by Stacy Green
“I’m sorry,” Beckett said as soon as he walked up. “I made you feel terrible, and I didn’t intend to. I needed to make Rylan feel like we were on her side. Because we are.”
“And because I mucked the interview up so badly.”
“You two just didn’t gel,” he said. “It happens.”
“But I don’t have enough experience to keep it from happening.”
Beckett sighed. “No, not always. Some of it is instinct. And that’s honed by repeatedly being in the situation, which also takes a toll on you. So it’s a double-edged sword.”
Some of Erin’s anger ebbed, but the humiliation clung to her system. “You could have handled it differently. At least shamed me in the hall instead of in front of her. Now she won’t want to talk to me.” A sudden thought bloomed. “Are you trying to be front and center to bask in the glory if we catch this person? Add to your résumé?”
“You don’t know anything about my résumé. And I don’t care about glory. I care about finding a killer.” Beckett brushed past her and took the steps two at a time. He kept his shoulders rigid, his fists jammed into his jacket. “So, the college program has two tracks, right? That’s what Dr. Key said.”
Erin bit her tongue and followed him. She struggled to keep pace.
“Look, I’m sorry for acting like a brat. I’m afraid Rylan is right. And the reporter. I’m a liability. So I took my frustration out on you. I did it earlier too. I’m sorry.”
The bright spots on his cheeks faded, and he slowed down. “Thanks. Did Sergeant Clark tell you I went to The Point?”
Cold wind gusted from the north. Erin zipped her coat up to her chin. “Sounds like Tori, but we’ve already checked the paper trail from The Point. Nothing.”
“I want to go over the security footage again, this time looking for Virginia Walton. She might be easier to spot than someone wearing all black. At least we’ve got a face to look for.” Beckett stopped walking and turned to look down at her. “And for what it’s worth, I get the insecurity. Every good cop has it.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Erin, ego is the worst thing to have when you’re a cop. It keeps you from seeing what’s right in front of you. You’re doing fine. Stop second-guessing yourself and trust your instincts. You’re going to make mistakes. So will I. But we have to keep trying, because these families and the victims deserve justice.”
Resolve surged through her. She straightened her shoulders and braced herself for the task ahead. “Then let’s go.”
The Adult Learning Center seemed like a vastly different place than last week. No smell of lunch, no sounds of brisk work or joking students. Only the cars in the parking lot hinted at life going on as usual.
“Rylan said her mother knew of Bonnie in passing,” Erin said quietly. “So maybe they didn’t talk.”
“Or Virginia didn’t tell her daughter. If she knew something, she might have been afraid to share after Bonnie’s murder.”
Wearing jeans and a button-down shirt and looking like she needed another cup of coffee, Director Key waited for them at the desk. “Carrie—our front desk girl—is sick. We cancelled classes today. Everyone is shocked and heartbroken.”
“I take it you knew Professor Walton better than Bonnie Archer?” Beckett’s implication didn’t go unnoticed by Key.
“Of course we did. We were heartsick for Bonnie as well. But we saw Virginia nearly every day.”
“If Virginia is one of the counselors, why didn’t she talk with us about Bonnie?” Beckett asked.
“You’ll have to ask Brian,” Key said. “I’m not sure the two of them knew each other. We have more than one counselor.”
“How many of the staff are here?” Erin asked.
“Quite a few. I called them shortly after you called earlier. I wanted everyone to have the chance to speak with you.”
She led them down the hall, past her office, and into a large social area much like the common area in a dorm: big couches; a couple of well-loved, comfy-looking chairs; a couple of end tables; a pop machine; and a snack machine. Erin counted seven women and two males, including Brian Reese.
“Small staff.”
“Only two aren’t here, Carrie and our night front desk assistant,” Key said. “We have to run a lean operation despite the grant.” She walked over and took the empty chair next to Reese. “As I said, we are all just devastated. The news said the same person who killed Bonnie killed Virginia. Is that possible?”
Erin never understood how the news media managed to weasel into crime scenes and thread information together when every single official had been told to close ranks. Then she pictured the beautiful redhead and her sly smile, and she knew exactly how she had done it.
“It looks like it,” Beckett said. “Bonnie’s cousin Sarah suggested the two of them discuss some of Bonnie’s personal issues.”
Reese snapped his fingers. “That’s right. I remember Bonnie mentioning that when she came to talk to me about Pathways. She’d already spoken with Virginia.”
“Any idea what they discussed?”
Reese shrugged. “The program, Bonnie’s options.”
Faces of many different colors, all wearing the same desolate expression, stared back at Erin. Most either had watery eyes or sniffled. “Why didn’t we hear from Virginia the other day?”
“She had classes at AU the day you spoke with us,” Brian said. “She only met with Bonnie a couple of times about classes. She didn’t really have anything to contribute. I told her not to worry about it.”
Erin instantly rankled, fed up with his innocent expression and blue eyes. “Don’t you think we should have made that decision? Virginia may have known something about Bonnie Archer that got her killed.”
“Then why didn’t she come to you anyway?” Brian seemed unfazed by Erin’s ire. “She didn’t have to do what I told her to.”
His smooth delivery reminded her of all the preppy boys she’d endured growing up. Hounding him in front of the group wouldn’t get them anywhere, so she changed tactics. “How many of you knew both Bonnie and Virginia?”
Vanessa, the language arts instructor, raised her hand. “I didn’t know Virginia as well as the others. We had different schedules.”
“Did Bonnie ever mention her?”
“No. We told you Bonnie never shared anything personal.”
“What about Virginia?” Erin asked. “I assume you were aware she was gay?”
Heads nodded. “No one cared,” said a thin woman whose black boots looked heavier than her.
“Did she mention dating anyone?”
The woman tried to laugh, but it came out a sad sob. “She didn’t want to get into a relationship. She didn’t have the time for it. She spent her social life here, helping us.”
“You two were close?” Beckett asked.
“I teach the computer courses, which meant a lot of nights,” she said. “Virginia worked nights, so we chatted.”
He looked at Key. “What did Virginia do here?”
“A volunteer counselor, and she assisted with some of the math students who are having difficulties. But she mainly provided counseling in all areas: emotional, mental, career. Virginia was a skilled psychologist with a lot of experience.”
“And only volunteered?” Erin asked.
“We didn’t have the money to pay her when she first came on. She’d just come from South Carolina, and she wanted to be involved. She didn’t care about the money, and she wouldn’t take it when we freed up funds.”
“This is going to sound strange,” Beckett said. “But did Virginia ever mention counseling an older male student who cross-dressed?”
The entire group stared at him. Key finally spoke up. “No. If she did, that’s confidential. We stay out of our students’ personal lives.”
So not out of the realm of possibility. But Erin didn’t think Bonnie’s cross-dressing customer had anything to do with either murder. “Were you aware Virginia had an issue with Ricky St
out?”
Key’s eyes snapped to hers. “We resolved that.”
“So she did report it.” The professor must not have followed up with Sarah on the outcome.
“She came to me the next morning.” Key leaned forward in her seat, tapping her finger on the armrest. “And let me make this clear, she wasn’t concerned for her safety but for Ricky’s.”
“How so?” Erin asked.
Key hedged.
Erin considered the warrant she had in her bag. She didn’t want to bring it out yet. She wanted to get everything she could before she pissed off Key. “I’m not asking you to divulge anything Ricky Stout may have told you. But Virginia Walton is dead, and we’re trying to solve her murder.”
Key sighed. “Ricky frequented her office. He comes from a terrible home environment—drugs and abuse—and he had no one. I think he became attached to Virginia. She was sort of like a mother figure. He came to her about advice in all sorts of areas, not just school and career.”
“Did he ask her about Bonnie Archer?”
“She never mentioned it.” Key’s jaw set.
If Ricky Stout had ever mentioned Bonnie, Key wasn’t going to say a damned word. Erin understood the need to protect her student body. But two people had been murdered.
The thought popped out before she could stop it. “Is it because Ricky is black?”
A couple of people sucked in shocked gasps as though Erin had spoken a forbidden language.
“Excuse me?” The professor said.
“You’re protective of Ricky Stout,” Erin said. “I realize you have rules to play by. But I think there’s more to it. Are you afraid he’ll be railroaded because he’s a black male with a sealed juvenile record, and the dead women are white? I can’t blame you if that’s the way you feel. A certain precedent’s been set, and race relations are a serious issue in this country. And I’m sorry to be blunt, but I’m trying to solve two brutal homicides, and I’d rather deal with the elephant in the room.”
Erin cut a glance at Beckett, expecting him to shut her down. But he watched Key with interest, the vein in his neck pulsing.
Key crossed her legs, her movements lethargic and her face drawn. “Did you have any African Americans at Sidwell Friends School, Investigator Prince? The president’s daughters currently attend, but you were there in the late 80s and early 90s, right? Things have come a long way.”
Erin didn’t react as Beckett’s attention switched to her. She directed her answer at him. “Sidwell Friends School is the Harvard of Washington’s private schools. A lot of politicians and people with political influence send their kids, the president and vice president included. Chelsea Clinton attended at the same time as me.” Erin met the First Daughter a few times. But she didn’t dare socialize with her; her father was still fuming about Clinton’s election. “To answer your question, yes, there were. But a minority.”
“So it’s fair to say it’s hard for someone like you to have a grasp on the economic divide in this country—race excluded?” Key asked. “Not just in social class and wealth but in education.”
“I’ve been a cop long enough to be well aware of it,” Erin said. “And I don’t deny every one of those things exists, but I’m not here to debate them. I wouldn’t be asking about a black male if he hadn’t already been mentioned as knowing both dead women and having an issue with one of them. Race and social class aren’t affecting my judgment. Is it affecting yours?”
Key appeared to weigh her options.
She wasn’t the only one who had done her research. Key came from a broken family, grew up poor, and earned scholarships to college. Her mission to help other young adults stemmed from her own experience, and the instinct to protect them came naturally.
“You need to tell her,” Brian Reese said. “If they don’t have a warrant, they’ll be back with one.”
Key glanced at him and then around at the rest of the group.
Vanessa nodded.
Key folded her hands on her lap. “Ricky is my nephew.”
Erin watched Beckett out of the corner of her eye. He nodded along with Key’s words. He already knew Ricky was her nephew.
“All right then,” Erin said. “So you have a personal interest.”
“He’s a good kid who saw his mother murdered. My sister.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ricky was only seven. I’d gone off to college, and his daddy was in prison. My parents couldn’t take him because of their health. He went into foster care, and I was never able to get him out.”
Key likely hadn’t wanted him to get out of juvie. A problem kid would have made her career a hell of a lot more difficult. “So he got into trouble. We’ll have a warrant to unseal his juvenile records by tomorrow.”
Key’s lips thinned. “He was angry. Lashed out at anyone with authority, including teachers. He got physical with more than one, and he dropped out at sixteen. Two years ago, I hired someone to track him down on the streets, and I set about getting him straight. He’s been doing well, keeping a job and a place to live.”
Erin moved to show her the warrant and ask for Ricky’s address, but Beckett spoke up. “How was his mother killed?”
Key looked at Beckett for a long time. “Her boyfriend stabbed her twenty-two times in front of Ricky. He watched her bleed to death while he waited on the police to get there.”
A perfect recipe for violence. Erin produced the warrant. “Where does Ricky live?”
* * *
Contact information in hand, Erin marched outside trying to think of a way to diplomatically handle the tension eating at her.
Beckett easily caught up. “Nice work on the race call. You handled that well.”
She tried hard to sound rational. “You knew Ricky Stout was her nephew and didn’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I did some digging and found out Key’s maiden name was Stout. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to let the whole thing play out organically. I had no idea about him seeing his mother murdered. But if he saw her stabbed as a kid, this makes a lot more sense.”
Erin stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “How are we supposed to work together if we don’t communicate? We’re like two roommates who have no interest in getting to know each other.”
“You’re wrong,” Beckett said. “I want to get to know you, and I like working with you. We’ve just got to fine-tune our routine. Figure out how to share the bathroom.” He smiled at his bad joke.
Erin rolled her eyes, snatching her ringing phone out of her pocket. “Hey, Sergeant. What do you have?”
She listened as Clark rattled off numbers. Her heart raced. “Sounds good. We’re going to talk to Ricky Stout, and then we’ll be in.”
“What is it?” Beckett asked as soon as she ended the call.
“We finally got financials back on Bonnie Archer. She’d paid two months ahead on her mortgage, and she had over $100,000 in a savings account. Her parents are coming into the station to discuss the new developments, but I bet they’re totally unaware.”
Beckett let out a low whistle, staring into the darkening horizon. “Well. That’s one hell of a stripper.”
“Or an online porn star. Clark’s trying to get the overtime approved for the forensic examiners to find her on the web, but we don’t have time.”
She’d end up regretting it, but every instinct told her there would be more dead women soon. “Get Lucy and her friend on it. Find Bonnie Archer’s sex videos. If we get lucky, Ricky Stout will be a star.”
Of course Ricky Stout wasn’t home. He lived in a one-bedroom, second-floor apartment in a crummy building on 12th and U Street, right above the Walgreens. A patrol cop stationed on the corner served as a wary deterrent for neighborhood thugs. The uniform hadn’t seen Ricky in a couple of days. He’d called in sick to the tire shop where he worked part-time.
“I think she warned him.” Erin and Beckett stopped by Clark’s office to give him an update. “Now he’s on the run
. I put out BOLO, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holed up at Key’s place. I’d like to get into his apartment, but we’ll never get the warrant.”
“Put more pressure on the DNA lab again,” Beckett suggested. “If Bonnie’s baby is African-American, we might have enough probable cause.”
Erin didn’t think so considering the current environment. Everyone worried about further pushing the racial issue, especially judges and law enforcement. Unless a case came wrapped in a red bow, a judge likely wouldn’t issue a warrant for Ricky’s DNA.
Sergeant Clark handed Erin the printout containing the information the warrant dredged up about Bonnie’s financial information. “Here’s what’s interesting. She made a hundred grand in less than six months. And all of it appears to be monthly transfers from an offshore account.”
“Six months? Holy shit,” Erin said. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“No way she made that from selling porn, even if she had a pay-per-view site,” Beckett said. “Without the backing of one of the frequented sites, it’s word of mouth.”
“What if she didn’t set up a pay-per-view site?” Erin asked. “What if it’s buried deeper? One of those things where the user has to give their life away for access.”
“Like the child porn creeps,” Clark said. “But rape porn isn’t that taboo.” He held up his hands at Erin’s look. “I’m not saying it’s right. But you can find it on any Internet search, half of it by simply searching for rough sex. The buried stuff on the deep web is usually the freak show. Animals, real violence, snuff films. Dark and twisted.”
“Which means she could have charged a mint for it,” Erin said.
“It makes more sense given this amount of money.” Beckett leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, looking completely unconvinced. “And unless you have more specific search information and people with the access to the right things,” he cut a look at Erin, “we aren’t going to find it.”
“Maybe there’s another source of income,” Erin said. “Will Merritt lives nicely, but he doesn’t come from money. I can’t see him being her sugar daddy, but Sid’s is frequented by all sorts of Capitol Hill types. Who’s to say she didn’t have someone else on the side? Someone who fell in love with her and wanted to help her.”
