Nothing to Hide

by Allison Brennan

  Which lent credence to Lucy’s theory that James knew his killer.

  How deep had Jerry dug into the accountancy firm? Did James know something serious about a client? About a colleague? If so, could the other victims simply be covering for the real target?

  Or maybe Jerry’s gut that there was something going on with Standish—he’d been the most violently beaten. It had been extensive and he fought back. Wouldn’t that mean the killer had some evidence of a fight on his person? Bruises? Cuts? And wouldn’t someone notice? Maybe they needed to go back to that time, re-interview everyone who knew Standish, and ask if they’d seen anyone with unexplained bruises on his face or hands. Julie was diligent in her combing for forensic evidence from the bodies, but maybe they needed to look at everything again to make sure they didn’t have trace evidence from the killer.

  Then why did the killer go through the motions of the beating, the Taser, and the gunshot to the face when Julio Garcia was dead from the first blow? You didn’t have to be around dead bodies daily to know when a person was actually dead and not merely unconscious. Was it a ritual? For most serial killers, they’d want the ritual to unfold exactly as they planned it, and any deviation would anger them. Based on the ritual of these murders, if Garcia died at the first blow, that should enrage the killer.

  How dare you die on me before I want you to! How dare you deny me my satisfaction!

  The beating should be more severe, more violent. Even if the killer had the presence of mind and self-protection not to beat the body with his hands and feet, he would use his weapons more violently. Pummel the victim for having the audacity to die with one blow to the head.

  She shook her head, pulling herself out of her analysis. She wanted this working relationship with Jerry Walker to be successful, not only to catch the killer, but because she wanted him to respect the FBI again. She put that weight on her shoulders, because as far as Jerry was concerned, she was now the face of the FBI.

  A name popped into her head. Leo Proctor. He’d been in the FBI office ten years ago, he might know what case had turned Walker off. She called him, glad that she was parked under a tree because it was getting hot, even with her air conditioning running.

  “Proctor.”

  “Leo, it’s Lucy Kincaid.”

  “Hello, Ms. Lucy. What can I do for you? I have maybe ten minutes—working a complex case right now with counter-terrorism.”

  She hadn’t heard. “Okay, quick question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you know BCSO investigator Jerry Walker?”

  “Yeah, we’ve crossed paths. Did some cross-training back when he was a beat cop. That was ten, fifteen years ago, I’d guess. I don’t know him well. Seems like a good cop, calm and methodical I remember.”

  “I’m working with him on a case. The three men who were killed over the last seven weeks. His office requested our assistance after the second murder, but he put up roadblocks until yesterday when a third body dropped. He admitted that he has a problem with the FBI, and that they’d messed up more than one of his cases, but he hasn’t given me any specifics. We’ve been working well together—but every once in a while he says something that makes me think he’s still not happy. I want to know about the cases that he thinks we screwed up.”

  “Hmm. I haven’t worked directly with him, but there have been some tensions in the past with the SO. Let me think on it, pull some files to refresh my memory. Might take a day or two—I don’t know when I’ll have time until we wrap up this other situation.”

  “That’s fine, Leo, I appreciate it.”

  She was about to get out of the vehicle when she saw an old brown car with tricked-out rims driving slowly down the street. She’d seen the car before—it was hard to miss—driving through the neighborhood when she first pulled up, but she hadn’t given it much attention.

  St. Catherine’s was in the center of an old neighborhood in San Antonio filled mostly with older folks on fixed incomes, and younger families who could afford to buy a fixer-upper. There were better areas to the north, and worse areas to the south—worse meaning more crime on the streets and poorly maintained apartments. The car stood out largely because she had never seen it before today and then she saw it twice in less than ten minutes. The two young men in the front seat seemed to be looking for someone, driving slowly, scanning both sides of the street. She put her phone to her ear and pretended to talk so they wouldn’t think she was paying them undue attention, then she memorized their plates when they drove by.

  She noticed a gang tattoo on the driver’s left arm that hung out the open window. When he caught her looking at him he licked the air and made a kissing face.

  She just stared. He was trying to intimidate her, and it almost worked. It would have, even a year ago. She steeled herself and watched as he turned to the passenger and laughed. Then they sped up and turned at the corner, running the stop sign.

  Lucy took a deep breath. Let it out. Typed the license plate into her phone so she didn’t forget it.

  Didn’t hurt to check them out. She was overprotective of the boys who lived here, and if a gang was moving into the area, they needed to prepare. Or if one of their fathers was out of prison and sent a gang to look for his son, it could spell danger for the whole group. That shouldn’t happen without Father Mateo being notified by the prison system, but mistakes happened more often than she would like.

  She decided that instead of going through her office—and having to justify the request with her boss—she’d send DEA Agent Brad Donnelly the request. He was temporarily in charge of the San Antonio office, and they had become friends when they worked together on her first major case after graduating from Quantico. Michael had helped save his life a year and a half ago when Brad had been kidnapped by a drug cartel, and Brad would help make sure the boys were safe.

  Saw a brown sedan driving slow twice by St. Catherine’s—an old Ford or Chevy, I think—with two males, Hispanic, early 20s. The driver had a gang tat—it looks familiar, but I don’t remember which gang. I’m sending you the license plate—can you run for me?

  She sent it off, then went up to the door of the boys’ home, which was on the corner across the street from St. Catherine’s Church and School, which took up the whole block. Sister Ruth opened the door.

  “Lucy, so good to see you.”

  They made small talk—the house smelled amazing, and Lucy said as much.

  “Call Sean, stay for dinner.”

  “I would, but it’s been a long day and I still smell the morgue on me.”

  Her face fell, and Lucy wished she hadn’t said that. Sometimes she didn’t think.

  “How awful to spend your Sunday working like that.”

  “It’s better to get the results sooner rather than later so we can work it first thing in the morning.” It sounded lame, but what else could she say? She’d put her foot in her mouth. “I’ll track down Jesse.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Lucy tensed. “He came here after Mass.”

  “Yes—and after lunch and chores, Brian, Michael, and Jesse went to the park to practice soccer drills. I told them back by five—the boys still have homework to finish, and I want it done before dinner. Come, help me with the empanadas while we wait.”

  It was quarter to five, so Lucy relaxed as she followed Sister Ruth into the kitchen and texted Jesse that she was at the house. Tito and Frisco were chattering away while cutting the dough for the empanadas. “Hi, Lucy!” Tito piped up. “Is Sean here? Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Not tonight, but thank you.”

  “Good job,” Sister Ruth told the boys. She had the filling already done. “Now set the table, and then finish your homework. We eat at six.” She checked on a casserole in the oven, then started putting together the empanadas.

  Lucy was glad the boys had left, and she asked Ruth, “You haven’t had any problems with gang activity here, have you?” Lucy didn’t like the idea that Jesse and the boys were
out when a gang member was cruising the neighborhood—too many in that culture knew about the boys and their fate.

  “At Saint Catherine’s? No—not since that situation in June with those sweet boys, Mrs. Nocia’s grandsons. Sean assured me that there was no more threat, and the family seems so much happier and healthy now.”

  “No, nothing to do with that. I just saw a young man with a gang tattoo driving slowly by the house, and I can be a little overprotective.”

  “Father doesn’t tolerate gang activity at the church, but he will welcome anyone who wants to get right with God. Most of those involved in that culture either stay away from church or are on their best behavior at Mass.”

  “I’m acting like a cop, I’m sorry.”

  “A cop and a friend. I’ll mention it to Father, but he hasn’t told me of any trouble, and it’s been quiet around here. The most excitement is when we pile in the van to watch Brian and Jesse play soccer. They had so much fun last week, and you must be proud—Jesse scored the game-winning goal.”

  “Only because Brian tied it up with his two goals.” Lucy smiled. She was pleased that Jesse had made friends. Sean’s fears that he was spending too much time with Brian and Michael were unfounded—the boys needed each other, and moving to San Antonio from California was a culture shock, but having ready-made friends was a small blessing.

  Lucy then realized that she’d stuffed and folded five empanadas while Sister Ruth did more than thirty. Cooking was not in her skill set.

  Jesse ran into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not,” Sister Ruth said. “It’s one minute to five. Sometimes I think you all wait outside until the exact minute you need to be home. Where are the others?”

  “Cleaning up,” he said.

  Jesse was overheated, as if they’d been running. Maybe they had—playing soccer all afternoon in the humidity could wear anyone out. But he also seemed … nervous? Why?

  “Have fun?” she asked, watching his reaction.

  “Yeah. Just tired.”

  “We should go,” she said.

  “One sec,” he said, “I have to tell Michael something.” He ran off.

  There was something going on with Jesse, but Lucy didn’t know if it was a problem. They’d had a great talk today, and she hoped that if something was bothering him, he would talk to her or Sean about it. Maybe he felt more comfortable with his peers. But Michael’s world and Jesse’s world were different. Lucy cared deeply for the young man who had been so grossly abused, physically and emotionally. She respected him, and some of the tough decisions he had made. He didn’t always made the right decision, but that was because he had deep trust issues. They’d made great inroads with him, especially Sean, but he was still a young man who had seen far worse in the world than most Americans see in their lifetime.

  “How’s Michael doing in school?” Lucy asked Sister Ruth casually.

  “Good. They have a web page at the high school where we can check his grades every week. They post on Thursday night. I check, make sure neither him nor Brian is having problems. The others are still at Saint Catherine’s, so Father keeps an eye on their studies.”

  “I’m glad he’s adapting to high school.”

  “His English grade could be better. He struggles with spelling and grammar, like many of the boys here, because their formal schooling has been sporadic. One of Father’s altar boys has volunteered to tutor them weekly, but Michael doesn’t take direction well from his peers.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Lucy said.

  “You already do a lot for the boys. And Michael needs to realize school is important. Even though he’s talking about enlisting in the military when he graduates, he needs a solid education.”

  She hadn’t heard that, but she wasn’t surprised. Michael had bonded with Kane as much as Sean—but likely saw more of himself in the mercenary than in the computer genius.

  Lucy tracked down Jesse, who was in the family room whispering with Michael. Michael saw her first and she knew for certain that they were up to something, but she didn’t call them out on it. “We should go,” she said. “Sister Ruth says that Michael and Brian have homework.”

  “Okay. See ya,” Jesse said and followed Lucy out.

  She didn’t say anything for half the ride home, and neither did Jesse. He was texting on his phone.

  “So what were you guys really doing this afternoon?”

  “Just hanging out.”

  “So you lied to Sister Ruth about soccer drills?”

  “Not really.”

  “That doesn’t mean no.”

  “Brian just needed some advice, so we talked. I think he, um, feels like he has no privacy in the house. Tito follows him everywhere when he’s home.”

  Maybe that was partly the truth, but it wasn’t all of it. Lucy decided not to push. She didn’t know if that was the right decision, and she hoped Jesse would come around and share more.

  “How was the morgue? Did you learn anything cool?” He was fascinated by forensics, always asked questions, but she knew this was a plot to change the subject.

  “It was very interesting. Cause of death was different than we thought, which puts another spin on the murders.”

  “You mean he wasn’t shot?”

  “He was shot—but he died of blunt force trauma before he was shot.”

  “They can tell that?”

  She gave him a sanitized version of how Julie came to the conclusion, and Jesse seemed interested and asked smart questions.

  Still, Lucy knew half his mind was elsewhere and she wondered exactly what he was thinking about.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Monday Morning

  Lucy had sent her boss a report over the weekend about the investigation, but wanted to follow up before the weekly staff meeting to make sure Rachel didn’t have any questions about the complex analysis of the three crime scenes. She found Rachel in her office.

  Rachel immediately said, “I read your reports. Everything good with Walker?”

  “Yes, for the most part.” She wasn’t going to share her concerns about Walker or how he viewed her and the FBI. “Do you know anything about the past cases he’s worked with the FBI?”

  “No,” she said. “Did he say something?”

  “Only that the two times he had to work with the FBI we screwed up.”

  Rachel snorted. “He could be old-school. Our office has an outstanding relationship with the sheriff’s office, but there’s always a few who grumble about ‘damn feds.’”

  “Maybe. I think there’s something specific.”

  “Is it important? Because you don’t want to go stirring anything up with your colleagues.”

  “I need him to trust me, and while I think we’re okay, I have this feeling that he’s waiting for me to mess up.”

  “Then don’t mess up.”

  Sometimes it didn’t take a mistake to cause friction. Lucy let the subject drop. She’d follow up with Leo later. She said to Rachel, “We’re going to re-interview the first two victims’ families, confirm that we have all the information about the night they died. Plus, we need to dig deeper into their pasts. I think these crimes are personal—the victims are either connected to each other, or they are connected to the killer. It just doesn’t…” Damn. She didn’t want to finish that sentence.

  “What?”

  It would be hard to backtrack, so she swallowed her pride and prepared for a tongue-lashing.

  “It doesn’t feel random to me. There are random serial killers, but even those killers have a pattern—it’s just not always obvious.” She felt like she was contradicting herself, showing that these murders had no apparent rhyme or reason. Except, they were planned, cold, and calculated. The killer was smart. Methodical.

  “And you don’t think this is a pattern?” Rachel furrowed her brows.

  “There is, but it seems so basic. Married male under forty. Killed on a Friday night. Even if it’s random, the killer stalked his victi
ms. He had to, to know when they were alone. He’s calculated, which seems the antithesis to the violence done to the bodies. Anyway, there’s a good chance that one of the wives saw or sensed something that will help us.”

  Rachel nodded. “Let me know if Walker holds back information again.”

  “Okay,” Lucy said, but realized she might not—she preferred to deal with any problems directly with Jerry. If she couldn’t resolve it, and the situation impacted the case, then she’d go to Rachel.

  She hoped it didn’t come to that.

  * * *

  After the staff meeting, Lucy caught up on her emails, followed up on two outstanding cases where she was waiting for more information, then tried to talk to Leo about their conversation last night, but he was already out of the office. Lucy had been so out of the loop she hadn’t realized that a huge task force had been put together for the counter-terrorism case Leo mentioned to her.

  She grabbed an early lunch and headed over to the sheriff’s office at noon. Several deputies gave her a high five for her demonstration yesterday. She smiled and continued on. She always felt nervous being recognized in an office environment. She did her job, though often wished she could stay in the background, unnoticed.

  It hadn’t always been like that. She used to bite her tongue all the time, fearing she’d be ridiculed or dismissed. It had taken training at Quantico coupled with the cases she’d worked to give her the confidence to recognize that she had much to contribute.

  And it sure didn’t hurt that she had someone at home who believed in her.

  Lucy went up to Jerry’s small office. He wasn’t there. She walked down the hall to the conference room that they’d been using and it, too, was empty. She went in, sent Jerry a message that she was here, and looked through the files again to familiarize herself with the two women they were about to interview.

  Susan Standish was twenty-six. She and Billy had been married for seven years and had known each other since high school. She was a kindergarten teacher at a local public school, and her family was local. Parents in San Antonio, two older sisters who moved to the suburbs with their families, a younger brother in medical school in Nebraska, and a brother still at home—a high school junior. She and Billy had bought several acres with a very small house outside of the city. Billy had an insurance policy that paid one hundred thousand dollars.