Best Laid Plans

by Allison Brennan

  The Bexar County Medical Examiner’s office was much larger and busier than she was accustomed to, even in D.C., because it was a teaching facility located at the University of Texas Health Science Center. But the sights and smells were the same, and Lucy felt immediately at ease.

  Julie Peters had left their names at the main desk, and they were escorted to Julie’s cubicle by a quiet intern.

  “I was right,” Julie said before Lucy or Barry could say hello. She didn’t look at them, but continued filling out a form.

  “About what?” Lucy asked.

  “Everything.”

  “You’re done already?”

  “It’s noon. Of course I’m done. I can’t give you an official report because I don’t have toxicology and a few other tests, and I need my boss to sign off on my findings, but I can tell you that he died of asphyxiation.”

  “He was strangled?” Barry asked.

  “Nope,” Julie said. “He couldn’t breathe.”

  “Suffocated?” Lucy said.

  “Not exactly. There were no signs of bruising around his nose and mouth, and no fibers in his mouth, nose, or throat.”

  “Asphyxiation is the lack of oxygen,” Lucy said. “If he wasn’t strangled, drowned, or physically suffocated, it would have to be chemical or natural, like an allergy.”

  “Hence, my need for toxicology before I can make an official determination. But I have some facts that may help in your investigation. First, the deceased was already dead when his pants were removed. He’d voided his bladder when he died.”

  “I thought that only happened in a violent death,” Barry said.

  Julie shook her head. “It can happen to anyone at time of death, particularly if their bladder was full. Blood stops circulating, lungs stop working, muscles relax, et cetera. It really depends on a variety of factors, but it’s not uncommon.

  “Second, the victim did not have sex near the time of death. There was no semen in the urethra or ducts—which means he wasn’t aroused. No pre-cum in his pants, nothing to indicate sexual excitement.”

  “Some sexual predators can’t ejaculate,” Lucy said. “I worked a case in D.C. where a rapist brutalized his victims with foreign objects because he couldn’t orgasm.”

  “It happens, but in this case I doubt it—all his equipment is there and appears to be in working order, but some drugs can have an impact on sexual performance, for better or worse,” Julie said. “For my next fact, I found saliva on his penis. A quick test determined that it was female, but I’ve asked for a complete DNA analysis.”

  “How old was the saliva?” Lucy asked.

  Julie snapped her fingers. “Smart girl! There was no saliva or female DNA in his underwear. Nada. Our forensic lab examined the underwear extremely meticulously—at my request—using all the tools at our disposal. So I would testify under oath that the saliva wasn’t present until after his pants were pulled down.”

  “Which means that he was dead.”

  Julie grinned. “Yep.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Barry said.

  Lucy had investigated worse. Nothing about human nature surprised her anymore.

  “And?” she asked Julie.

  “You think there’s more?”

  “You could have told Barry all of that over the phone. Which means you want to show us something.”

  “You’re so right. I could just let you read the report, but I think in a sensitive case like this, you need to see what I saw.” Julie stood and motioned for them to follow.

  “The crime techs confirmed that there was vodka on his shirt and neck, but it’s clear someone poured it into his mouth,” Julie said. “We have a down-and-dirty blood alcohol test, and his BAC was zero. His stomach contents are consistent with having had a meal at approximately six thirty this evening. We’re running the contents for common poisons, but he had no external symptoms of natural toxins, such as anaphylactic shock that might occur with a shellfish or peanut allergy. I have his medical records, and he has no known allergies.”

  They were at the end of the hall and Julie led them into the locker room. “Booties and gloves. Can’t have contamination.”

  Both Lucy and Barry put on the gear Julie handed them, and she led them across the hall to one of the autopsy bays.

  One autopsy was currently being performed by three other pathologists. Julie nodded to them as they passed, then on the far side of the room she pulled back a plastic sheet that hung from the ceiling to reveal the body of Harper Worthington laid out on a steel autopsy table. His chest had already been sewn back together.

  “I’ve already talked to the crime techs about this, and they’re going to come back with a plausible theory after they play with their computers. Because I absolutely know what this is, I just can’t picture how it happened.”

  Julie turned on the bright overhead light. It made Worthington look even more pale, but every imperfection was visible. Julie tilted his head a bit and Lucy peered at a small red mark that was halfway between the side and the back of his neck.

  “It looks like a puncture mark. A needle, perhaps.”

  “Looks like. Cops.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it looks like a needle mark because it is a needle mark.”

  Barry asked, “What was he injected with?”

  “Don’t know yet. I took tissue and blood samples and the lab knows this is a priority, but you’re going to have to give us a day or two. I know it’s nothing common—I can test for most narcotics right here. It would have to be fast acting, because there was no sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds. No skin under his nails. He didn’t fall to his knees or hit his head. I can’t picture how someone could get close enough to inject him and he didn’t at least try to get away. But you saw the room—it was tidy.”

  Lucy could picture a couple different scenarios, but one seemed the most plausible. She said, “That lends credence to the fact that a prostitute was in the room and Worthington intended to have sex with her. Maybe they were kissing and the girl puts the needle into his neck. He pushes her away, but can’t move. Collapses onto the bed. That would have to be an extremely fast-acting drug.”

  She walked around the table, collecting her thoughts. “But why? What’s the motive? Did she kill him for kicks?”

  “A Thelma-and-Louise spree,” Julie suggested.

  “That doesn’t feel right. You say he didn’t have sex, that he was fully dressed when he died. No evidence that he hurt the prostitute—the taxi driver didn’t mention the girl was injured, and he doesn’t have any bruises or cuts on his hands. This wasn’t random. He was lured from Dallas for one hour of sex with a prostitute.”

  “If,” Barry interjected, “his wife knew about his fetish, she could have hired someone.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “I thought you didn’t believe she had anything to do with this.”

  “You got me thinking about the possibility,” he said.

  She almost smiled. “How would his death, if it was ruled natural causes, benefit her politically?”

  “Sympathy votes.”

  “I’d think she’d get more negative press than sympathy,” Lucy said.

  “She’d be a widow. Her opponent wouldn’t be able to run any real negative ads against her or her record without being made to look like a jerk. Eventually, the circumstances would fade away, leaving behind only the fact that she lost her husband during the campaign. There could be extenuating circumstances—does she gain financially from his death?” Barry was on a roll. “I’m not saying I think she’s behind it—I don’t know. But it sounds to me like Julie is calling this a homicide.”

  “I’m right here,” Julie said, holding up her hands. “And I haven’t made my official determination. I’m calling his death suspicious right now. When I get the lab results on what he was injected with and talk to the ME about my findings, I’ll revise that. But unofficially? Hell yeah, someone killed him. Whether the girl did it on her own or was hired to do it, who knows? That’s where you two
come in.”

  Barry was thanking Julie when Lucy interrupted. “What did his liver look like?”

  “It was a bit enlarged. I took tissue samples, which is standard protocol in a suspicious death like this with no obvious COD.”

  Liver tests could take a day or a week, depending. But there was something familiar about Worthington’s death.

  “What are you thinking?” Julie asked her.

  “I worked a case when I was on vacation last Christmas—”

  Julie interrupted. “Why am I not surprised that you worked while on vacation?”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Not my choice. I sort of walked into a situation. Anyway, a nurse used a neuromuscular blocker to kill her victims. Reaction time is fast, death usually less than thirty minutes, depending on the dose. Almost impossible to detect unless you know what to test for.”

  “I’ll make sure I checked all the boxes,” Julie said. “And give the lab a heads-up.”

  “Thank you, Julie,” Lucy said.

  “Just doing my job.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The elegant chain hotel where Worthington’s phone was still transmitting was only a few miles from the White Knight, but a world of difference. Grand entrance off a busy street, elegant furniture set out in intimate groupings, a restaurant to the right with a hostess and white linen tablecloths, a bar to the left with businessmen and businesswomen drinking alone or in small groups.

  Barry and Lucy talked first to the concierge, then the manager, and finally the head of security got involved. Andreas Jackson was a tall, broad-shouldered black man dressed in an impeccable dark suit, white shirt, and navy tie. An earpiece with the telltale curling cord curved around the back of his ear and under his collar. He escorted them to the security office upstairs. Two people watched a wall of twelve security monitors. Jackson’s office was in the corner, and he had one-way windows that looked out to the lobby below.

  Barry explained again what they needed and gave Jackson the specs of the phone, a BlackBerry P’9983.

  “It’s a relatively new model,” Barry added.

  “There was no such phone turned in from the public areas in the last twenty-four hours,” Jackson said. “If he was a guest, housekeeping may not have gotten to his room, or he may not have checked out.”

  “He wasn’t a guest,” Lucy said.

  Barry said, “A person of interest took his phone after our contractor died. The phone is now here.”

  Jackson picked up his phone, spoke for a minute, then hung up. “The housekeeping supervisor is checking with her staff and will contact me directly.” He sat down behind his desk and motioned for them to take seats in chairs across from him, which they did. “If the phone is in this hotel, we’ll find it.” He eyed them with interest. “Government secrets? Must be serious if two federal agents are looking for a phone.”

  Barry glanced at Lucy, though she didn’t know what he wanted from her. He then turned back to Jackson and said, “The phone was stolen from a deceased government contractor.”

  “If you have a GPS log, I can review the security footage from our public areas at the time the phone entered the hotel.”

  “That would be helpful,” Barry said. “Thank you.” He wrote down a time frame and tore the page from his notepad. “This is the window we’re looking at.”

  Jackson pressed a button on his phone. “Please cut a copy of security feeds from all entrances from twelve thirty A.M. through one A.M.” He turned back to Barry and Lucy. “Only the main entrance is unlocked after ten P.M., but I’ll get you feeds from all the entrances in case the individual in question had a hotel room key.”

  “We appreciate that,” Barry said.

  Jackson’s phone rang and he excused himself. Barry pulled out his phone and responded to a message. “Jolene Hayden called headquarters and wants to meet with us as soon as possible.”

  Lucy looked at her watch. It was late in the afternoon. Adeline had told Jolene seven hours ago about her father’s death. “When?” Lucy said.

  “It’s nearly five. We’ve been going since five this morning.”

  Lucy was used to working a case until she was exhausted. It helped her sleep, for one. And for two, she couldn’t put work out of her mind when she was mulling things over. But it had been a long day.

  “Her father just died. She’ll be an emotional wreck,” Barry added. “It would be better to talk to her after a night to process.”

  “She may have helpful information. She was in Dallas with her father, she may know why he was coming to San Antonio.”

  “I thought of that, which is why I had Zach call her and ask her to come in first thing Monday morning.” He glanced at her. She couldn’t read Barry well. When she thought she understood what he was all about, he agreed with her on something and surprised her, or disagreed and surprised her. She didn’t know how his mind worked. “Some advice?”

  “Can I avoid it?”

  He showed no emotion. “You’re not a bad agent, Kincaid. But if you keep going at the pace you’ve been going since you got here, you’ll burn out fast. You don’t think I’m ignorant of what people say about me on the squad, do you? Particularly the people you hang with. Nate, who has PTSD and probably doesn’t sleep more than two or three hours a night. Ryan, who’s going through a nasty divorce and needs to work or he’ll fall apart. Even Kenzie, who’s admittedly my favorite, can’t take a day off—that’s why she still puts in time with the National Guard, it gives her the excuse to continually work out and do something on the weekends.

  “I work eight to five, five days a week, and take my on-call weekend once a month,” Barry continued. “That’s what I’m paid to do. I’ll work longer if necessary, like today when we were called in at five in the morning on a Saturday, but I always give one hundred percent when I’m on duty. Then I turn it off when I go home. Go out with friends. A girl, if I have one. Watch a ball game. I coach my nephew’s Little League team in the spring—we just finished our season last week and I already miss it. But I’ve been an FBI agent for nineteen years, and I plan to put in my time, retire at fifty-seven, and not have high blood pressure, a head full of violence, or a drinking problem. So my advice is, find a way to turn it off before it turns you inside out.”

  Barry hadn’t spoken that many words to her all day. In fact, he hadn’t said that many words to her in all the months they’d worked in the same office. At first she didn’t know what to say. Barry turned back to his BlackBerry.

  “You’re right,” she said momentarily, when he wasn’t looking at her. “But it’s not easy to turn it off.”

  “You have a boyfriend. Go do something fun tonight. Take tomorrow and go on a picnic before the heat gets unbearable.”

  “We’re not working tomorrow?”

  “It’s Sunday. We’re not going to get much done. We’re not going to get lab results, we’re not going to be able to interview anyone potentially involved, and since we don’t have a cause of death or a photo of the girl who was with Worthington, what do you suggest we do? We need to give HWI time to put together their files and forensics time to do their job.”

  He was right. But the problem was, she couldn’t just stop. She needed to work, because when she didn’t work, she made work. She could research HWI, run a background on Harper Worthington and his wife, learn more about the business, the campaign, how they met—anything that might help her understand why Harper Worthington sought out a young prostitute. If not for sex, why? And who was this girl? Why was she there? Was she working for someone and if so, who? Why did someone want him dead? Why would he fly in just for a meeting? Did he know he was meeting a prostitute or was he expecting someone else? She would be dreaming about the case whether she wanted to or not.

  Lucy recognized that she wasn’t normal. She hadn’t been normal since she was eighteen. Maybe not since she was seven when her nephew was murdered and her family grieved so deeply it changed all of their lives. She’d had a rather idyllic childhood—they weren�
��t rich, but they were close, for the most part. Until her oldest sister moved away after Justin’s murder, and Jack enlisted in the army and didn’t come home for years because of a major fight with their father. And one by one, her brothers and sisters left home. And then when she was eighteen her own life changed irrevocably. She couldn’t go back to the girl she’d been, just like she had never been able to reclaim her innocence. In the back of her mind she felt compelled to save others. To stop those who would prey on the innocent, stop those who recruit young women into the sex trade, stop those who hurt children, who abuse people who can’t defend themselves. She didn’t know who this young prostitute was, but Lucy wanted to help her.

  Maybe Lucy couldn’t relax on weekends because she somehow felt she didn’t deserve to have fun.

  Sean had changed that—he gave her a deep joy she hadn’t thought she’d ever experience. But it was like she was waiting for something bad to happen to destroy the one thing that made her happy.

  What did that say about her? That she was going to waste her time with Sean for the fear that she wouldn’t have him forever?

  She pulled out her phone and sent Sean a text message.

  I love you.

  Sean was the romantic one in their relationship, and she wished she could be more like him. It didn’t come easy for her. But thinking about him now reminded her of how thoughtful and wonderful he was, all the time. He’d learned to cook for her, he’d moved to San Antonio for her, and while he’d left his position at RCK for other reasons, her career had certainly played a part in that decision. She never wanted to forget the sacrifices he made. She had to learn to turn off the job, if not for her, then for Sean.

  Jackson finally came back into his office after nearly fifteen minutes. “I’m sorry that took so long, but you need to come in and view the security tapes. I had my team pull additional time stamps and we’re making you a copy.” He led them through the security office, down a hall, then through a door he accessed with his card key. They crammed into a room filled with equipment, manned by an operator who was working on a computer with the largest monitor Lucy had seen outside of Quantico.