“Any leads?”
“Why? You coming down to volunteer your time on the case?”
“No. But if I get bored, maybe I could borrow your personal car. Mine’s still at the airport.”
“Keys are on the kitchen counter…You doing okay?”
“Yeah, thanks. Have you heard anything about the funeral?”
“I believe her parents are having her body shipped home. I was thinking…if I get off in time, I’ll take you to dinner?”
“Sure,” she said, hoping that he had no illusions about making it anything more than what it was. Scotty had always entertained the idea that their breakup was only temporary, which was partially Sydney’s fault, because she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, and in the end, she’d had to do just that. “Scotty, you do realize-”
“Hate to cut this short, Syd, but they’re signaling me. SWAT’s getting ready to move in. Love you.”
He hung up, and she stood there, staring at the phone, his “Love you” echoing in her mind, making her think she shouldn’t have come here after all. There was a time when she used to be like him, black and white, by the book. It was why she’d fallen for him. She always knew where she stood with Scotty. Life was predictable.
When they’d lived together, that was precisely what she’d needed. Structure and order. He’d been good for her at a time when she’d needed it. Back then she would’ve never questioned the government’s need for secrecy about a forensic sketch. And, as Griffin had indicated, that was probably why they’d chosen her out of the several forensic artists they used around the country. It was probably stamped across her files, maybe even across her forehead, her belief that if the government needed her to know, they’d tell her.
Just like a good little FBI agent destined for promotion.
Now that seemed like a world away, a lifetime ago. A time when she’d believed that there was a clear demarcation between the good guys and the bad guys.
Back before she knew many of the details of her father’s murder. But she wasn’t about to let the past cloud her judgment, and right now, she had to admit that there was something suspicious about Zachary Griffin. She called Carillo. “You find anything else on this guy?”
“Didn’t we just talk? I’ve got cases, you know.”
“What’s more important? Your caseload, or my curiosity?” Phone to her ear, she walked over to the kitchen, looked around for Scotty’s car keys. “Are you saying you haven’t even heard what this guy did for the Agency?”
“They weren’t exactly forthcoming when I tried to inquire. Not to worry. You remember that PI friend of mine, helped me solve that case a while back? Dan Randolph of the Randolph Investigative Group?”
“Used to be a cop in the central valley.”
“Yeah, him. Might have almost as many connections as Doc Schermer does. Turns out he knows someone at DOJ, who knows someone at CIA, who told him that your guy was involved in the investigation of a bunch of microbiologists who had died suspiciously all within a few weeks of each other. Taken randomly one could dismiss the suicides, plane crashes, and a couple murders. Considering they all occurred within a few weeks after 9/11, it smacks of conspiracy, and even though it was played down in the press, his agency felt it needed looking into. Couple that with the fact that no one keeps better tabs on every microbiologist on the face of the earth than the CIA does, and it tells me he was at least, at that time, with them. He still with you?”
“Dropped me off at Scotty’s. I need to schedule a flight home and I might just go out to grab some lunch.”
“You want something more than the peanut butter Scotty keeps as a staple?”
“Aren’t you the funny one. Call me if you hear anything else on this guy.”
“Good luck with the lunch thing.”
“Thanks.”
She hung up, switched on Scotty’s computer to schedule a flight home, then arrange to have flowers sent to Tasha’s parents in Kansas. The moment she did, she was tempted to look up any news articles on Tasha’s hit-and-run, as well as any Jane Does found in the area in the last couple of weeks. But then she talked herself out of it. She knew the risks. She’d gone that route before-getting involved in something best left alone-and had nearly gotten her family, her young sister killed in the process…
Besides, maybe Tasha’s death had nothing to do with the case.
Her gaze swept over the computer screen. What could be the harm in just looking? Seeing what sort of information might show up on the hit-and-run? No. She wouldn’t do it. She didn’t trust herself enough. Not after the danger she’d dragged to her very doorstep while looking into her father’s murder…Scotty’s Web browser home page was set to the metro area news. There was the typical uprising in the Middle East, the current breaking-news hunt for the bank robbery suspects, a married CEO from a top Fortune 500 company apologizing for his inappropriate affair with a college student, and the latest stock news.
After a quick scan of the headlines, she perused the flights home, trying to decide between a late morning and an early afternoon flight. She needed to decide how much time she was willing to spend with Scotty, and wondered if she should settle for a red-eye flying out tonight.
What she should have done was accept the free flight home that Griffin offered, then she wouldn’t be sitting here trying to decide, while her stomach protested that she hadn’t had a bite since breakfast. She got up to find something to eat. Just as Carillo guessed, peanut butter and jelly was all Scotty seemed to have in the house. Some things never changed, she thought, staring out the window, absently pulling the crust from her sandwich. A light sprinkle misted the sidewalk and slush piles below, the few pedestrians rushing to their destinations in case it turned into a real rain.
She liked this neighborhood, and for a moment she contemplated the idea of finding an apartment somewhere nearby-once she finally got around to actually looking. She’d lived here a short time with Scotty before they’d broken up, and she missed the area, the older tree-lined street, the Heavenly Java coffee shop on one corner and Raja’s Star of India restaurant on the other. In the summertime, you couldn’t see the sidewalk through the trees, but in the winter, with nary a leaf in sight, there was a clear view up and down the street. Peaceful, she thought, biting into her sandwich as a telephone utility truck pulled up, double-parked in front of the building.
Maybe she could convince Scotty to move, let her have this place. In her selfish dreams, she thought, watching as two workmen got out, placed safety cones on either side of the work truck, then started unloading what looked like phone repair equipment from the back. Losing interest in the view, she returned to the computer, deciding she’d go late morning, sort of a compromise. Just enough time for breakfast and little else.
Absorbed in her search, she heard Scotty’s telephone ring on the desk beside her. “Hello,” she said, noting the number from the caller ID read “Restricted.”
“It’s Zach Griffin.”
“What a surprise.”
“Just wondering how you’re doing.”
She eyed the flight times on the computer screen, looking for late morning. “Well, aren’t you the concerned federal agent. I’m doing great. So why are you really calling?”
“Just wanted to remind you, this case is not for public consumption.”
“And here I was thinking of holding a press conference. Thanks for the reminder.”
She heard his laughter as she disconnected, and she was bothered by something she couldn’t quite place. She stared at the telephone. Scotty’s number was unlisted. She hadn’t given it to Griffin, and he wasn’t FBI, so how’d he get it? He would’ve called her cell phone, should’ve called it. She got up, walked to the window, saw the men in the phone truck packing up. It was either the fastest phone repair in history, or the CIA, or OGA, or whoever the hell they were, had just installed listening devices in Scotty’s building, and Griffin had just called to see if they were working.
Sydney watched until the ph
one truck disappeared from view, trying to stay calm. To hell with calm. She used her cell phone to call the police department, the traffic investigations unit, asked the particulars on Tasha’s case, discovered there were no leads, nor was there anything that made them think it was anything but a “run-of-the-mill hit-and-run.” If it had been “run-of-the-mill,” why had Griffin not said something about working from the notes because the forensic anthropologist had been killed in a car accident, and the report hadn’t been finished?
Because she and Tasha had been friends? There had to be more to it than that.
She paced the room, told herself that she needed to think logically about this. But there was no logic. Griffin, ergo the government, had gone to great pains to keep Sydney in the dark, allegedly to protect her, even though she was a federal agent, armed and trained, better equipped to handle the dangers of whatever cluster they’d thrust her in the midst of. But what about Tasha Gilbert, a woman whose passion was old bones? What protection had they offered her by keeping her in the dark? If this case was so damned dangerous they couldn’t even let Sydney know what was going on, what business did they have letting an anthropologist walk around unprotected so that she could be hit by a car?
Anger anew over her friend’s death spurred her back to the computer. She had recommended Tasha for this case. Tasha knew her, trusted her. The least Sydney could do was repay that trust and make sure that Tasha’s killers were brought to justice.
Having lost her appetite, she tossed what was left of her sandwich in the trash. The best way to solve Tasha’s murder was to find out who their Jane Doe was. Between the sudden call out, the government involvement and secrecy, the surveillance, and now Tasha’s death, there was no doubt in Sydney’s mind that the murder of this Jane Doe was connected.
She tried looking for the girl’s identity on the Internet, but came up with too many hits of missing young women. A better lead might be trying to figure out the location of that crime scene photo she used in her drawing, where the victim had been found. She tried to remember the details. The girl’s clothing had been unremarkable. No help there. Too bad there hadn’t been more of the building and streetlamp to make an accurate guess of where the crime scene was located, but she doubted that Griffin was about to pull out a full crime scene shot for her benefit.
Everything about the locale had appeared old. Not just old, but historic, right down to the cast-iron lamppost. Plenty of reproductions like that in this area alone, so she doubted that would clue her in. The building definitely had an old feel to it, with the large red blocks of stones, very similar to the brownstones commonly used in the Northeast. She returned to the computer, typed in “red stone buildings” and the first site that came up was titled “A Web Gallery of Stone Buildings and Their Building Stone.”
The site showed not only the photos of the structures, but also close-ups of the stones used. She scrolled down, paused about midway at the description of “red sandstone,” and felt fairly certain the paragraph described the stones in the building she’d seen. At the bottom of the page was a “Related Links” section. She clicked on “Building Stones of Maryland,” a logical guess since she’d been flown to the East Coast to do the drawing, which told her the victim was probably from this area. Or the crime scene was in this area. Tasha’s death had certainly been in this area, she thought, leaning back in her chair and focusing on the screen.
Seneca red sandstone was listed, and she read how that very sandstone had been used in 1847 to build the Smithsonian Institution building in Washington, D.C. She typed “Smithsonian buildings” into the search bar. The official Web site popped up, one announcing their latest displays: Campana collection on loan from the Louvre, and something about the Holy Crusade. Her crusade was a bit different. It wasn’t the collections she cared about. What she wanted to see was the grounds, and she clicked on “Images.” A view of the Smithsonian castle came up, and she searched that site and others for close-up photos. There was one of a grassy area with a black streetlamp, a very old-looking black streetlamp…
“Almost too easy,” she said, because hell if that didn’t look just like the crime scene.
She typed “murder Smithsonian” into the search bar. The only thing that came up was a book someone had written in 1990. Estimating her age, she typed in “murder Washington DC 24 year old woman,” and again ended with so many hits, she gave up. But the Smithsonian was as good a start as any, and she pulled open Scotty’s printer, removing several sheets of paper from the paper tray, then a pencil from his desk. If she was going to figure out what the hell was going on, why her friend was killed, she’d need a fairly good likeness of the Jane Doe she’d sketched in Quantico. And there were two things in her favor. One, she was a good artist. Two, she had an excellent memory of what she’d already drawn. Now all she had to do was complete another sketch of her Jane Doe.
“For you, Tasha. I’m going to find out who did this.”
6
Sydney called the D.C. police department from the car. Amber Jacobsen, the records supervisor, was a cultivated contact from Syd’s days working in the capital, cultivated because Amber’s finger was on the pulse of what was going on in that town, and it always paid to have a friendly face when it came to dealing with the local law enforcement. Sydney had always been careful to reciprocate any favors.
“MPDC, Records, Jacobsen speaking.”
“Hey, girl. It’s Fitz.”
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I was hoping you might be able to clue me in on any unsolved Jane Does in your area?”
“Not a one that I know of, why?”
“Just handled a forensic sketch, and was curious if the victim came out of your area. It was pretty brutal,” she said, and left it at that, since the case was CIA’s and she had no idea what was going on with it. She’d already had one friend killed, she didn’t need another. “Might have occurred at the Smithsonian or nearby.”
“Now that I would’ve heard about. I’ll double check with Dennis, but believe it or not, for D.C., we’ve been pretty quiet. Well, up until the bank robbery today. Nothing but the usual, and a couple gang killings the past few weeks. Since they’re only killing each other, not even the reporters are getting excited. Hey, that’s my other line,” she added, the phone ringing in the background. “I’ll call you if I hear anything on any Jane Doe murders.”
“Thanks.”
By the time Sydney arrived at the Smithsonian castle parking lot, doubts had hit her about this being the location. The color of the building was right, but surely there would’ve been some sort of rumor. All doubts fled the moment she saw the building up close. The large blocks of stone looked very much like what she’d seen in the crime scene photo.
She carried two sketches in her soft-sided briefcase, one of the woman’s face, the other of what she recalled from the crime scene. It was this one she looked at, trying to get a feel for its location on the property, and she walked around, stopped only once by a security guard who suddenly appeared through a side door from the building. The grounds were undoubtedly monitored, and she was off the beaten path.
The guard was a good six inches taller than her five-nine frame. His uniform shirt was strained at the buttons and at the pants’ pockets, as though he’d gained considerable weight since he’d purchased the uniform. His smile was guarded as he looked her over. “May I help you?” He had a slight accent, something Eastern European.
She pulled her credentials from her briefcase, held them open for him. “I’m looking into a report that a woman might have been assaulted here, possibly even murdered.”
He tucked his thumbs in his belt, shaking his head. “If there was any crime on these grounds, we’d be notified, especially something that serious.”
“Nothing in the past few days? Weeks…? Months?” she added when she received no reaction.
“I’ve only worked here a few weeks. If anything happened before that, I have no idea.”
�
�Mind if I have a look around?”
“You have a card? I’ll call my superior, let him know.”
She handed him one from her briefcase, then pulled out the sketch of the Jane Doe. “Do you recall ever seeing this woman around here?”
He eyed the sketch, his gaze narrowing as he shook his head. “With so many tourists, it’s hard to say. Would you like me to make a copy and ask around?”
“No, thank you.”
He held up her card. “But if I think of something, I’ll call you.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
He left and she continued her perusal, definitely at a loss. This appeared to be the crime scene she’d seen in the photo, but if so, it told her little. She stood there, eyeing the lamppost, the red sandstone on the building, but there was nothing that stood out, and she thought of the photo she’d seen in Quantico. She was no homicide detective, though she’d assisted on several serial murders during her few short years with the FBI, and the occasional murder while an officer with Sacramento PD before that. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t made the connection to what she hadn’t seen in the photo. Blood.
It had been there on what was left of the woman’s face, to be sure, but head wounds are known to bleed profusely, and the removal of a face from a body was bound to leave some blood evidence, if not massive amounts of blood evidence.
Which meant the woman had been killed elsewhere.
Sydney walked around a bit, finally ending up at the front of the building, with the distinct feeling that someone was watching her. She looked up, saw a tall, dark-haired priest eyeing her, a look of curiosity on his face, perhaps because she was coming from an area where the tourists didn’t usually venture. He was standing next to a group of people who were waiting at the entrance to the front of the very building Sydney had been searching around. She glanced at a sign, saw it was a display on the Holy Crusade, which no doubt explained the priest’s presence, and when she saw nothing else out of the ordinary, she returned to the parking lot. Okay, think. What would the homicide guys do if they were investigating a Jane Doe murder? Two things, she thought, both of which might help identify the victim. Missing persons’ reports and towed abandoned vehicles. If someone was missing or dead, she could very well have left a car somewhere, a car that was towed because she failed to return for it. And that could give her a good starting break.
The Bone Chamber Page 6
