by Burton, Mary
“Mr. Foster?”
She climbed the stairs and stopped at the first door, which was slightly ajar. She pressed her knuckles gently to the door, not wanting to leave her fingerprints. The hinges squeaked open. The skin on the back of her neck tingled. Six months ago, she would not have taken this kind of risk. She would have been behind her anchor desk, reading the news. But six months ago, she’d been collecting a fat paycheck and was not desperate to get back in the game. Instinct shouted at her to run. Desperation told it to shut the hell up.
She moved down the hallway to the bedroom and paused as she stared at the large stain of darkened, dried blood. “Mr. Foster.”
No one responded, but she noticed the light in the bathroom was on. She edged toward the door. And then she smelled it. It was blood. Fresh blood. She pressed open the door with her knuckle, and her gaze went immediately to the bathroom. Mark Foster lay in the dry tub. His wrists had been cut, and he appeared dead.
Her nerves crumbling and her stomach tumbling, she backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, and called the cops.
As Vaughan was driving back to the station, his phone display lit up with Nikki McDonald’s number. Vaughan was tempted to ignore it. The woman had inserted herself into the Marsha Prince investigation, and though the diary appeared genuine, he knew if the case went to court, there could be claims that the reporter had manufactured or tampered with the entries. He did not believe she had, but by her not calling him first, she’d opened them both up to scrutiny.
“Ms. McDonald?” he said.
Spencer lifted her gaze from her phone and looked at him, her head tilted slightly.
“Detective Vaughan, I’m at the Foster home.” She sounded breathless, agitated.
“What are you doing there?” he demanded. “It’s an active crime scene.”
“Foster contacted me. I came here to see him.”
“He shouldn’t be there either.” As he reached the next red light, he did a U-turn and headed back in the direction of the Fosters’ home.
“Look, I’m not calling to debate the finer points of crime scene protection,” she said. “You need to get here quickly. Mark Foster is dead.”
“Dead?”
“I called 911, and the uniforms are here,” she said. “I’m on the front porch.”
“We’re on our way.”
“Foster is dead,” Spencer said, more to herself. “How?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Vaughan pressed the accelerator, flipped on his grille lights, and covered the six miles in minutes. He pulled up in front of the house behind three marked cars, lights flashing. He and Spencer got out and quickly approached a uniformed officer.
“How long have you been here?” Vaughan asked the young officer.
“Five minutes. Paramedics have been called, but there’s no way Foster is alive.”
“How did he die?” Vaughan asked.
“He cut his wrists.”
Vaughan looked past the officer toward Nikki, who was standing next to one of the police vehicles. Her arms were folded over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of interest and worry.
“Ms. McDonald,” Vaughan said.
“Detective. Agent.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why did you enter the residence?”
“Foster said he’d give me an exclusive interview. He said he had a lot to tell me, but not a lot of time.”
“Tell you what?”
“I wish I knew.” She pulled in a breath, as if inhaling a cigarette. “He was dead when I found him.”
“Did you disturb anything while you were in the room?” Vaughan asked.
“You’ll find my fingerprints on the back door, but I didn’t touch anything else. When I found Foster, I called the cops right away and got the hell out.”
“Why didn’t you call when he first contacted you?” he asked.
She leveled her gaze on him. “Because I’m chasing a story, Detective. Like you, I want to do my job the best I can.”
“When you say he contacted you, how did he do it?” Spencer asked.
“He texted.”
“Could he have sent you the text at the beginning of the summer regarding Marsha Prince’s remains?”
“It’s not the same number. I double-checked.”
“What else have you found out during your investigation?” he asked.
“I’ve given it all to you.”
“Were you wearing your camera when you entered the house?”
“No. I didn’t want to spook him.”
“How did you know the text really was from Foster?” Vaughan asked.
“I wasn’t sure.” A grin tugged at the edges of her lips. “But you know how it is: you got to play to win.”
“Can I see your phone?” Vaughan asked.
She dug it out of her purse and handed it to him. The screen saver image featured a PR shot of Nikki at the station.
“Password?” he asked.
“Search warrant?” she countered.
“I’m not in the mood for games,” he said.
“Neither am I,” she said. “What little I have of a life, I have on that phone, and I’d rather not give it over to the cops.”
“I can get a warrant.”
She grabbed her phone back. “And that will take time.”
“I want the number of the person who texted you.”
Nikki typed quickly, and seconds later, his phone dinged with several texts. “Why would he kill himself if he didn’t murder Hadley and Marsha Prince?”
Vaughan turned away from the reporter. “No comment.”
Vaughan and Spencer pulled on latex gloves.
“Why come here?” Spencer asked. “Why not make a run for it?”
“If the guy had any good memories, they’d have been wrapped up in this house,” Vaughan said.
They each had their hands on their weapons as they approached the back door. Vaughan took point while Spencer covered him as they went through the house toward the study.
A clock ticked in the hallway. The two exchanged glances and moved forward; he checked the living and dining rooms while Spencer stood watch. They continued this methodical search through the downstairs and garage before they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Skylar’s room was untouched. Like the other parts of the house, there was no sign that Foster had been here.
They entered the master bedroom. Vaughan stepped around the earlier bloodstain and glanced toward the red arch of spray on the wall before he checked the last space in the house.
He pushed open the bathroom door and instantly smelled the copper scent of blood in the room. This was not stale but fresh.
He rounded the corner and found Mark Foster lying in the tub. He had slashed both wrists.
Holstering his weapon, he reached for a pulse. Foster’s skin was pale, cold to the touch. There was no heartbeat. Foster’s wounds were from his wrists up his forearms. They were deep and deliberate with no hesitation.
“The paramedics are two minutes away,” she said.
“He’s gone.”
“Why did he summon her here?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you see any kind of note?”
He stepped back from the body and scanned the room. That’s when he spotted the mirror over the double vanity. The words were written in Hadley’s red lipstick. They read I did it. I’m sorry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thursday, August 15, 6:00 p.m.
Fifty-Nine Hours after the 911 Call
Alexandria, Virginia
Within hours, the brass was considering the Hadley Foster case on the way to being closed. Captain Preston was calling it open and shut. Wife had been having an affair, told the husband she was leaving, and he lost it and stabbed her to death. Only after had he realized what a shit storm he had created. He had tried to cover it up by stashing his kid, ditching his wife’s body, and creating a narrative t
hat involved a masked stranger. The nonthreatening cuts to his arms were self-inflicted.
Zoe crossed the parking lot of the police station to her car. She did not trust the open-and-shut verdict in this case. There was likely enough evidence to have convicted Mark Foster, but the pieces felt forced.
Her phone rang, and an unknown number popped up. “Agent Spencer.”
“This is Jewel,” she said softly.
“Jewel, how are you?”
“Okay.” In the background, another girl was speaking, and Jewel’s reply to her was too muffled for Zoe to make it out.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s another girl like Galina.”
Zoe closed her eyes. “Was she killed?”
“No. She got away.”
Adrenaline rushed through Zoe. “Did she see his face?”
“Yes. She got a good look at him. Can we try the sketch again? I can bring her to you.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a motel down on Route One.”
“I’ll come right now.”
“Just you,” Jewel said. “My friend is spooked by men right now.”
“Okay.”
Twenty minutes later, Zoe swung through a drive-through to pick up burgers and sodas and then parked in front of the room Jewel had indicated. She grabbed her bag, which held her sketch pad and pencils, and knocked on a door with chipped blue paint and tarnished brass numbers. She moved her jacket away from the grip of her holstered gun and stepped back to the side. A chain rattled on the other side.
Jewel peered at her through the cracked door with wide dark eyes that telegraphed a mixture of fear and relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I said I would.” She held up the burgers. “Can I come in?”
Jewel glanced back in the room, as if to get approval, and then nodded. “Yes.”
As she stepped into the dimly lit room, her gaze skipped from Jewel to the young girl standing by the bathroom. Not more than sixteen, the girl was thin, and her long hair was dyed a brassy blond. Mascara was smudged under her eyes, as if she had been crying.
“I’m Agent Zoe Spencer,” she said.
The girl sniffed. “I’m Kiki.”
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Zoe asked.
“I’m not hurt,” Kiki said.
Zoe’s attention shifted to the bathroom, and instinct had her crossing to it and checking to make sure it was empty.
“We’re alone,” Jewel said.
“Kiki, did you tell Jewel what happened to you?” Zoe asked.
“I told a few of the girls, to warn them. When word got to Jewel, she told me about you.”
Zoe motioned toward a round table and the two chairs by the front window. She set the bag of food down along with the drinks and took a seat. “Girls, sit and eat now. It’s still hot.”
The girls hurried forward, and both sat in their chairs and reached for a bag.
“I’m always so hungry,” Kiki said.
“I had the clerk supersize the orders,” Zoe said. “Eat as much as you want.”
She did not offer advice about nutrition or taking the time to eat. She knew the girls were not going hungry by choice.
Zoe removed her sketch pad and flipped to a clean page as the girls bit into the burgers. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“The picture you did for me wasn’t good,” Jewel said. “But Kiki saw him better. He got right in her face.”
“Was he a customer?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah,” Kiki said. “I’ve seen him around in the last few months but never got picked. Last night, when he picked me, I almost didn’t go. I was so nervous and afraid.”
“We get this kind of extra sense on the street,” Jewel said. “But sometimes we have to ignore it for the money.”
“I understand. It’s a hard choice.”
Kiki grabbed a cluster of french fries. “I’m not going to do this forever. I’m saving my money.”
Zoe wanted to believe that was true, but the statistics were against both girls. “Mind if I start asking you a couple of questions about this guy?”
Kiki gripped her burger with both hands, pausing with it inches from her mouth. “Can I keep eating?”
“Of course. I want you to be relaxed. Jewel, do me a favor and let her give her entire description before you speak, okay?” She would have sent Jewel away but feared Kiki would not stay without her.
“Sure. I won’t say a word,” Jewel said.
As the girls ate, Zoe began with questions about where Kiki had met this john. She asked questions about what the girl was wearing, the weather, the other girls working on the street near her, and details about the motel room.
Zoe slowly shifted her questions to the assailant’s description. She began with the shape of his face. They talked about round and ovals, and when they decided on a round face, she began to ask questions about his eyes. The color was important, but also the shape. Did his eyes turn down? Were the eyes set wide or narrow? Were the lids hooded? When Kiki was not sure, Zoe drew examples until they settled on a shape.
Next, it was the nose and then the mouth. She spent time shaping and reshaping the lips and then angling and straightening the nose. This back-and-forth went on for almost two hours. Zoe was so focused on the details she did not take the time to look at the complete image.
Finally, when she completed the sketch and studied it closely, her own reaction to the drawing surprised her. Carefully, she turned it around to show the girls.
“Is this the man?” Zoe asked.
Jewel chewed her nail as she leaned forward and studied the picture. She did not answer but looked toward Kiki, whose complexion had grown ashen.
“Kiki, is this him?” Zoe asked.
Kiki nodded slowly, studying the image closely. “Yeah, that’s him. That’s him.”
Zoe drew in a breath as she reached for her phone and called Vaughan. Her call went to voicemail. Frustrated, she texted him the picture along with the question, Jewel’s friend Kiki and I just created this image. I know who it is. Do you?
Fifteen minutes later, Zoe parked on the Arlington side street. She sat in her car, watching the business, noting the lights were on in the bays and that loud music played inside. As she checked her phone again, a text from Vaughan appeared.
He wrote, En route.
She replied, Positioned outside.
Wait for me.
Understood.
Seconds after she hit send, a male figure passed in front of the garage bay window, and she heard the clang of tools and several curses. The music went silent, the lights began to click off, and she realized he was leaving.
Instead of watching him drive away, she got out of her vehicle. Placing her hand on her weapon, she blocked the path between the front door and the single car in the lot.
The door opened to Jason Dalton. He looked startled to see her but recovered quickly and grinned. “Agent Spencer.”
“It’s late to be working, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I work late all the time.” He scratched his chin as he looked around. “The overtime comes in handy. What are you doing here alone?”
“I have just a few questions. It shouldn’t take long.” Vaughan was minutes out, and if she could stall Jason, then she would have her backup.
“What kind of questions?” he asked. “Fun ones, I hope.”
“Questions about the Foster case.”
He held up his hands. “I heard Mark killed himself. That must mean the case is closed, right?”
“Not quite,” she said.
“What else is there to talk about?” he asked.
“Kiki. Do you remember her?” She studied his gaze closely and raised her hand to the grip of her weapon.
He shrugged, his head tilting as he regarded her. “No. Should I?”
“She’s a prostitute. One of her johns attacked her, but she got away.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “What does that have
to do with me?”
“Kiki remembered the face of the john very clearly. I was able to make a sketch based on her descriptions.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Half those hookers are on drugs and don’t know up from down.”
She reached in her pocket and pulled out her phone, which now displayed the image of him. “Have a look for yourself.”
He studied the picture and smiled. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Yes.”
“It looks like me, but I’m better looking than that.” He flexed his fingers. “You just drew a picture to screw with me, right?”
“No. It’s based on witness testimony.”
“A whore from the street.” He shook his head. “You can pay them to describe anything you want.”
“The cops won’t rely totally on the sketch,” she said. “What they will do is cross-check your DNA with any that was found on Galina or Veronica.”
“That sounds a little like a witch hunt. Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse to come after me. I’m an ex-con and an easy target, right? You also going to try to nail me for Marsha’s murder?”
“When the DNA comes back, then we’ll know for sure. But for now, the sketch is enough to detain you.”
“Is this supposed to rattle me and make me confess?” He looked amused.
She drew her weapon, knowing he could close the distance between them in seconds. “You kill girls like Galina because they’re easy and no one misses them. Veronica would have been a challenge, because sooner or later someone would have missed her.”
He glanced at the gun and then back at her. “I don’t know a Veronica.”
“All the victims look like Hadley and Marsha.”
“We keep coming back to Marsha. You have a one-track mind, Agent Spencer. Is the gun really necessary?”
She ignored the question and held the gun steady. “Marsha was young and pretty and trusting. Was she your first kill? Did you save her bones out of sentiment, or maybe it was proof you were the one behind all the media headlines?”
He reached for his car keys. “You’re good at spinning stories, Agent. I haven’t done any of the stuff you’re talking about. The press would call this harassment.”
