When the Storm Breaks

by Heather Lowell

  “Do you recognize her from the streets? Does she have any kind of record?”

  “Nah, she’s not a working girl. The name on the ID comes back as a teacher at this school, Renata Mendes.”

  Sean processed the information. The victim’s physical profile fit with the other cases, all young Hispanic females. But not the teacher bit. The two other murdered women had been drug addicts who had sold their bodies to support crack or meth habits. “What kind of stab wounds?”

  “Big ones. Lots of blood.”

  “Any defensive wounds?”

  “Not so you can tell. Looks like the perp was a strong guy, and he probably surprised her.”

  That fit. “Who reported the murder?”

  “Now that’s the funny part. Seems there might be a witness. In fact, that’s what sent us up here in the first place.” He briefed Sean on the incident with the woman injured at the Suds ’n Studs club.

  “Were you able to speak to her?” Sean asked over the sudden squawking of Garfield’s radio.

  “Nah. She was out cold when I got there, but people on the scene confirmed what she said right after she was found.” Garfield reached up to silence the radio on his shoulder. “My gut says she saw something that scared her half to death. She’s in the ER right now.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a look around, then get out of your way.”

  Sean turned away and went to the victim’s body, where evidence technicians were just starting their work. They bustled around, testing equipment and setting up free-standing lights to illuminate the area for the video cameras.

  While the techs worked on the lighting, Sean borrowed a flashlight from one of the patrolmen and briefly reconnoitered the area around the victim. He crouched over a bent umbrella and a leather-wrapped canister of pepper spray, or maybe mace. Both objects had paint around them, waiting to be photographed and tagged as evidence.

  Sean made a mental note to check if the fingerprint analysis came up with anything that could connect the items to the victim. A little farther away, he found two more objects. Medium-heeled women’s shoes, sprawled a couple of feet apart, size 7. Glancing over at the victim, he saw sensible black flats on her feet.

  “OK, team, we’re ready to start,” one of the technicians shouted. The forensics team had the scene lit up like center stage at a Vegas show.

  Stepping closer to the victim, Sean examined the body objectively. He had seen death before, yet still he had to work to distance himself from the victim’s humanity and vulnerability.

  This one had brown eyes that were wide open. Her mouth was open as well, as if she had died crying out. Sean’s lips thinned as he took in the victim’s clothing, hairstyle, jewelry. She looked like a kid.

  Crouching down, he examined the stab wounds more closely. A decent-sized blade had been used. One stab alone would have been mortal from the look of things, yet there were at least four other wounds. Something to keep in mind about the murderer—he enjoyed his work and believed in overkill.

  A technician shifted a piece of equipment, throwing a stark light across the victim from a different angle. Sean focused immediately on a cloth loop at the woman’s slender waist. Shifting around, he saw an identical bit of fabric on the other side. It looked like she had been wearing a belt, but he didn’t see it anywhere.

  Sean motioned to one of the technicians. “Did one of you guys find a belt or sash? It looks like there was one here—see the loops? She wouldn’t wear the dress with these things just hanging off her sides, would she?”

  The forensics tech studied the victim and nodded his agreement. He made a note on his tiny laptop and called out questions to his team members.

  No one had seen any belt.

  All of the victim’s other articles were there next to her body. Sean looked over her effects—a straw purse and umbrella, a Mickey Mouse key ring with four keys attached. No belt.

  “We’ll look for it,” the tech assured Sean.

  “Good, but I don’t think you’ll find anything.”

  “Why not? Looks like maybe this was a robbery attempt or something. Sure, her money and stuff is right here,” the tech said, “but word is the killer was interrupted by a witness, which would explain why the valuables got left behind.”

  Sean’s eyes were pale blue and cold in the artificial light. “I think our killer got exactly what he wanted from this victim, and then kept a little something to remember her by.”

  “You think the guy wanted a trophy? The belt?” The tech sounded excited. “Hey, I bet you’re right!”

  Sean didn’t say anything. Sometimes he hated being right.

  Chapter 6

  Sean’s instincts were screaming all the way to George Washington University Medical Center. Even at this very preliminary stage, he was betting the murder of Renata Mendes was connected to at least one of the cases he and his partner were investigating. If the crimes were related, and if they could get anything from the eyewitness, it might give them the first real lead in close to a year. And if he could pull enough strings with the captain to get assigned to the Mendes case, which wasn’t cold at the moment.

  Big ifs.

  It was time for reinforcements. He hit the speed dial on his cell phone and imagined Aidan Burke’s irritation with relish. Waking up his cousin, who was also his partner on the Cold Cases Unit, was always a pleasure.

  Moments later his partner’s sleepy voice came across the line. “This had better be good, Sean.”

  “Don’t you love caller ID? Hey, did I wake you?” Sean’s tone was upbeat and friendly.

  “Of course not. It’s what, four A.M.? Why would I be asleep?” Aidan’s tone wasn’t happy.

  “Sorry, partner, but I think we might have a break on the Herrera case,” Sean said.

  “What have you got?” His partner’s voice wasn’t sleepy anymore.

  “I’d rather meet you at GWU Hospital’s ER, have you talk to a witness, and let you make your own assessment.” Sean trusted his cousin without qualification. If he was jumping at shadows, Aidan would be the first to tell him so. Aidan would also be the first to back Sean if he was right.

  His cousin sighed loudly. “I’ll be right over.”

  A murmured feminine protest came clearly across the line.

  Sean snickered. Aidan’s girlfriend was a consultant whose job kept her constantly on the road. “Apologize to her for me. You’ll make it up to her on her next trip through town. In a couple of months or so.”

  “Blow me. No, not you, darlin’.” Aidan yawned. “See you at the hospital in half an hour.”

  Sean hung up and turned into the hospital driveway. A few minutes later he strode into the ER and flashed his badge at the desk clerk. “I’m looking for a Jane Doe brought in with head injuries a little while ago.”

  “The doctors are with her in curtain three. I’ll page them.”

  “Never mind. I can find it.”

  Sean went through the doors into the heart of the ER. He walked toward a curtained area and saw a doctor standing in front of the green drape, giving instructions to a nurse.

  “Doctor? I’m Detective Richter. Is this our Jane Doe back here?”

  “I’m Dr. Springer. Actually, she’s not a Jane Doe any longer. She regained consciousness briefly after her head CT and was able to give us her name and address. That’s an excellent sign.”

  “So she’s going to be okay?” Sean asked.

  “It looks like she will. Her test results were good—a serious concussion, a nice bump, a couple of stitches, but no skull fracture. She has a very hard head.” Dr. Springer smiled briefly at Sean, then continued. “She’s still pretty dazed, so we haven’t pressed her for much beyond her basic information.”

  Sean got out his notebook. “What’s her name?”

  “Claire Lambert. Thirty years of age, lives in Georgetown.”

  “When can I speak with her?” Sean pocketed the notebook impatiently, already starting toward the curtain.

  The doctor held up
a hand to stop him. “My patient is resting right now. She’s in pain, but we can’t give her much to ease it. She’ll be admitted to the hospital as soon as they can find a bed for her upstairs. She’ll likely be here for a couple of days.”

  “I don’t want to disturb anyone, but it’s critical that I speak to her as soon as possible. This woman is a potential eyewitness in a homicide investigation.” Sean’s intense look overrode the doctor’s objections. “What’s more, nobody gets into this area without authorization. Post a guard and let your staff know.”

  Dr. Springer nodded, stifling a yawn. “I’ll be back to check her in a while.”

  Sean walked through the curtain, eager to see his witness. The first thing he noticed was her hair, lying in a halo of black curls around her face. Her skin was very pale, with no freckles or blemishes to detract from its ivory smoothness. Her face was finely chiseled and delicate with well-shaped brows, a small nose, and a full mouth.

  Sean immediately thought of the painting of a young courtesan he had seen at a cultural exhibit one of Aidan’s girlfriends had dragged them to—Art of the Italian Renaissance, or something like that. He pulled his gaze from the woman’s face and moved on to the rest of her, automatically estimating her height at under five and a half feet. He took in her curvy build next. The slow rise and fall of nicely shaped breasts, the indentation at the waist, and the lush flare of hips beneath the light sheet. He stepped back to better absorb the image of the woman lying in the hospital bed.

  Well, well. Even laid up in a hospital bed, Claire Lambert was a knockout.

  Her hand lifted from the bed and moved toward her face. When she reached to touch the back of her head, he jumped forward to stop her.

  “Easy, now. You don’t want to be messing with those stitches just yet.”

  She made a soft sound, trying to pull her hand free. She wanted to rub the painful spot on the back of her head.

  “Ms. Lambert, can you hear me?” Sean kept one hand wrapped gently around hers to keep her from disturbing the bandages. “Ms. Lambert? Are you awake?”

  As he watched intently, long lashes fluttered, then opened. His insides squeezed at the pain in her dazed black eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re in the hospital, but you’re okay.” He kept his voice gentle and soothing as he stroked her hand. He wanted to erase the shattered look he’d seen in her eyes, to help ease her slowly into full awareness.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, as if speaking were painful. “What happened?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Sean’s stomach lurched. Maybe the doctor had been wrong and she was severely injured. “Do you know your name?”

  “Claire. Marie Claire Lambert.” She blinked once, then again. Long, slow blinks. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Richter. Can you tell me what happened to you tonight?”

  Claire rested with her eyes closed for a moment, her forehead creased in distress. Sean could practically feel the waves of pain rolling off her. He pressed the call button next to her bed to summon a nurse.

  “I don’t know. My head hurts.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  “I’m sure it does. I called for a nurse.” Another stroke of his hand over hers. “Do you remember being near Dupont Circle tonight? Did you see anything there?”

  Sean knew he was probably pushing too hard, but he was afraid she would drift into sleep again. He needed any information she had and he needed it now.

  She met his intense blue gaze “I’m sorry. I can’t think right now. It hurts.” She winced and looked away, turning her head gingerly on the pillow. She was asleep before taking another breath.

  Sean forced back his frustration. Yes, he needed information, but she was clearly exhausted and in pain. He would have to wait for a few hours.

  He sat on the edge of the bed to wait, keeping his hold on Claire’s warm fingers.

  “How’s she doing?” Aidan Burke asked. He was standing in the entrance to ER curtain three, filling the empty space with his broad shoulders. Sean had been so absorbed that he hadn’t noticed his cousin’s arrival.

  “She’s hurting. She has a concussion, and they’re going to keep her for a few days. She’ll go upstairs in a couple of minutes,” Sean said without looking away from Claire.

  Aidan said nothing, observing the way his partner held the woman’s hand. Sean was always gentle with the victims and families they dealt with in their investigations, but he wasn’t normally this touchy-feely.

  Sean looked up, caught Aidan’s speculative hazel gaze, and lifted his eyebrow.

  “Pretty lady.” Aidan’s voice was neutral. “Claire, is it?”

  Sean nodded. “She’s a lucky lady, too. You should have seen the girl that didn’t get away.”

  “I heard—I talked to Banjo on the way down. How did this one escape?” Aidan gestured toward the bed with his chin.

  “I don’t have any information from her yet. I found a can of pepper spray near the body, plus a bent umbrella and a pair of shoes that didn’t belong to the dead girl. When Claire was admitted, her feet were bare, cut and scratched.”

  “Go on.”

  “My guess is she surprised our killer in the act. He must have come after her. She hit him with the spray, kicked off her pumps, and ran like hell.” Sean’s voice was admiring.

  Aidan assessed the sleeping woman, taking in her average height and pale, fragile appearance. Looks could be deceptive. From what Sean was saying, this was a woman who didn’t play the victim willingly. “That took balls.”

  “Yeah. We can’t confirm yet whether the killer chased her, but I’m betting he did. He just didn’t catch her. The club where she was found is several blocks from the school, and no one reported seeing any strange men hanging around. Since it was a female-only club, I’m guessing that a guy would have stood out.”

  Aidan was quiet for a moment, digesting the information and letting his own analysis fill in the blanks. “You think we have a serial killer here. The Dominguez and Herrera cases, now this.”

  “Exactly. Three dark-haired, slender women of Hispanic descent, all stabbed in the abdomen with a large blade in the last two years. Other pieces don’t seem to fit, but I think it’s all there for us to dig up. I can’t leave Claire until I take her statement, but I want you to go to the crime scene and have a look around, talk to some of the forensics team, then let me know if you agree.”

  Aidan heard what wasn’t said—Sean wanted him to validate the serial killer theory before they took it to their boss. The unspoken communication between the two men, a result of being raised together, made them a powerful investigative team.

  “On my way. You take care of our witness,” Aidan said. “Call me when she wakes up.”

  Chapter 7

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, 9 A.M.

  An insistent hand briskly shook Claire’s shoulder. “Ms. Lambert? Claire? Wake up.”

  The ritual had been repeated many times that morning. Claire was getting used to being shaken awake just as she was falling deeply asleep. She generally dozed right off after they left her alone, but she was getting irritated with the constant interruptions. Sleep was important, and she wasn’t getting any.

  She opened her eyes. Looking around, she remembered that she was in the hospital, in a white-on-white private room. There was an older man standing next to her who looked vaguely familiar. She jolted when the man pried her lids wide open and flashed a penlight across her face. White coat, fifty-something, receding hairline, tired brown eyes. His name was…yes, Dr. Springer.

  “How are you feeling?” The doctor checked her pupils a second time.

  She considered the question for a moment. She no longer felt like her head was going to explode with each heartbeat. Every other one, maybe, but that was an improvement. “The headache is still there, but bearable.”

  “Good, good. Follow my finger.” He moved his finger up and down, then side to side. “Very good. You’re one lucky youn
g lady. Your responses are excellent, and there is no sign of serious swelling on your brain. We’ll need to observe you for about forty-eight hours, but I think you can go home by Monday morning.”

  “Thank God. I can’t wait to get out of here. No offense, but this place isn’t exactly a five-star hotel.” She wrinkled her nose. “And it smells funny.”

  “If you can complain about that, you’re definitely on the road to recovery.”

  The doctor surprised Claire by pulling up a chair next to her bed.

  “While I am satisfied with your physical condition,” he said, “we need to talk a little bit more about your neurological health. With head wounds like yours, it’s not uncommon to have some type of memory loss or impact on other cognitive functions.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Claire admitted. “I tried a couple of times to remember what happened, but there’s nothing there.”

  “What’s the last thing you recall before waking up in the hospital?”

  She shifted against the pillows and thought for a moment. “I left work late yesterday evening. I had an appointment.”

  The doctor made an encouraging sound. “What kind of appointment?”

  “I was going to meet my friend Afton at her office.”

  “What were you going to do?”

  Claire touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue. “She, ah, runs a dating service. I was signing up that night.”

  Dr. Springer raised his eyebrows. “What happened when you got there?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember being there, I just know that’s where I was going.”

  “What’s the next thing you remember?”

  “Waking up in this room a couple of hours ago. There was a man here—he had dark hair and light blue eyes. The nurse made him leave so she could help me to the bathroom. I went to sleep afterward.”

  “Nothing else?” The doctor looked at her intently. “You don’t remember the time between these two incidents?”