by Misty Evans
Over the next hour, Grey played security specialist, scanning every room for anything that needed a key to unlock it. There was an antique chest on the third floor with the rest of the Khourey’s art collection, but the opening was too large for the key—now burning a hole in his pocket—stolen from the belly of the file cabinet.
In Khourey’s office, the man sat in his office chair and complained about the destruction that had been wrought on his laptop. He was concerned about the missing hard drive. The file cabinet had been shifted ninety degrees north of its previous spot, which was a red flag, but first Grey had to focus on the hard drive issue. Teeg was working on cracking it open and giving Grey a run-down of its contents. “I assume the computer contained sensitive information.”
“I have backups of the important information in my safe, but there was also certain correspondence from my homeland that could be misinterpreted if it fell into the wrong hands.”
A safe. “Was the safe tampered with?”
“No.”
He needed to see that safe. “Are you sure? Nothing else but your computer’s hard drive was stolen? None of your expensive artwork, none of the other electronics? The robber’s target might have been that safe. At the very least, I should include installation of an invisible camera positioned to specifically cover that area in my estimate for your new security system.”
Whatever was in that safe was more important than anything else the man owned. Khourey used the desk to push himself to his feet. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Following The Lion, Grey scanned Nabil’s room on the way by. The veil still hung in its spot on the bedpost. Did Nabil know his father had a thing for hurting women? That he used the veils to strangle them? Had the kid ever covered for his father?
Grey considered grabbing the veil to test it for DNA, but he could see even from several feet away, there was no blood on it, no wrinkles or rips in the fabric. In fact, it looked like it had never been worn. Even though Nabby’s room was a disaster, he would probably notice if the veil went missing. Grey decided to bide his time.
Downstairs in the living room, Khourey pointed to the painting of the woman. “The safe is behind here.” He swung the painting out from the wall.
A standard wall safe lay behind it. A three-number combination dial, a backup key lock, concealed hinges.
Grey’s attention zeroed in on the key lock. He fingered the key in his pocket.
Nabil shuffled in, a lit cigarette in hand, and stopped short when he saw his father in front of the safe. His gaze darted between Khourey, Grey, and back to Khourey. “Baba? What is going on?”
“Do not smoke in here.” He gave the cigarette a disgusting look. “We are double-checking the safe and its strength against intruders. Mr. Black will be installing a camera over there”—The Lion pointed to the corner of the room—“so I may keep an eye on it when we’re not here.”
Nabil glanced over his father’s shoulder at the picture frame. Then he turned and went back into the kitchen. A second later, Grey heard the sound of the back screen door opening and closing.
Odd kid. What family secrets was he hiding?
Grey stepped forward, ran a hand over the edges of the safe. “Looks secure. You double checked that nothing was missing?”
“Nothing is missing,” The Lion reassured him, picking up the coffee cup he’d set down earlier and taking a sip.
“You have the keys and the combination in a safe place, correct? The keys are in your possession?”
Khourey removed a key from his pocket and dangled it in the air. “Yes.”
Making bogus notes on a clipboard, Grey mentally cursed. Now what? Was it possible his key also fit the safe? If he couldn’t find the veils used to strangle the women—if they were indeed the murder weapons—he couldn’t match them to the victims’ DNA or to The Lion’s. That DNA would be his ace. With that, Donaldson wouldn’t need manufactured evidence.
He pretended to examine the far corner where the camera would be hidden inside a tall bookcase and swung his gaze back to the painting. He needed to make sure his key didn’t fit in the safe.
From the kitchen, Khourey’s landline phone rang. Finishing off his coffee, he sighed. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
The moment Khourey was out of sight, Grey hauled ass to the wall safe, dug out the key, and was about to stick it in the lock when he heard the screen door open and close again. Damn. Shoving the key in his pocket, he crossed to the other side of the room just in time.
Nabil entered, sending a suspicious look Grey’s way. He’d tossed the cigarette, and if anything, his hair stood up even more. “The man who did this.” He motioned at his father’s ripped up chair. “He didn’t disturb any of my things. He was targeting my father, wasn’t he?”
There was defiance in the kid’s eyes. Worry for his father as well. Grey knew the feeling. Grey’s old man had been a hardass, but when push came to shove, he would have laid down his life for the guy. “Does your father have any enemies?”
Nabil rubbed his eyes. Then he met Grey’s gaze “My father has many enemies in America. We all do. The color of our skin, our accent, our beliefs. The very things that make us Lebanese are looked down on by some in your country.”
As long as he had the kid talking, he might as well keep up the interrogation. “This attack seems more personal. As if the intruder knows your father well. Knows what makes him tick. Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this? Is there anything your father has done to piss off the wrong person?”
Nabil glanced at the kitchen. “I know of no one.”
The second Khourey entered, the kid jogged up the stairs, no doubt heading for his room. “Now, where were we?” The Lion asked, swinging the picture frame back over the wall safe.
So close but still so far. “I need to look around outside. Then I’ll take my notes back to Front Range and devise an entirely new security system for you and your son.”
“I want top of the line. Money is no object.”
It usually wasn’t after a person’s home had been broken into. “I can come back later this afternoon or first thing tomorrow with the information and equipment.”
“Come back today, bodyguard.” Khourey checked his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I am late for an important meeting. You’ll have everything installed and running tomorrow, yes?”
Grey nodded. “I’ll show myself out.”
He left by the back door, helping himself to the cup Khourey had left on the kitchen counter and sticking it in an evidence bag. Then Grey found the cigarette butt Nabil had thrown off the porch, and, under the guise of checking out a basement window, picked it up with a second evidence bag and hid it in his briefcase next to the cup.
One way or the other, he was going to find those veils and maybe get the DNA needed to catch a killer.
Ian strode into Sydney’s office wearing one of his typical high-end suits and a look sharp enough to cut stone.
Too bad. Syd wasn’t exactly chipper this morning either.
He shut the door and stood in front of her desk, hands on hips, fingers twitching. “Syd, I don’t have time for you to be summoning me. What do you need?”
Well, SNAP! With that tone, one would think she called him on a regular basis requesting an emergency meeting.
Not that she cared about his schedule right now. Women were being murdered and he could be part of the reason. For all she knew, he could be the murderer. Unlikely, given his repulsion of all things messy, but she wasn’t about to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not when he’d been luring battered women into more danger.
“What I need is answers. An escort was murdered last night and the women are antsy. They’re terrified and they think I have information because you and I work together.”
He held his hands wide. “They think I know something?”
He didn’t ask who it was, didn’t seem surprised by the news. Syd sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Anyt
hing to keep from slapping him. “All they want is information. They want to know they’ll be safe when they go to parties. After Morgan’s death, they’re not feeling too confident.”
“We had security from Front Range. Obviously, the guy you requested wasn’t doing his job.”
“Front Range stays inside where the women are. We need more security outside.”
“So, how do we do that? Have them stand by the doors? I mean, Syd, I can’t be expected to pay for security for every escort. I can’t control if a woman leaves an event.”
How had she never seen what a weasel this man was? Typical though. Everything revolved around how much money he’d make.
“Does it not concern you that a woman died last night? All you’re worried about is the money?”
Ian dropped his chin to his chest, then rolled his shoulders. Stressed. After a moment, he brought his softened gaze back to her. “It’s not about the money. You think I’m comfortable with women that I hired dying?”
He hired? Did he own The Smoking Gun? She’d thought he was simply a go-between. What exactly was Ian’s role? Soon she’d know. For her own sanity, she had to know.
Syd shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. Other than I may have to reevaluate how important my second job is. I’d rather be broke than dead.”
Ian lowered his hands to his sides and slid the guest chair over to sit. “Look, Syd, I get it. Let’s not jump ahead, though. We have no idea what happened to her. She could have left the party early and got attacked by someone on the street.”
“That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”
He slouched in the chair and ran both hands through his hair. “I don’t know.” Mr. Smooth was rattled. And considering his status as one of the most brilliant lawyers in D.C., that was saying something.
Backing off would probably help her cause. Harassing Ian wouldn’t make him pliable. And she needed him pliable.
Syd leaned forward and propped her chin in her hand hoping to look less hostile. Really though, she’d built a life around being hostile, how was she supposed to dismantle that in ten seconds?
“Ian, I’m sorry. This has to be tremendous stress for you. I know there’s only so much you can do, but I need to tell the women something.”
“Who is it that’s asking? I’ll talk to them.”
Not a chance.
Considering she’d made the whole thing up.
“I think it’ll be more comforting from me. I’m one of them. If you can convince me I’m safe, they’ll feel safe.”
He stared at her for a solid minute, but he wasn’t really seeing her. Too busy thinking. Calculating. “I’ll add more security for the entrances. Tell the girls, under no circumstances, are they to leave the event location. I can’t protect them if they leave.”
Syd abandoned the chin-in-her-hand routine. “I’ll tell them. Thank you. And I’ll talk to the women about staying together. Or at least in sight of each other.”
“Good idea. And please, tell them to make damn sure they are escorted to and from the limo by security. For all we know, Morgan could have been standing outside waiting for the driver.”
If Ian were involved in this murder, he was an Oscar-worthy actor. Everything about his demeanor—the bloodshot eyes, the sagging shoulders—telegraphed concern. Whether that concern was for the money he stood to lose if the escort service had to be shut down or for the women themselves, Syd couldn’t be sure.
What she felt certain of was that Ian probably wasn’t involved in these murders. Maybe he was the catalyst in that he provided the girls, and he’d have to live with that, but Syd didn’t think he was directly involved in the deaths of these women.
Which only reinforced her fear that The Lion, a man who quite literally wanted her in his bed, a man who liked to give veils as gifts, a man who liked to choke women during sex, was a sadistic serial killer.
Chapter Twenty-four
On average, the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner processed seventeen hundred cases a year for the District of Columbia. As Grey took the sidewalk past the large brick sign welcoming him to the two-story building that afternoon, he hoped the deputy chief examiner had completed the initial examination of Kristin LaMonte, aka Morgan Cashore, and could give him a time of death and confirm that the victim had been strangled.
No surprise, Harold Donaldson idled at the reception desk waiting for Grey. The man’s watery eyes were bloodshot and the bags under them matched Grey’s. Neither of them had slept. Both of them knew they were only a few steps away from catching the killer.
Grey nodded at Donaldson as the receptionist handed him a visitor’s badge and offered to show them to the private autopsy room in the basement. Donaldson waved her off. “We know where it is.”
Watching his former boss walk away, Grey smiled at the receptionist. “Thank you,” he said, attaching the badge to his jacket. The poor woman received a lot of gruff responses from government employees and distraught family members. He saw no reason to take his exhaustion and stress out on her. “We appreciate your help.”
He caught up to Donaldson at the elevators. The Special Agent in Charge stared straight ahead at the metal doors and spoke under his breath. “How did you let this happen, Greystone? You swore after our last discussion”—he emphasized the word—“that you had a handle on the situation.”
If there had been any way to avoid calling Donaldson for this favor, Grey would have taken it. The OCME wouldn’t share confidential information about Kristin’s death with anyone other than those directly assigned to the case. Since the FBI had immediately stepped in and taken the case away from the D.C. police, Donaldson was Grey’s only ticket into the private autopsy room reserved for high profile murders or infectious disease cases involving public safety.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Grey followed Donaldson inside, purposely ignoring the man’s taunt. Grey had already beaten himself up over Kristin enough. Nothing he could do would bring her back, and Sydney was right. It was time to focus on the next step in his plan to nail The Lion. “Have they determined time of death?”
Donaldson pushed the button labeled LL for Lower Level. “Between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”
“The party broke up at twelve-thirty. Her body was found ten minutes later. She was definitely dead before one a.m.”
The deputy medical examiner, Tashelle Smith, was a short, heavyset woman with a strong Jamaican accent. She was waiting for them when the elevator doors opened. The three of them were already acquainted, having gone through this exact scenario several times before. “Gentlemen. Please follow me.”
Grey wanted to jump in and start asking questions, but he knew Dr. Smith wouldn’t answer anything until they were alone. She led them down the hall past a row of offices and through the main autopsy room populated with three exam stations. All three were in use and multiple sets of eyes glanced at their group as they passed. At the far end of the room, they stopped outside a steel door marked with yellow warning signs about possible infectious diseases and the prior approval required by the OCME in order to enter.
The Lion’s victims weren’t the norm for bodies that ended up inside this room reserved for high-profile or special cases, but like everything else with this situation, discretion and confidentiality were of utmost importance.
Grey had seen violent death up close and personal. His training in the Army and the FBI had toughened his emotional skin when it came to dealing with death, and yet, underneath that toughened exterior, he felt sick every time he saw a victim laid out on the autopsy table. The only way he knew to deal with it was to flip the switch inside his brain that put him in professional mode.
He did just that as Dr. Smith opened the door and ushered them in. A utility-grade sheet respectfully covered Kristin’s body, small and girl-like, from her chest down. Her eyes were closed, her lips had a faint blue tinge, and her skin—in direct contrast—was nearly as white as the bleached cotton surrounding it.
Which mad
e the red marks and bruising around her neck stand out that much more.
Dr. Smith handed Grey and Donaldson each a pair of latex gloves, then donned a pair herself before picking up a chart and switching on the overhead floodlight. “Case Number 12-0276, Kristin LaMonte, also known as Morgan Cashore,” she read from the chart. “The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished twenty-year-old Caucasian female. Brown hair, brown eyes. Sixty-five inches long and weighs one-hundred-twenty pounds. Tox screen, negative. Skin, normal texture with the exception of a scar on the right lower quadrant of the abdomen from an appendectomy; hematomas on the right and left scapula areas and horizontal ligature marks crossing the neck in the region of the lower end of the thyroid cartilage. Petechial hemorrhages to the face and conjunctiva are prominent.”
Grey was buzzing from too much caffeine and the feeling he always got when he was about to nail a killer. “Meaning she was strangled.”
If his jumping the gun annoyed the ME, she didn’t show it. She pointed to the ligature marks. “The furrow markings suggest a thin ligature and the bruising around her neck suggests an associated manual component to the strangulation. Once I open her up, I will probably find the usual signs of asphyxia in the lungs and heart, and fractures of the hyoid and thyroid due to compression against the cervical vertebrae.”
“Like the other girls.”
“With the exception of these bruises.” Dr. Smith took her time rolling Kristin’s body to one side so they could see the girl’s back. “I believe this victim was strangled from behind. The others were strangled from the front. There were grass stains on the front of her clothes and grass and dirt under her nails.”
Grey and Donaldson exchanged a glance. “Was she running away?” Grey asked. “Tackled from behind and held down?”
The doctor pointed to the bruises below the shoulder blades. “The killer’s knees could have made those.”
Fishing out the veils in their evidence bags from his briefcase, Grey held one up for Dr. Smith. “The ligature marks were thin, right? Could the ties on these veils have made them?”
