Nothing to Hide

by Allison Brennan

  A lot of money to some people.

  Lucy hated being cynical, but she’d too often seen people commit horrific crimes for money. She couldn’t see someone planning and executing three murders for a life insurance policy, but she wouldn’t discount it. She’d worked a case where the head of a drug cartel had killed the husband of his money launderer to keep his associate in line, and another case where a lobbyist ran a stable of call girls in order to blackmail members of Congress and judges in order to vote or rule her way.

  Teri James was thirty-nine, the same age as her husband. This was not the first marriage for either of them. Steven James had been married for seven years to Bridget O’Connell, who was Abby’s mother. Bridget died over ten years ago—their daughter had been three—though there was nothing in here about the cause of death. No life insurance policy on Steven James, though there was a note that he had a policy through his work that paid his family his salary for one year after his death, plus he had a retirement account with right of survivorship. They had a healthy bank account and small mortgage on their house—no obvious signs of economic hardship.

  Teri James had divorced her husband Roger Abbott in Colorado nine years ago, and moved back to San Antonio where she was originally from, though there was no note as to whether she still had family in the area. Steven James moved to San Antonio from Southern California eight years ago for work, and they recently celebrated their sixth wedding anniversary. No other details.

  Based on how hesitant Jerry was in talking again to the widows, Lucy realized she was going to have to play bad cop. It sounded cliché, but when necessary, cops often took different roles with witnesses. The good cop, bad cop routine might sound like it came from Hollywood, but many partners used the tactic to gather information from witnesses and suspects because it worked more often than not. Especially now, male cops didn’t like being the aggressor when interviewing female suspects or witnesses, which left the job to Lucy.

  She’d done both, but found that she had a knack for getting under the skin of people if she tried. She didn’t want to run either Susan or Teri over the coals, but she would if she could learn more about their husbands and who might have been a threat to them. The two men had no criminal records, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t pissed someone off. Families didn’t always want to reflect on the negatives in their loved ones’ lives, negatives that might set a killer on their trail.

  All they needed was one common name. One person whom both men knew would be a starting ground. Because right now, they had no direction to go. No witnesses. No known motive. No physical evidence linking the three victims to a killer. The minor differences in the physical evidence could simply be the killer adjusting. And there might be no real motive, other than the thrill of the kill—which gave weight to the serial killer angle. But even a serial killer started somewhere, and the first victim was likely the most personal. That meant they should look more closely at Billy Standish’s life.

  Maybe the killer was choosing victims purely at random. If that was the case, it wouldn’t matter if the victims were married or not—maybe it was the thrill of targeting healthy men. A display of dominance from a physically weaker man. Or a woman, Lucy thought. But other than the attack to the groin, there was nothing that suggested this was a female crime.

  Jerry came in as Lucy was putting her final questions together, based on the background information on each of the victims.

  “No lawsuits naming Garcia or Standish as defendants or plaintiffs,” he said. “Garcia, we have more work to do—your office was able to confirm federal records quickly, and we confirmed state because that’s centralized, but local jurisdictions we have to put requests in by county because many counties don’t have online archives. Nothing in Bexar, however.”

  “Good to know. But? You didn’t mention James.”

  “The Los Angeles FBI office is working on any lawsuits from California and that will take a day or three. Locally, he’s been named in two lawsuits jointly with his accountancy firm—one was an audit case where the individual they represented sued the firm for malfeasance and a bunch of other things—it was thrown out by the judge. The second was a bench trial, each side was said to be partly at fault for different things—I didn’t read it, didn’t seem relevant and it’s very technical. Accountant issues. You probably have someone in your office who can understand it.”

  “We’ll take a look. What was the final outcome?”

  “The firm ended up paying a quarter of the original million the plaintiff was asking for.”

  Lucy made a note. “Do you have the name of the plaintiff in the first case?”

  “Yes, but it was four years ago. And why kill the other two men?”

  “If this plaintiff regularly files complaints or lawsuits, maybe he did the same with Standish and Garcia—maybe not them personally, but their employers. Standish is in construction, Garcia a chef. Food poisoning? A leaky roof?”

  “That’s dang crazy.”

  “Not all killers are sane, but this one is. Sane and methodical and patient. Remember I said the crime felt personal—the killer looked his victims in the face and shot them. Maybe losing a lawsuit was the final straw and he went back to take out everyone he lost to.” It was thin, and her tone reflected that, but they needed to follow up.

  Jerry pulled out his cell phone and hit a button. A second later he said, “Keith? Remember that case file you pulled, George Andres versus Allied Accounting?… yeah, that’s it. Can you run all lawsuits where Andres was a plaintiff or defendant? Federal, state, and local courts. And get his current address and employer … I know it takes time, but send me what you find when you find it … Thanks, buddy.” He hung up. “Okay, it’s going, but it might take a while.”

  “Time is one thing we don’t have on our side,” Lucy said.

  “I want to find this guy, but he’s waiting a couple weeks between murders. We’re still processing evidence from Garcia.”

  “Four weeks between the first two; three weeks between the second and third. He’s cocky. He knows he’s smart. He has someone else on his list, and I don’t know if he can wait to target him.”

  Jerry stared at her and shook his head. At first she thought he was going to argue with her, then he said, “Damn, I really hope you’re wrong about this, but I’m getting that itch that tells me we’d better find something, and soon, or we’ll have another murder on our hands.”

  * * *

  They met Susan Standish at the school where she worked near downtown San Antonio at three thirty that afternoon. She was in her classroom with another woman; all the children had left for the day.

  “Mr. Walker, I hope you don’t mind that I asked Gina to be here. She’s my closest friend.”

  “Of course not,” Jerry said. “Whatever makes you comfortable. And please, call me Jerry. This is FBI Agent Lucy Kincaid, she’s assisting in our investigation into your husband’s murder.”

  Lucy would much rather talk to Mrs. Standish alone. Friends and family meant well, but sometimes they didn’t help a situation. Still, she understood grief, and she couldn’t very well tell Susan not to have someone to support her.

  “I’m Gina Clark,” the woman said and extended her hand first to Lucy, then to Jerry. “I’m the assistant principal and have known Susie since she started working here.” Gina towered over Lucy, who had never considered herself short. Compared with the petite Susan, she seemed even taller. “Let’s go outside—there are tables we can sit at a bit more comfortably than these.” She waved her hand toward the low tables and tiny chairs.

  The tables were under an awning, and flies buzzed around the garbage cans, so they stayed far from the lunch remnants.

  “You have news?” Susan asked. “When you called this morning, I didn’t know what to expect, because you didn’t tell me why you wanted to meet.”

  Jerry said, “There was another victim who was killed in the same way as your husband. We believe they are connected.”

 
“Another victim? That makes three people? Dead?” Her voice increased in pitch with each question.

  Gina squeezed Susan’s hand and urged Jerry to finish.

  “Do you know a chef named Julio Garcia? He worked at one of the convention hotels on the Riverwalk—Sun Tower—and lives in Bulverde, north of the city.”

  She was already shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Does he have a child at the school? There’s three families of Garcias here, no relation, and two years ago I had a Garcia girl in my kindergarten class.”

  “His son goes to another school.”

  “He had a son? That’s awful. Poor child. His wife … what she must be going through.” Her voice cracked.

  Jerry said, “We have a few follow-up questions.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” Gina asked. “Witnesses? Anything?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Jerry said. “We’re pursuing several lines of investigation because no witnesses have come forward.”

  “What about evidence? Like, DNA or fingerprints?” Susan asked.

  “We’re processing every shred of evidence we have, but so far nothing has matched in our databases,” Jerry said. “Can you think back, in the days and weeks before your husband was killed, did he say anything about being followed? Maybe having an encounter with a stranger? Could have been at the store, or a gas station, or even work.”

  She shook her head. “Billy was working so many hours—he wasn’t even home during the week because of the job in Houston. That’s where the work is, even this long after Harvey, the good-paying jobs are there.”

  “What about you?” Lucy asked. “Have you seen anyone in your neighborhood or where you shop that has paid you undue attention? Anyone who made you feel uncomfortable?”

  “Like how? Like a jerk who whistles at me?”

  “Like any way. Someone you noticed even if you don’t know why you noticed them.”

  She sighed. “You’re asking me about vague maybe events from months ago. I really don’t know.”

  Jerry said, “We’ve worked through several simulations that tell us the killer acted quickly. Your husband may have known the person who killed him. At a minimum, he didn’t feel initially threatened.”

  “Are you saying that someone we know did this?” She shook her head. “No. I told you that when we first talked. Billy would give you the shirt off his back. He was big and had a gruff voice, but he was gentle as a puppy. Isn’t that right, Gina? When he wasn’t working, because in construction sometimes work was tough to find, it’s seasonal sometimes, he would come into the classroom and read to the kids. Everyone loved him.”

  “Your husband had a couple altercations after he’d been drinking,” Jerry began, but Susan cut him off.

  “Those were minor. They were misdemeanors and the other guys involved were just as guilty. We paid the fines, everything is fine!”

  Lucy didn’t want the widow to become agitated. She said, “We understand that, Susan, and no one is placing any blame on Billy for what happened to him. We’re simply looking at everything in Billy’s past, even things that you might not think are important. If he was sued for any reason, even if there was no merit to the lawsuit. If he had a confrontation with a neighbor or co-worker. Think back, even back to high school. He played football, correct? Did he have a rivalry that maybe went from friendly to violent?”

  “I can’t believe you think this is Billy’s fault!”

  “We don’t think—”

  But Susan was irate. “People make mistakes, and now it’s okay that he’s killed for it?”

  Lucy’s mental antenna twitched. “What mistake are you thinking about, Susan?”

  “I’m not thinking about anything!”

  Jerry glanced at Lucy and gave her a nod. Good, he’d sensed the same thing she had.

  Lucy said, “You said that he was killed for it.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “Susan, three men are dead, three women are widows, and two children are orphans. Julio Garcia’s wife is pregnant; her daughter will be born without a father. We are asking everyone about anything odd, no matter how trivial you think it is. Maybe Billy didn’t even do anything, but someone took offense, or made a mountain out of a molehill. What mistake were you thinking of when you spoke?”

  Susie bit her lip. “It was an accident, and it was so long ago no one could possibly hold a grudge.”

  Lucy didn’t say anything. She stared at Susan until the woman looked down at her fidgeting hands.

  Finally, she spoke. “Billy was a high school senior. We’d just started dating—I was two grades younger. Billy and his best friend Joey were doing donuts in the mud after a storm, out past Calaveras Lake. A few of us were there, and we were all cheering them on, it was wet and dirty and fun … but … Billy lost control of his truck and it collided with Joey. They weren’t even going that fast, but Joey’s truck flipped and he was pinned down. Broke his back and lost his football scholarship for college. Billy was sick over it, and Joey’s parents hated him after that. I don’t think Joey hated him, but they haven’t spoken since Billy tried to talk to him at the hospital. I heard Joey’s had some problems with drugs after that, painkillers, but my mom said she saw him at the mall a few months ago and he looked good. I just don’t really know what he’s doing or anything.”

  “What’s Joey’s last name?” Jerry asked.

  “Adkins,” she said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday Late Afternoon

  “Good instincts,” Jerry said as they left the school and headed to Olmos Park where Teri James lived. “Though I don’t think this long-ago event is going to lead anywhere.”

  “Neither do I, but asking her these questions and getting her to think about any past slights may lead to a suspect.”

  Jerry called his office and asked them to locate Joey or Joseph Adkins, twenty-nine, graduate from South San Antonio High School eleven or twelve years ago. He said to Lucy, “We’ll talk to him.”

  “If they had once been best friends like Susan said, maybe he knows of someone else whom Standish upset.”

  Jerry turned into Olmos Park. Lucy lived in the middle of a curving street close to the main park; the Jameses lived on the far west side of the community. She hadn’t realized when Sean bought the house that the area was considered elite for San Antonio.

  “I had a case here the first year I was an investigator,” Jerry said. “Basic greed. Husband killed his wife for her money. Lots of money in here.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I live down that street.” She pointed.

  “Not on a federal salary,” he said.

  “My husband is a computer security expert. Businesses and governments pay him a lot of money to break into their systems to test their security.”

  “Do you talk to him about your cases? Like this one?”

  She could lie and say no, but she didn’t lie well. One former FBI agent had been livid when she’d shared information with Sean, but there was no prohibition against it. “Sean’s sharp. He sometimes sees things I miss because I’m so close to the case. Talking things out can help.”

  “Jeanie, my wife, is like that,” he said. “She’s a mechanic for the US Air Force, stationed at Lackland. She’s logical and damn smart.”

  “She must have an interesting job. Has she been deployed?”

  “Twice, early in our marriage. Glad she’s staying here now.”

  “My brother was army, and Sean’s brother was a marine.”

  Jerry pulled up in front of a modest home across from the park. It was one of the smaller homes in Olmos Park, but was well maintained and had great curb appeal. They got out and walked up the brick that led to several steps and a porch that wrapped around down one side. A swing and several chairs, plants, and a small table decorated the area. Jerry knocked on the door. Teri James, like her husband, was an accountant, but she worked for herself out of their home.

  She answer
ed the door a moment later. She was a tall, willowy woman with shoulder-length dark-blond hair and bright-blue eyes. She wore little makeup and had flawless skin. “Please, come in. I made coffee.”

  Some survivors needed to do something—like make coffee, serve cookies—to ground themselves.

  “We’d love a cup,” Jerry said. “This is FBI Agent Lucy Kincaid. The FBI is assisting in this investigation.”

  “Agent Kincaid,” Teri said with a nod.

  “You can call me Lucy,” she said as they followed her inside.

  The house was decorated in a traditional style with large pieces of furniture, walls painted different colors that complemented the fabrics—mostly hues of burgundy and tan. Everything was perfectly placed. The coffee table, for example, had a large picture book about the history of San Antonio on one side and a flower arrangement on the other. The furniture was expensive but not ostentatious.

  The dining room was comfortable and appeared to be used regularly, unlike many formal dining rooms. A tray with a coffee carafe and china sat on a buffet. Teri carried it to the table.

  “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Light and sweet,” Lucy said.

  “Black,” Jerry said. “Thank you.”

  She poured the coffees, put the cups on saucers, and placed the coffee precisely in front of them. Then she sat. “I had hoped you had information about my husband’s murder, Deputy, but I saw on the news this morning that someone else died and the police have no leads. They didn’t say it was the same person, but it was clear from the report that it’s a similar crime. The reporter suggested that this was the work of a serial killer. I find that rather—unlikely, wouldn’t you think?”