by Lauren Carr
Knowing the close relationship between the two cousins—Dr. Tad MacMillan even lived next door to them, Cameron was surprised to learn that they had once fought so severely that they didn’t speak for months.
Joshua went on, “Eventually, Tad called to apologize and offered an olive branch. I accepted it because I did miss him. We never spoke of it again—until a couple of years ago, when Tad was buying the house next door.” He glanced over at her. “Now here’s the kicker. To this day, I have no memory of any of that. Not the argument, asking about that building, accusing Tad’s dad of being a thief—none of it. I remember plain and clear authorizing him to sell the building, but I still have no memory of fighting with Tad and not talking to him.”
“Because …”
“Now,” Joshua said, “when I think back to that period, the first fifteen months after Valerie died, leaving the navy, the move, the renovation of our house where my grandmother had raised me—all of that—I remember it like being in a fog. I even solved two major murder cases and was elected county prosecutor and I barely remember any of it.”
“Your memory was clouded with grief,” she said. “It’s the way I remember my journey into alcoholism. I thought it was all the booze that my brain had soaked up.”
“Maybe that played a part in it for you,” Joshua said. “I wasn’t thinking right because I was in so much pain.”
Her eyes narrowed, she cocked her head at him. “What would you have done differently if you had to do it all over again?”
Joshua shrugged. “Things turned out good. My kids turned out better than okay.”
“You were lucky,” she said. “I didn’t turn out so well.”
He shot her a grin. “You turned out fine.”
“I practically ruined my police career,” she said. “If I hadn’t bottomed out when I did and gotten help, I could have died.”
“But you came back like a champ,” Joshua said. “You got help, sobered up, and now you’re one of Pennsylvania’s finest.”
She squeezed his hand. “And I was able to love again … both of us were.”
“That, too.”
Worry crossed her face. “I wonder if I can make it through all this again.”
“Sure you will,” Joshua said. “Because this time, you aren’t going through it alone.” He shot her a smile.
Reassured, she brushed his hand across her lips, kissing his fingers softly.
As Lieutenant Wu had predicted, Hillary Koch blew her top when she learned from NCIS’s medical examiner that the bodies of five women were being transported to the navy’s morgue on orders of Lieutenant Murphy Thornton.
During Murphy’s short time assigned to the staff, Hillary Koch had made no attempt to hide her dislike for the navy officer with snide remarks or agitated facial expressions—not the least of which included juvenile eye rolls—about or even directed right at his “precious” United States Navy. Every attempt she made to bait him into a debate went without so much as a nibble. After months of her lust for blood going without satisfaction, she was itching for battle. All she needed was an excuse.
The news from the medical examiner gave her that excuse.
As soon as Murphy stepped through the security door leading into the NCIS staff, Hillary initiated her ambush from the doorway of her office.
After letting loose with a long string of swear words, which included her favorite obscenity—the f-word, or variations and synonyms of it—with an occasional upping of the ante by preceding it with “mother”—inserted at every possible interjection, she arrived to the catalyst for her fit:
“Who the hell do you think you are, Lieutenant Thornton, taking on a multiple murder case involving five women—four who aren’t connected to the navy or marines?”
As if the cursing that had preceded her outburst was not enough to communicate her fury, she let loose with another stream of profanity.
Usually, when such battles broke out, the agents would scurry for cover, not wanting to further humiliate Hillary Koch’s latest victim with an audience to the annihilation. This time, the intensity and the one on the receiving end—the navy’s golden boy of the hour—made it just too juicy to ignore sneaking a peek.
Without uttering a word in his defense, Murphy sauntered across the outer office to where Hillary Koch stood with her hands on her expansive hips. Between her blazing temper and extensive use of oxygen in her fit, her doughy face was red. Her nostrils flared.
Wordlessly, he regarded her. While every agent, clerk, and assistant held his or her breath, he studied her unattractive face with his blue eyes. Finally, he responded in a voice so low and smooth that it melted in the mouth of every woman on the staff. “As flattered as I am that you want to have sex with me—it ain’t gonna happen.”
Knocking over her soft drink, Wendy jumped up from behind her desk and scrambled for paper towels to mop up the mess.
Bursting into laughter, Special Agent Susan Archer covered her mouth and ducked into her cubicle.
Hillary Koch’s eyes bugged.
“I mean,” Murphy continued with surprising calm, “a woman as well educated as yourself should know that the definition for the f-word is sexual intercourse. Clearly, you must know it very well since you’ve directed it and variations of it at me twenty-four times since I entered the office less than one minute ago.”
Her mouth dropped open.
The corners of his lips curling, Murphy winked at her. “I’m sure you heard of Sigmund Freud and his hypothesis about the human subconscious. The ‘Freudian slip.’ Obviously, you’ve gotten so hot and heavy for my body that you couldn’t stand it anymore and had to scream all the way across this office your intention to have sex with me.”
Hillary’s chest was heaving.
“Unfortunately for you,” he said, “one,—” he held up his left hand to show off his wedding band. “I’m married. Two,” The grin on his face dropped, “I’d rather spend an evening being water boarded by ISIS than touch you.”
Seemingly oblivious to the audience, Murphy moved in closer to Hillary Koch. “As far as the case goes, when you get a grip and are ready to discuss it like an adult, I’ll be in a meeting with Deputy Chief Hamilton and agents Archer and Latimore.”
Over his shoulder, Murphy gestured at Boris Hamilton and the two agents. “My office in five minutes. We have the murders of five women to solve.”
To Hillary Koch’s surprise, her deputy chief and the two agents didn’t wait. They immediately fell in behind Murphy.
“You have no authority!” she screamed.
“Oh yes, I do.” His back to her, Murphy grinned at her anger. “My CO is waiting for your call to report this conversation, at which time she’ll confirm her approval of my taking the lead in this case.”
He paused at his office door to shoot another smile, framed by his deep dimples. If she liked him, she would have found it charming. Instead, she found it annoying.
“I highly recommend you think through what you’re going to say before you call her,” he said. “If you accuse her of having sex with her mother, she’ll make a special trip out here to the Pentagon to kick your butt, which I have no doubt that she can do.”
After they filed into the office, Boris Hamilton closed the door—shutting her out.
Her eyes wide, Hillary Koch turned from the closed office door to where her assistant Wendy stood motionless with fear at her desk. She clutched an armload of dripping paper towels to her bosom.
Hillary stormed into her office and slammed the door so hard, the picture of the President of the United States hanging on the wall outside dropped to the floor with a crash.
With her tablet perched in her lap, Cameron sat in the living room window seat to study Jane Doe’s case file on the Pennsylvania State Police’s secure online database. Irving was stretched out across a sunray beaming through the window.
The only picture of the young woman in the case file was a head shot of her body in the morgue. Through the bluish cast to her face, Cameron could see that she had high cheekbones and a delicate straight nose. Her long, curly, ash-blonde hair fell past her shoulders. She had a slender build. In life, she would have been an attractive, even pretty, woman.
Cameron moved on to the medical examiner’s report on cause of death. It listed multiple broken bones—including a broken back. Her lungs had been punctured by broken ribs, and she had a ruptured spleen. The cause of death was massive internal bleeding. In the medical examiner’s notes, he said her injuries were not consistent with being hit by a car but, rather, he speculated she had jumped or been thrown from a vehicle moving at a high rate of speed. Bruising around her wrists and ankles, indicating that she had been bound, caused Nick to conclude that she had been kidnapped and jumped from her abductor’s vehicle on the turnpike in an effort to escape.
But no one came forward to claim her—even after Nick went on national television to plea for information.
Cameron continued reading through the medical examiner’s notes. To her surprise, she found that he noted that Jane Doe had an extended uterus, indicating that she had recently given birth, within two weeks of her death.
That’s right. Cameron recalled Nick mentioning that. She was someone’s mother. Where is her baby? The thought of someone kidnapping Jane Doe to steal her baby crossed Cameron’s mind. Could the baby be the “she” that Jane Doe was talking about when she died in Nick’s arms? Had to be. But then, she claimed “she’s safe.” Maybe she wasn’t stolen after all, but the kidnapper wanted to steal her.
Shaking her head in a vain attempt to sort the possibilities, Cameron returned to the case file. She needed to find out where Nick had left off in the investigation before his death. They had checked for her fingerprints in AFIS, the national police fingerprint database, but found no match. The police had released her picture to the media throughout the Ohio Valley, but no one came forward to identify her.
Cameron recalled how nervous her late husband had been when a national crime-stopper show had interviewed him to profile the case. It was his first and only introduction to the media. While they received some tips, none panned out.
Then Nick was killed and the case went cold.
Keeping in mind that thirteen years had passed since Jane Doe’s tragic death, Cameron checked the medical examiner’s report to see if they had kept samples of her DNA. Over a decade earlier, the national DNA database index system was still in its infancy.
Cameron picked up her cell phone to call her supervisor when she saw Joshua leaning in the doorway, with one ankle crossed over the other. He had his arms folded across his chest.
“How’s it going, handsome?” she asked.
“How’s it going with you? Find anything new about Jane Doe?” He sat down across from her. While the window seat was spacious, it was a cozy fit. He placed her feet in his lap and massaged them.
Displaced, Irving launched himself out of the window seat. After hitting the floor, he shook himself, and smoothed his fur. Shooting a glare with his emerald eyes in Joshua’s direction, he sauntered out of the room.
“Jane Doe had a baby less than two weeks before she died,” Cameron told him. “That was what really got to Nick. He didn’t want some kid growing up thinking that his mother had taken off and abandoned him … or her.”
“Any sign of sexual assault around the time of death?” Joshua asked her.
“None,” she replied. “The medical examiner took samples of her DNA, but I see no record of it being put in the national DNA index. Possibly, if she had been abducted or reported missing from someplace where they did put samples of her DNA in that database, we could get a hit now.”
“If,” Joshua pointed out.
“It’s worth a shot.” She pressed the button to turn on her phone.
“We still don’t know if the hit made on Nick has to do with this Jane Doe,” Joshua reminded her.
“I know that, hon,” she replied. “But it’s the only lead we have until I get to talk to Sal Bertonelli.”
“You do realize that it is unlikely that the FBI will allow you anywhere near Sal Bertonelli,” Joshua said. “He’s a very important witness against some of the top people in organized crime, who have already put out contracts on him. The feds aren’t going to risk their case to—”
“Find out why they wanted to kill a lowly state trooper,” she finished with a healthy dose of bitterness in her tone.
“Nicolas Gates’ murder case is important,” he said.
“But not as important as the big wheels in organized crime.”
“Cam,” Joshua said in a gentle tone, “I understand completely how you feel, but as a prosecutor—”
“Lawyer.”
In spite of the derogatory tone in her snap, he chuckled, “Lawyer. When it comes to justice, sometimes, we have to choose our battles. Maybe this hit against Nick will be what the feds need to bring down the mob or the drug cartels. It’s been known to happen. But, when you consider the evil that these people deal in, the multitudes of lives that they have ruined—drugs, prostitution, dealing in illegal arms—”
Cameron practically jumped to her feet. She reacted so quickly, that the heel of one of her feet hit Joshua in the groin. After uttering a gasp, he asked, “What did I say?”
“Prostitution,” she said. “The ME puts Jane Doe’s age at late teens to early twenties. She was pretty and had ligatures on her wrists and ankles.”
“Possibly, she was abducted to be forced into prostitution,” Joshua said.
“Got pregnant—”
“If she got pregnant they would have forced an abortion on her and then put her back to work,” Joshua said.
“She was white,” Cameron said. “White babies bring in a lot of money. They could have decided to let her have the baby, sold it on the black market, and then put her back to work. By that point, she probably thought jumping out of a speeding car would be better than going back to work.”
Joshua sighed. “We have a lot of theories but nothing concrete.”
“That’s why I need to talk to Sal Bertonelli.”
“I made some phone calls,” he said. “I tried to call in a few markers that some friends in the FBI owe me.”
A wide grin filled her face. “And …”
“I’m not promising you anything,” he said. “I just want you to understand that if I can’t get you in to see him, it’s not because the government doesn’t value the life of a patrolman over bringing down major hitters in organized crime or drug dealers. It’s just that Sal Bertonelli is such a valuable asset in achieving an indictment against these so-called people that they don’t want to risk it.”
“I do understand,” she said. “And it is because bringing down these guys has such a high priority that Nick’s murder can become so low on their list that they can completely forget about it.” She tapped her keyboard. “The only way we are going to find out who ordered Nick to be killed is if we investigate it ourselves.”
Joshua opened his mouth to respond only to be cut off by the chimes of her cell phone. After checking the caller ID, she grinned. “Washington, D.C. Maybe they got an answer.”
“Be nice,” he ordered.
“I’m always nice.”
“Until you hear the word ‘no.’”
With hope in her voice, Cameron brought the phone to her ear. “Hello …”<
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“It seems your husband has some juice,” Special Agent Peter Sanders of the FBI replied to her greeting.
Sitting up, Cameron grabbed Joshua’s hand and shot him a smile. “What kind of juice?” Her voice oozed with innocence.
“You’re getting in to see Sal Bertonelli,” the federal agent said. “It will be only one meeting in Washington, D.C. Ten minutes—not one minute more. The U.S. Marshal’s office will set up the meeting. You’re going to have to understand, in order for this to go down, to keep our witness safe, we can’t prearrange the time and place. All I can tell you is to be in Washington, D.C., by the day after tomorrow and be ready to meet with Bertonelli when we call.”
“I’ll be there.”
After disconnecting the call, Cameron threw her arms around Joshua with a squeal, holding him tight while kissing him fully on the lips. “You did it! Your markers came in. We’re going to get to question Bertonelli.” She gazed into his eyes. “You really do understand what this means to me.”
Joshua brushed his thumb across her cheek. “It’s important to you. That makes it important to me.” He sighed. “I wish I could go with you.”
Her smile faded. “I want you to go.”
“I can’t,” Joshua said. “The judge on the Franklin case won’t give us any more continuances. I have to be in court and ready to go. If not, he’ll declare a mistrial and I can’t risk that.”
Tears of anger seeped into her eyes. “Once again, Nick’s murder—”
“Don’t even go there, Cam.” He cupped her chin in his hand and held her gaze. “I called in a lot of favors to get you face time with Bertonelli. Even if I can’t be there in person, I’m keeping my promise. You aren’t going to do this alone.”
“Josh, I am a trained homicide detective—”
“I’m not going to let you go charging into Washington like a female wrecking ball.” Joshua stood up. “You’ll not only ruin any chance of getting justice for Nick, but you’ll also blow the feds case against the cartels and Russians out of the water. There’s too much at stake on both sides. So I’m sending in someone skilled in the art of diplomacy to accompany you.”
