A small sedan passed his car for the third time in as many minutes, then slowed in front of Marie Claire’s house. Under his intense gaze, the driver double-parked the car and got out, leaving the hazard lights flashing. He forced himself not to move as the petite woman looked up and down the street. He was sure she couldn’t see him, over forty feet away and parked in the shadow of a huge tree. As she trotted up the steps and paused to unlock the front door, he noted her small size and vibrant red hair.
This wasn’t Marie Claire. Maybe it was a roommate.
Over the next ten minutes, all the curtains were closed as the woman moved around both floors of the town home. He wondered what the hell she was doing. Maybe she didn’t live there after all.
Less than fifteen minutes later the woman came out of the house again, this time carrying a small suitcase.
Excitement surged through him as he considered the possibilities. He was betting the little redhead had packed a suitcase for Marie Claire, which meant she was staying somewhere else. But where?
When the woman froze at the top of the steps, he deliberately looked away, sensing that she was somehow aware of his intense interest. He used his peripheral vision to watch her descend the stairs and put the suitcase in the trunk of the double-parked sedan. Then she got behind the wheel and started the engine. The sound carried through his open window on the muggy breeze.
He waited while she put the car in gear and headed down the street away from him. It was easy to keep her in sight on the straight, meticulously planned blocks of the Georgetown neighborhood. He let another car go by before starting his own engine and pulling out to follow the redhead’s sedan.
Within minutes she turned into the drive at an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue. She ran in with the suitcase, apparently left it with the concierge, then came back out immediately to move her car out of the drive.
He parked illegally and waited to see what she would do next. Under his watchful eye, the redhead drove around the corner of the block and parked her car on a side street feeding into Wisconsin Avenue. When she locked the sedan and went back to the apartment building, he strained to see through the glass doors of the entry.
He could just make her out as she spoke to someone. Ignoring the No Parking signs, he turned off his engine and sat in his car across the street from the apartment building, hoping she would have one of the units that faced him. A few minutes later, she showed up on a fifth-floor balcony and began watering some plants.
The corners of the man’s mouth twisted up in a smile.
Chapter 14
Washington, D.C.
Sunday afternoon
Captain Michaels hadn’t been impressed with Sean’s theory that the Mendes murder was tied into several cold cases, but he’d been happy to hand over what was becoming a political hot button—“Murder in the Hispanic community and police don’t care!”—to two of his best investigators, at least on an interim basis.
After a few hours of sleep and a shower, Sean and Aidan had worked straight through the weekend. Aidan had already interviewed the Mendes family and found absolutely nothing that made him suspicious. Sean had been through interviews with Mendes’s fellow teachers, nearly all of whom were female. There weren’t any recently fired janitors, boyfriends, ex-lovers, other teachers, bus drivers or anything else out of the ordinary.
Renata Mendes was just what she seemed to be—a woman who walked down the wrong street one night and got herself killed by a stranger.
With a growing certainty that there wasn’t going to be anything in Mendes’s life that would point to her killer, Sean and Aidan reviewed the Mendes file and forensic information, and traded off pestering the crime lab when the information didn’t come quickly enough. Then Aidan went to work on Claire’s file.
“This thing’s heading for the ‘unsolved’ files,” Sean said, throwing a file on his desk. “Not even a hint of anyone with a personal motive. If Mendes were any cleaner, I’d nominate her for sainthood.”
“Anyone come up with something on the door-to-door of the murder neighborhood?”
“Does zilch count?” Sean asked.
“What about the hot line?”
“The usual number of whackos and earnest citizens who think that because their neighbor lets his dog shit on their lawn, the dude’s also a murderer,” Sean said.
Aidan snickered.
Sean pointed to a thin file labeled Marie Claire Lambert. “You get anywhere on that angle?”
“I talked to her boss and closest coworkers. She didn’t interview any new male clients, and no new man was hired in her office recently. Did you get through to Camelot Dating Services?” Aidan asked.
“Owner is listed as Afton Gallagher of Washington, D.C. No personal number and no response at the business number. I’ll try her Monday morning.” Sean stretched and tried not to yawn. “How’s the victim profile coming? I’d like to have more than a hunch the next time we go to the captain.”
“Well, the three victims had similar physical descriptions. All of them were regulars in some of the ugliest parts of our fine city—though for different reasons in the case of Renata Mendes. She visited family in Southeast, but lived on the other side of town, near where she was killed. The crime scene is a high-traffic area with all kinds of fingerprints, hair, trash, and shit like that. It will take several days to get forensic analysis detailed enough to allow us to compare the three scenes.”
“CSU isn’t going to be able to pull anything useable from that scene and you know it,” Sean said.
“Yeah, we need another angle. How about Claire’s personal life?”
Sean flipped through Claire’s file, telling himself he was only doing his job by checking on the veracity of their only witness. “No family, immediate or otherwise,” he read, shaking his head. Family was a grounding force in his life; he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be completely alone in the world. “Her parents were both only children. They were killed in a car crash about eight years ago. No siblings. The only other relative was a grandmother who died a couple of years after the parents.”
Aidan winced. “I know. That had to be tough.”
“Yeah.” Sean didn’t like thinking about how tough. “Anyway, Claire is a well-liked and respected account manager for a D.C. software firm. Her colleagues describe her as smart, funny, and a workaholic. They also say she’s a person who’s honest to a fault.” Sean read from his partner’s notes.
“So this honest, smart, and dedicated woman is sure she knows the killer but just can’t remember why or how,” Aidan said. “Any obsessive boyfriends stalking her?”
“Can’t tell. The security guard at Camelot’s office building remembers seeing Claire leave alone just before midnight. He offered to call her a cab, but she said she was going to walk to the bus stop. Idiot.” Sean wasn’t sure if he was referring to Claire or the guard who had let a woman go alone into a rainy night.
“I bet they’ve both learned a lesson,” Aidan said.
Sean nodded and yawned so hard his jaw popped. He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his neck and back, then turned off his desk light. “I’m beat. I think we’ll have more to go on once we speak to Afton Gallagher and look through her catalogue.”
“Catalogue won’t do much good if we can’t place any of the guys at the scene of the crime.”
“You have a better idea?”
Aidan shook his head. “Any activity on Claire’s ATM or credit cards?”
“Nothing has turned up on the cards or the purse.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about that.”
“Neither do I,” Sean said. He couldn’t describe the unease he felt whenever he thought about Claire’s missing purse. If the killer had taken the bag from the scene, he had her address and keys. “I’m afraid he’ll fixate on the one that got away.”
“Jesus, I hate the whackos,” Aidan said. “Speaking of which, I’m starting on a rough psych profile of our killer. Assuming the three
cases are connected, there’s enough in the forensics reports and victim descriptions to put something together. It’s not going to be a solid profile, but at least we can take a stab at it. So to speak,” Aidan said with a tired smile.
“Thanks for volunteering, partner. Nobody does the mind-fuck quite like you.” Sean grabbed dark sunglasses and patted his pockets in search of keys.
“Flatterer. Heading home?” Aidan asked, burying his nose in the files on his desk.
“I’ll probably grab something for dinner, or maybe go for a run to clear my head. You want anything?”
“No, go ahead. I’m starting on the profile while the information is fresh. I’ll get something to eat later.”
“I’ll see you at Camelot tomorrow, then. Eight o’clock?” Sean asked.
“Not everyone likes to start their day at the crack of dawn. Ms. Gallagher might be a nine-to-five type.” Aidan wasn’t a morning person. He sympathized with those forced to drag their half-awake bodies into the office and be productive on someone else’s timetable.
“Then we’ll wait for her, maybe take a look around the place. Nice try, though.” Sean departed without a backwards glance.
He stopped by his favorite Greek restaurant for take-out gyros, returned to his apartment, and wolfed down the dripping bits of meat and pita in record time. Afterward he still felt restless, unable to get the case out of his mind. He fought it for a few hours, then threw down the TV remote control and went to his car, resigned to the idea that he was going to work that night.
First he would go back to the hospital and talk to Claire’s doctors. Maybe there had been some improvement in her condition. If not, maybe they could suggest some things to jog her memory—therapy, some type of mental exercises, drugs, anything.
It was beginning to look like a woman with amnesia was their best lead on a murderer. That was a good reason to keep in contact with her, see how she was doing, if she remembered anything at all. If she was awake, they could talk.
Shoving his hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully, Sean chose not to examine too closely the reasons for his sudden good mood.
Chapter 15
Washington, D.C.
Sunday evening
The doctors Sean had hoped to talk to weren’t available at nine on a Sunday night, but Claire Lambert was. He flashed his badge at the guard posted in the hallway and paused in the partially open door to Claire’s hospital room. Knowing he was there after visiting hours, he did a brief check for roving nurses and began to close the door behind him. The security guard smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign.
Sean turned to the bed, half expecting to find Olivia in the chair, but Claire was alone. She was asleep. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore a deep purple robe that was bright against the white sheets. Someone had brought in a reading light and set it on the nightstand, where it threw soft light across her relaxed face. A paperback novel lay nearby.
The restlessness he’d felt earlier in the evening increased until tension once again filled his body. He hadn’t seen Claire since yesterday afternoon, and he’d hoped his memory had exaggerated her appeal to him. It hadn’t.
As he stared at Claire in her jewel-toned robe, illuminated from the side by soft light, he was forced to admit that he wanted her. Big time.
Down, boy. Didn’t we already have a discussion about this?
He blew a breath up toward his dark bangs, trying to lift them from his suddenly damp forehead.
It’s just because she looks like an angel, he told himself, lying under the light with her dark hair and pale, smooth skin. All I have to do is turn the light off.
He reached across her for the lamp switch. As the shadow of his arm fell over her face, she jolted awake. Eyes wide, she jerked away from Sean with a frightened sound.
“Hey, it’s just me. You’re all right.” Sean’s own heart was unsteady as he used his hand to soothe her.
When the light fell across Claire’s face again, he looked down and saw that her eyes weren’t completely black. In full light they were a deep, dark brown that drew him in like a spiral puzzle. He stood there, unable to say anything else, even when she recognized him and relaxed.
“Sorry, I’ve been a little jumpy,” she said. She wondered how long he’d been watching her sleep. Silence stretched painfully as he just stood there, staring at her.
“Is anything wrong? Any news on the case? Helloooo?” She waved her hand in front of his face, causing him to pull his head back.
He blinked and moved the novel on Claire’s bed. Then he sat on the edge, aiming for a casual note to cover his fascination.
“Ah, no. We’ve been working all weekend, but unfortunately don’t have anything new. How about you? Have you been able to remember anything more?”
“Not really. The feelings I had earlier are stronger, but I don’t have any real memories of the night of the murder. Sorry.”
“What do you mean the feelings are stronger?”
“I told you, I’ve been really jumpy. Like just now.” Her gesture took in the bed and Sean’s presence.
“I think anyone would understand you being a little nervous—” he began.
“No, it’s more than that. This morning I was standing at the window when a nurse came up behind me and touched my shoulder. I just about jumped out of my slippers.” She gave a humorless laugh and started to speak again, then caught herself.
“What else?”
“It’s so stupid, but…I’ve been having bad dreams. At first I thought this was a good sign, that maybe I’d remember something in my dreams. But the only thing I remember is what I feel when I wake up. I don’t like it.”
It was very difficult for her to talk about her vulnerability, but something in Sean’s eyes said she could trust him.
“Ignoring these feelings won’t make them go away,” Sean said, choosing his words carefully. “When you’re in an intense situation, when your life is at risk, the images burn themselves into your brain. You can either deal with them and hope to put the fear behind you, or you can suppress them.”
“Guess which method my brain has chosen?”
“Suppression might work for a while, but eventually—on their own terms—the images will come to the surface. And then they own you,” he said.
She shook her head. Even with Sean’s comforting presence, she didn’t want to remember the sickening flashes of her dreams.
“Claire.” His voice and eyes were intense. “You can deal with the dreams now, or let them haunt you. It’s your choice. And if you remember…” He shrugged. “If you remember, you can do something about stopping the bastard. Isn’t that better than being eaten alive by nightmares?”
Claire was silent for a moment. When she finally spoke, it was in a half whisper. “I think the worst thing is feeling powerless. Feeling like prey. I was terrified—it was a mortal fear, knowing if I didn’t get away I would die.” She looked up at him. “I bet you’ve never been scared like that.”
“You’d lose,” he said, then stood up. “Before working with the DCPD, I was in the army. Special Forces. I saw action in some drug-infested sewers around the world, as well as the Gulf War. Believe me, even though CNN makes it all look like a freaking training video—a complete rout spliced nicely to fit into their sound bytes—the bullets were goddamn real to those of us on the ground.”
“Oh.” Somehow the knowledge that he’d once been afraid, that he really knew what she was going through, reassured her. “Were you ever injured?”
“Not seriously. Aidan was,” Sean said, repressed emotion throbbing in his voice. “He was a Navy SEAL, but his career ended in a training accident after the Gulf War. Two men died, and they nearly lost Aidan as well. It took him almost a year to recover.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“It’s there. Before the accident, Aidan was a typical cocky SEAL. You know, the ‘I’m invincible, and good looking, too’ mentality. And he was all of those things.” Sean gave a half smile. “But ever
yone’s luck runs out eventually. Aidan changed after the accident. He dealt with all the survivor’s guilt and grew up. He figured out what was important in his life.”
“It must have been horrible.”
“I’m not telling you this so that you feel sorry for him, but to make you realize that others have walked the path you’re on right now. And they came out stronger on the other side.”
Claire read through Sean’s words to his unspoken love for Aidan. “You’re very close to him, aren’t you?”
“We were raised together—he’s like my brother. He’s also the reason I’m here, doing a job I love.”
“It must be very nice to have someone who knows you so well.” Though she felt a tug of envy, Claire’s voice was even.
Sean hesitated. He knew that her childhood friend Olivia was the closest thing Claire had to family. It worried him. “When a person has an experience like yours, they should have someone to talk to. A family member, or someone who understands what they’re feeling. You might want to consider seeing a therapist.”
“A shrink? You’ve got to be kidding. How would he or she know what I was feeling?”
Something in Claire rebelled at the idea of seeking help, especially when she couldn’t even say with certainty what was wrong with her. Basically, she’d witnessed a crime and bumped her head Friday night. Worse things happened to people every day without sending them to the psychiatrist’s couch.
“But you need someone to talk to, and your friends certainly aren’t qualified—has any of them ever been through an experience like yours? Why not see a doctor?” Sean persisted.
“I doubt I’d be able to find a shrink who had tripped over a modern day Jack the Ripper and then bashed his head on a stairway.” She held up a hand to stop his next argument. “Besides, I have you.”
“What?”
“You and Aidan, of course. You two, better than anyone, would know how I’m feeling. And you have a vested interest in me,” she said, smiling.
When the Storm Breaks Page 7
