by Burton, Mary

  He nodded toward the stack of photos she had pulled off the walls barely two days ago. “I’m assuming he was your husband.”

  “Jeff. He was one hell of a cop. And an all-around good guy. He was healthy as a horse and had finished a marathon three days before he died. They tell me he was at the courthouse to get a search warrant when the first headache brought him to his knees. We’d just spoken, and he had said he was on the way to our favorite restaurant.” She set her cup down with deliberate care. “I’d been waiting at the restaurant for thirty minutes when his captain called me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He kept his hand on her knee.

  She pushed away the images of that restaurant and the days and years that followed. “Life isn’t always a party. I’m guessing you’re not a single parent by choice.”

  “Divorce. It was better for everyone, but I know it hurt Nate.”

  “How old was he when you and your wife divorced?”

  “Five. Motherhood and being a cop’s wife were too much for her.”

  “The principal at the school mentioned that she died.”

  “Long after the divorce. I was sorry for Nate,” he said. “Despite it all, she was his mother.”

  Zoe laid her hand over his. “I’m sorry for him and you. She was the mother of your child.”

  “Yeah.”

  They sat together for several seconds. “We still have a couple of hours to kill before we have to be at the lab. We could catch a few hours of sleep.”

  He held up his empty cup. “I’ll never get back to sleep.”

  “Neither will I.”

  He slid his hand up under the robe and ran his fingers over her soft curls. She reached for the belt on her robe and undid it. It slid from her shoulders and settled on her chair.

  She rose and stood between his legs. He cupped her buttocks and again suckled that nipple. The last time he had tortured her with wanting. Now it was her turn.

  She lowered to her knees, and as she ran her tongue over her lips, she unfastened his belt. She cupped his erection and teased it with the underside of her thumb.

  “I won’t last long if you keep that up.” His tone was seasoned with a dark humor.

  She smiled. “Two can play this game.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday, August 14, 11:00 p.m.

  Arlington, Virginia

  Forty Hours after the 911 Call

  He should be satisfied. Hadley Foster was lying in cold storage in the medical examiner’s office, covered in knife wounds. That beautiful body she had worked so hard to maintain, the Botox injections, and the acrylic nails had been reduced to a lump of decaying skin and bones. Eventually, she would be dust.

  He had dreamed about and planned for this moment for weeks, months, hell, even years. He should feel like he was on top of the world. He had won, and the cops would never nail him for the crime. It did not get any better than that.

  But instead of elation, he felt let down, like a kid seconds after the Christmas Day presents were opened. That’s it? No more goodies? Now what dark fantasies would he dream about to get him off each morning?

  He sat in his car, staring blindly at the strip of bars in Arlington. They weren’t the fancy clubs of the young, upwardly mobile hotshots hoping to make it big in the nation’s capital or strike it rich with one of the consulting firms. No, these bars served the working man. The guys and gals who built the upscale, modern buildings, cleaned the toilets, or cut the lawns. They were the invisible people. The ones their betters did not want to acknowledge.

  He liked moving and hunting among the unseen because they were the easiest to murder. And right now, he needed a kill more than anything.

  His phone dinged with a text saying that his “date” for the evening was waiting for him on the corner. He had agreed to pay extra if she came to the motel room of his choosing and not the one she normally worked out of. He wanted home-field advantage. Besides, there was something about fucking on sheets after another guy that disgusted him.

  A rap on the window, and he looked to see the woman. He’d ordered a blonde, preferably with blue eyes and a small frame. Big tits were good, but it was hard to get the entire package each time. As long as this one looked a little like Hadley, that would be enough.

  The woman waiting for him now was a little too tall for his tastes, and her tits were not spectacular, but she was blond. A good fuck would take the edge off the raw anger clawing at his insides.

  He clicked the lock button open, and she slid into the car, tossing him a practiced smile seen by more men than even she could count. As he nodded, he locked the car doors. The click made her flinch, but she kept smiling. A pro.

  “Where’re we going?” A heavy dose of cheap perfume filled the car as she snapped on her seat belt.

  He was amused she was concerned about highway safety, considering she had gotten into a stranger’s car. “I have a room. It’s a few blocks from here.”

  “You’ve paid for three hours. That includes travel time.”

  “I get that.” He put the car in drive and slowly pulled away from the curb. He wove through the traffic, careful not to look rushed. He wanted his driving to be as nondescript as his vehicle.

  She fussed with the hem of her short skirt, running her hand over the fishnet covering her exposed thigh in a practiced way. With her hand on the door, she relaxed back into her seat. “Feels good to sit down.”

  “I thought you girls didn’t walk the streets anymore. I thought it was all phone calls and shit.”

  “It is. But it’s been a long night.” She coiled a blond curl around her finger.

  The stoplight turned yellow, so he slowed. It turned red, and he reached for the radio and switched on a rock station. Sometimes when he played the older stuff, it reminded him of when he was younger. In those days, he had still been angry, but he’d also had hope he would get his shit together and live the dream. Now he knew the dream was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

  He adjusted his tight grip on the steering wheel several times before the light turned green. He pressed the accelerator and drove two more blocks to his motel. It was an older place, but what he liked about it was the front desk took cash. It also did not have cameras.

  He shut off the car engine and unhooked his seat belt. “I’m on the first floor.”

  That automatic smile returned, and when he unlocked the car doors, she reached to open hers. As she rose, he glanced at her ass. He would bet she was already thinking about what moves she would run through with him so she could get him off fast so she could catch a little sleep.

  He moved around the car and met up with her, and the two walked toward the room. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk, and a side-eye glance caught the swell of those tits in the V of her low-cut top. She already was working him, and they had not even gotten inside the room.

  He opened the door, clicked on the light, and waited for her to enter. He closed the door behind him and watched as she set her purse by the edge of the bed closest to the door. She walked to the bathroom, looked inside, and then faced him. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Take your clothes off,” he said.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, unzipped her boots, and set them by her purse. She must have learned the hard way to lay out her clothes and plan for a quick exit.

  His dick grew hard as she reached for the edge of her top and pulled it over her head, exposing big floppy tits with big pink areolae that conjured images of a milk cow. Not Hadley.

  She wiggled her hips and pushed off her short skirt, leaving her only in a black thong, which she also removed. Again, the clothes were piled neatly with her other belongings.

  She rose, reached for the comb in her hair. “How do you want it?”

  “Leave your hair up. Lie on the bed,” he said.

  “On my back?”

  “Yes. I want to see your face.”

  She hesitated a moment, as if something in his tone bothered her. A girl like her would have t
o be smart if she wanted to survive on the street. “And then what?”

  “Stretch your arms out,” he said.

  As she got on the bed and lay down, slowly extending her arms to either edge of the headboard, he straddled her. His dick was hard, but it was not throbbing, and he feared if he kept looking at that damn face of hers, he would lose it altogether.

  He closed his eyes, pictured Hadley, and ran his fingers over her belly and up to the breasts. When his fingers skimmed the pink, large tits, he squeezed hard. She whimpered and squirmed under him.

  He pinched again, this time taking a big handful of each breast in his hands and clamping down hard.

  “Fuck me,” she whispered.

  Her words were not an invitation but an acceptance that this job was not going to be as easy as she had first thought. He was hurting her. And his dick got a little harder.

  His hands moved up her chest to her neck, and he wrapped his fingers around it. He tightened his hold, remembering the times when he’d had Hadley under him. This woman felt different. Tauter. Sinewy. Pissed that this woman was not Hadley, he tightened his hold.

  “Not so rough, baby,” she whispered. “We have over two hours to go.”

  The sound of her voice broke the moment, and something inside of him clicked. No matter how much he pretended, there was no bringing back Hadley. She was gone forever.

  But that did not mean the night was going to be a complete loss.

  He released her neck, now marred by the red impression of his fingers. “Sorry.”

  Worry skimmed her gaze. “It’s okay, baby. Why don’t you lay down and let Kiki do her magic on you?”

  “I bet you’ve got some moves,” he said.

  “I do, baby. Kiki is one of the best. I have a five-star rating.” She rubbed her fingers over his thighs. “Take these pants off, and let me show you how I got those five stars.”

  He rose up off the bed, but instead of reaching for his belt buckle, he opened the nightstand. Beside the Bible was a gag, a set of handcuffs, and a knife.

  Kiki glanced toward the drawer, and when she saw the toys, she started rolling toward her clothes and the door, gripping the hair comb in her hand. In seconds, she was on her feet and running toward the door, snatching her clothes from the chair as she passed.

  He raced after her and grabbed her by the wrist. He tightened his grip and yanked her back. She stumbled, righted herself, and, in a swift move, brought the hair comb around and jabbed the sharp edges into the front of his chest. The pain stunned him, and he released her hand.

  She twisted the door handle and opened it a fraction before he lunged again. But she was ready for him, and this time, she drove the sharp comb up under his arm. She twisted, forcing him to stumble back.

  Before he could right himself, she opened the door and dashed into the night, naked and with her clothes bundled in her arms.

  He took a step outside, ready to chase her, when he saw a cop car drive by the motel. There were several hookers standing outside who ran toward the naked girl and surrounded her.

  With no choice but to retreat, he slammed the door. Blood streamed down the front and sides of his chest. It stained his pants and the tops of his feet. He dashed to the bathroom, grabbing a small towel and pressing it into his wounds.

  Heart hammering in his chest, he shifted into damage control as he slid on his shoes and grabbed the handcuffs and gag. He opened the door, saw that the lot was clear for the moment, and started running.

  “Fuck you, Hadley.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Thursday, August 15, 8:00 a.m.

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Forty-Nine Hours after the 911 Call

  As soon as Vaughan and Spencer left her townhome, he was on the phone with the hospital to check on Skylar’s physical state. He wanted to interview her again about what had happened at her home two days ago.

  The hospital’s receptionist put him in touch with the nurse on Skylar’s floor, who informed him that Mrs. Bradford had picked up Skylar and taken her to her home. He unlocked the car, and the two slid in as he dialed Mrs. Bradford’s number.

  The call went to voicemail. “Mrs. Bradford, this is Detective Vaughan. I’ll be by later today. Remember, no media. And the girl does not see her father without a social worker or me present.”

  He hung up and pulled into traffic. “I want to talk to the forensic department first. At this point, I need to have as many facts in hand as possible before I talk to Skylar or her father again.”

  “Neither one of them has given us the full story. If he truly killed her mother, why is she protecting him?”

  “He’s the only parent she has left.”

  The two had time for a quick breakfast in a King Street bakery, and then they drove to the lab just as Bud was laying out two jackets on the light table. He recognized the clothes as belonging to the Foster family. Bud stood over the light table and clipped off a small piece of fabric from a blood-soaked exercise top.

  The first set of clothes belonged to Hadley. They included jogging shorts, an exercise top, socks, and shoes. The second set were Skylar’s, and to his surprise, they were jeans, a black shirt, a dark hoodie, and running shoes. And then at the end were Mark Foster’s dress shirt, slacks, tie, socks, and shoes. Paramedic and emergency room personnel had cut Foster’s clothes off him.

  All the clothes were doused in blood. Hadley’s were the worst by far, followed by Skylar’s and finally Foster’s. It would take weeks of testing to determine whose blood was on whom.

  “All my testing is preliminary at this point,” Bud said. “We’re talking Quick-DNA, and I still have a mountain of evidence that’ll require more testing before I can finalize my reports.”

  “The quick-and-dirty version will work for now,” Vaughan countered.

  Bud adjusted the glasses perched on his nose. “The blood on Hadley Foster’s body so far belongs predominantly to Hadley Foster,” Bud said. “Considering the medical examiner estimated Hadley lost over fifty percent of her blood volume, this makes sense. Hadley’s injury was such that she would have drenched anyone or anything that came in close contact with her as she was dying.”

  “Skylar had a cut on her hand,” Vaughan said.

  “Like I said, it will take time to sort the blood on Hadley’s clothes. For now, I can’t differentiate between the two.”

  “That conclusion also includes the back seat of the Lexus?” Spencer asked.

  “It does. There is some blood that belongs to Skylar, but most of it was Hadley Foster’s.”

  “Where did you find Skylar’s blood?” Vaughan asked.

  “In the front seat, on the steering wheel,” Bud said.

  “Fitting Foster’s first narrative that the girl drove her mother and the assailant away from the house,” Vaughan said.

  “It could be interpreted that way,” Bud said.

  “Did you get a chance to pull Jason’s DNA from his prison records and compare it to Skylar’s?” Spencer asked.

  “It’s a match,” Bud said. “He’s her biological father.”

  “The blue eyes and high cheekbones they share are not a fluke,” Spencer said.

  “Appears so,” Bud said.

  “Is there any of Mark Foster’s blood on Skylar’s or Hadley’s clothes?” Vaughan asked.

  “No,” Bud said. “So far, his blood seems to be contained to his clothes, by the garage, and on the floor by the front entryway.”

  “What about Skylar’s clothes?” Vaughan asked.

  “She’s soaked in her mother’s blood,” Bud said. “And there are also traces of her own blood on her clothes.”

  “All could fit the narrative of a masked intruder who forced the girl to leave with her mother,” Spencer said.

  “Which leads me back to Mark Foster’s story,” Bud said, pointing to stains on Hadley’s outfit. “Hadley’s clothes were doused in her own sweat. These were the clothes she wore while she was running. She did not shower and change as her hu
sband said.”

  “She was killed shortly after her run,” Spencer said, more to herself.

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me that Foster lied?” Vaughan asked.

  “Foster’s clothes were also stained with sweat,” Bud said.

  “That could have been the result of chasing after his family’s attacker or the trauma of a stabbing,” Vaughan said.

  “Very true,” Bud said. “But there was a significant amount of perspiration, which is what caught my attention. Makes me think he did a good bit of running himself. Also, his shoes are badly scuffed on the bottoms.”

  “They could be an old pair,” Vaughan challenged. Smoking guns rarely arrived fully formed but slowly in a collection of small facts that paired together to create a mosaic that told a narrative.

  “The scuffs are well defined,” Bud said.

  “There’s no record of him getting a ride from the car’s location to his home,” Vaughan said. “It’s a solid four miles between the car’s location and their house. He’d have to be one hell of a runner to get back home, especially in the summer heat and humidity.”

  “He’s fit,” Spencer countered. “Plus, his body would have been surging with adrenaline. Maybe he could have covered that ground in a little over a half hour. It would explain the sweat and the scuffs.”

  “He panics, puts both in the car,” Vaughan said. “Maybe he did want to save Hadley, but she bleeds out. Now he has to protect his daughter and save himself. Stashes the kid, dumps the body, and runs home.”

  “But there are no traces of his wife’s blood on his suit clothes,” Bud said.

  “He was sleeping on the couch,” Spencer said. “Guessing he was wearing a T-shirt and shorts in case his daughter happened in on him in the middle of the night. He was dressed in those clothes when Hadley was stabbed.”

  “Where are the clothes soaked in his wife’s blood?” Vaughan asked. “And where did he clean up?”

  Bud grinned. “I might be able to help with that one. We found traces of Hadley’s blood in Skylar’s motel room shower. We attributed that to Skylar’s shower, but her father could have cleaned up there as well.”