“I plan to return in less than three hours, but if something comes up and I’m following a lead, stay here,” Sean told her.
“I’ll be just fine. I’m not helpless.”
“Helpless? Hardly.” He kissed her. “Just be careful.”
“You, too. Even Rogans aren’t invincible.”
Sean put one hand to his chest in mock disgust. “That’s a nasty rumor to spread.”
She smiled and put her hand on the door.
“One more thing.” He reached into his pocket and took out a leather business card holder.
“What’s this?” She opened it. Inside were Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid business cards with the gold embossed logo of a sword and shield in the corner. Her name and phone number were printed in the center. “What? How?”
“My computer. I had a few sheets of blank cards printed when Patrick and I had our cards made. I thought if you need to hand them out, it would look more official. You’d be amazed what people tell private investigators.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to think. She didn’t work for RCK, but seeing the makeshift cards was a visual reminder that she hadn’t gotten into the FBI and had no real identity.
“Hey, they’re supposed to be a good thing, not make you sad.”
She smiled. “They’re great. Thanks.” She put them in her satchel and put the strap over her neck and across her chest. “Three hours, meet here at the cathedral. Check.”
Lucy got out and watched Sean pull into traffic.
Weather permitting, D.C. was a walking town, but New York was D.C. times a hundred. More people, more buildings, more traffic. Lucy looked at her phone and the map she’d retrieved of the three square blocks immediately around her. Jessica’s apartment was on the right, a block and a half straight ahead down West 112th Street. Lucy wished she had more time to enjoy her first trip to New York City, but maybe after they found Kirsten and got her home, she and Sean could come back for a weekend.
It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do.
“Stop it,” she muttered. She took a deep breath and resolved not to feel sorry for herself. She hadn’t been an FBI agent when she’d helped trap pedophiles for WCF or when she’d analyzed cold cases for the Arlington Sheriff’s Department. She could help Sean and Patrick find a runaway now, because nothing had changed in her.
She kept telling herself that, because deep down she didn’t believe it.
Jessica’s seven-story apartment building had a fire escape going up the side like in the movies, and Lucy spent a few minutes looking up and wondering what the view would be from the roof. While Lucy had a fear of confining places, she had no fear of heights.
But figuring out how to get to the roof wasn’t in the cards now. She suspected that, for security reasons, the fire escape could be lowered only from above, and even if she stood on a parked car she couldn’t reach the bottom rung of the ladder.
The building had a small entry with mailboxes and call buttons. She couldn’t go upstairs without having a key or being let in by a tenant. Of course, if Sean were here, he could probably bypass the electrical system, but Lucy preferred more clearly legal methods. If Jessica wasn’t here, she might be able to get in through a neighbor.
She pressed 406, Jessica’s apartment. When she didn’t think anyone was going to answer and was about to try another bell, a breathless female voice said, “Hello?”
“Jessica?”
The girl didn’t say anything, but the door buzzed and Lucy entered and walked upstairs.
A petite brunette stood in the doorway of apartment 406. She wasn’t Jessica Bell, unless Jessica used a completely different photo for her Party Girl profile.
“Hi, I’m Lauren, Jessie’s roommate.” The girl bit her lip, then said, “I’m sorry you haven’t heard, but Jessie’s dead.”
Lucy must have looked like she was in shock, because Lauren invited her in. “Can I get you some water?”
“No, thank you,” Lucy said. “I’m Lucy Kincaid, and—”
“I’ve had so many people calling, now that the police released her name. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. Were you in a class with her?”
“No, I don’t know Jessica personally,” Lucy said.
Lauren frowned, so Lucy pushed on. She handed Lauren one of her RCK cards and said, “I’m looking for a runaway who was friends with Jessica. I was hoping that Jessica would know where she is.”
“A runaway?” Lauren asked, skeptical.
“Yes.” Lucy took out a paper that Sean had printed with two photographs of Kirsten, her senior portrait and a more glamorous picture of her from the Party Girl site, though it wasn’t risqué. “Have you seen her in the last week or so?”
“Ashleigh,” Lauren said. “She stayed here a couple of times when I went home to visit my parents.”
The excitement of being right gave Lucy a thrill. “What about last weekend?”
Lauren shook her head. “Jessica was killed by the Cinderella Strangler last weekend. At least, that’s what the police think. It’s awful.”
“The Cinderella Strangler?”
“You had to have heard, it’s been in the papers for months. The killer takes a shoe. It’s weird, and I didn’t really think about it, but now that Jessie’s dead, it’s so real, and much scarier.”
“I’m from Washington,” Lucy said, tapping the address on the business card. “What did the police say?”
“They don’t know anything, at least that’s what the newspapers said. No leads, nothing.”
Lucy had a hundred questions about the murders, but Lauren wasn’t the right person to ask. Instead, she said, “Do you have a paper I can see?”
“No, I read it online. The Post had a big thing on the murders yesterday.”
“Was Jessie supposed to meet Ashleigh last weekend?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have classes on Friday and usually leave by noon to go home. I’m not really into the weekend scene here. Jessie was more into the parties and stuff. But Jessie’s friend Josh knows Ashleigh. He told me the police talked to him about Jessie, because Josh sometimes goes out with her. They weren’t really dating, but he’s been so upset about what happened he hasn’t left his apartment since Wednesday. I made him a tray of tamales. I was going to bring them up, but I feel kind of weird.”
“I can do it for you,” Lucy said. “I need to talk to him. Ashleigh might be in trouble, and I need all the information I can get to find her.”
“Was she out with Jessie Saturday night?”
“We think so, or they were supposed to meet.”
“Oh, God, that’s awful.”
Lauren handed Lucy the tamales, and directed her to Josh Haynes’s apartment on the top floor. She walked up the stairs while pondering what could have happened last Saturday. What if Kirsten had seen her friend murdered? Her message could have been so odd because she was still in shock. Or if she’d been drugged, she might not know what she had seen. But if the killer saw her, he might be looking for her.
She had to talk to Sean, but first she needed to get up to speed on the murders and talk to Jessica’s boyfriend. She stood in the hallway outside Josh’s apartment and used her phone to search for the article Lauren had mentioned. She read it carefully, committing the details to memory.
Four young women, two of whom had been students at Columbia University, appeared to have been killed by the “Cinderella Strangler,” who suffocated them and took one of their shoes. There was no mention of sexual assault, but the paper also didn’t state that the victims hadn’t been sexually assaulted. The police traditionally held back key details from the media and public in order to prevent copycats and help them know if they had the real killer when they found a suspect. Lucy was surprised the detail about the missing shoe had been released. She would have held that back. Perhaps the sexual assault wasn’t revealed because of the manner of death or specific violence done to the body.
The first murder was on October 30, nearly four month
s ago. Four deaths in four months. Serial killer? The FBI was involved, an Agent Suzanne Madeaux. Lucy wondered if she should call Noah and ask whether he could get her more information about the case. Or maybe just an intro to the field agent in charge, so Lucy could give her the information about the Party Girl website and Kirsten and Jessica’s connection.
Lauren had been right. The Post’s article was incredibly detailed and gave a time line of each crime, the location, and a victim profile. Each had been killed at an underground, or “secret,” party at an abandoned building. Each victim was under twenty-two. And each had been suffocated.
Lucy needed more information, because what was revealed by the press wasn’t enough to create a profile of the killer.
What was she thinking? That the New York FBI office was incompetent? Of course they had the information they needed for a profile. Why would they need her, when they probably had their own in-house profiler, considering the size of the regional office? Or they could call upon Dr. Hans Vigo, the legendary profiler now assigned to Quantico. They didn’t need Lucy’s inexperienced opinion, and there was no reason Agent Madeaux would share any case information with her.
Her job was to find Kirsten Benton, and she’d share what she knew of Jessica’s double life on the Party Girl website if the FBI didn’t already know about it.
First things first. Deliver these tamales to Josh Haynes and find out what he knew about Kirsten, aka Ashleigh.
She knocked on his door.
It took Josh several minutes to answer. Wearing pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Yeah?”
“Lauren asked me to bring these tamales up for you.”
Josh sighed and opened the door. “She thinks food is going to make everything better.”
Lucy walked in and put the tray on his small counter. The kitchen was not bigger than her bathroom—which was tiny—just a small alcove with a narrow stove, small refrigerator, and sink. The tray took up half the available counter space. The rest of the apartment was nice. Though not spacious, it had high ceilings and tall, narrow windows.
“She means well,” Lucy said.
“Yeah.” He stared out the window.
“You cared for Jessica.”
He didn’t say anything. “Are you Lauren’s friend or Jessie’s?”
“Neither. I’m Lucy Kincaid. I’m trying to find a friend of Jessica’s, Ashleigh.”
“Why?”
“She’s missing.”
“God, this is so fucked. You think something happened to her, too?”
“I don’t know, but I think Ashleigh was supposed to go to a party with Jessica the weekend she was killed.”
“I took Jess to that party.” Josh sat heavily on one of the two kitchen chairs. “She was acting weird that night. I should have stayed with her. She would still be alive.”
“Josh, you don’t know that. You don’t know what might have happened. What do you mean Jess was acting weird?”
“Just, I don’t know, skittish. Stressed. I thought it was because of her classes; she was taking a tough schedule. She couldn’t relax. And then she asked if I’d take her to the party, and I thought it was her way of making up, but then she was all weird about that, too. She didn’t talk on the subway, and I was mad because she wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? Am I that big of a jerk?”
Lucy touched his arm lightly. “She asked you to take her to the party. That says something, don’t you think?”
“Then why didn’t she ask me to stay with her? If she was scared of something, why didn’t she want me to protect her? And why go to the party in the first place?”
An excellent question. Lucy suspected the answer also had to do with why Kirsten went to the party. Maybe it wasn’t that Jessie was scared for herself—maybe she wanted to tell Kirsten to be careful.
“Josh,” she said, sliding over one of her new cards, “here’s my number. If Ashleigh contacts you, would you please let me know? It’s important. If she’s in trouble, we can help. And if she knows anything about who killed Jessica, we can protect her.”
He stared at the card.
“Do you think Wade Barnett killed her?” Josh asked.
Lucy hesitated. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t know who Wade Barnett was, but at the same time, she wanted to know why Josh had asked the question.
She replied, “I can’t honestly say; I’m not investigating her murder. Did he know Ashleigh or Jessica?”
“I think Jess met him, here at one of my parties.”
“One of the underground parties?”
“No, right here.” He waved his arm around his space. “I have five neighbors on the floor, and they’re cool with it. My friend across the hall opens up his apartment and we take over the floor. A couple times a year.”
“Was Ashleigh at any of those parties?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. She always disappeared when I was sober, and really, I just wanted to be with Jess. I should have told her how I felt about her; I just thought—I don’t know, we’re both in college, we both like to have fun.” He shrugged, his eyes red.
“Did the police mention Wade Barnett as a suspect?” she asked, surprised.
“No, I told the cops about him. They were asking about the underground parties and I said they should talk to him because he keeps tabs on the best parties.”
“Did you see him at the party where Jessica died?”
“No,” Josh admitted, “but there were hundreds of people there.”
“I’m sure the police talked to him, and they know what they’re doing. Let them do their job. I need to do mine. Remember, if you hear from Ashleigh—or even talk to someone who heard from her—call me. It’s important.”
Sean wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving Lucy on her own the first time she was in New York City, but she wasn’t reckless and he wanted her to rebuild her shattered confidence. He’d left her a block from Jessica’s apartment, and the cathedral would provide a distraction if she was done early. Still, he wanted to get his trip to Brooklyn over with as quickly as possible.
The three-story, U-shaped Clover Motel looked much better online. Situated in a desolate neighborhood, with faded blue paint, peeling in more places than not, its weather-damaged doors might have once been green but now looked puce. The entire structure and grounds were in dire need of repair. There didn’t seem to be much of anything in the area except a few businesses and several boarded-up buildings.
Sean parked where he could see his GT from the office. The room was small, and the clerk sat behind a thick sheet of Plexiglas.
“Sixty-four dollars a night single room, or three hundred for the week, paid up front.”
Sean said, “I’m a P.I. looking for a missing girl.”
The clerk looked at him with disinterest. He was chewing tobacco, his lips stained, a bit of snuff caught in his greasy black mustache. “So?”
Sean held up the picture of Kirsten. “She called the motel a week ago, on Friday, about eleven p.m.”
“Like I’m going to remember a call.”
“Do you recognize her?”
He shrugged, but Sean saw him looking closely while pretending to be nonchalant.
Sean slid him a twenty through the narrow slot in the window. “Well?”
“She rented a room for two nights. Paid cash.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“Not that I saw.”
“When did she check out?”
“She didn’t. People don’t check out all the time, they just leave the key. I didn’t think anything of it until the maid got there Monday to change the sheets and found her suitcase.”
“Did you call her?”
The clerk sighed and spat a wad of chaw into the cup. “Nope.”
“Where’s her suitcase now?”
“In the back.”
Sean tempered his anger at the drawn-out questions and answers. The c
lerk knew what he wanted.
He slid another twenty through the slot. “Can I see it?”
The clerk palmed the twenty and slowly stood and sauntered across his small space. He reached under a table and pulled out a small black suitcase with wheels, the kind seen en masse at any airport. Bright pink duct tape had been wrapped around the handle.
The clerk opened the door and handed Sean the suitcase. “It’s all yours; just sign a receipt. I’m keeping her deposit, because she didn’t leave the key—it wasn’t in the room. You know how much it costs to rekey the locks in this place?”
The clerk wrote out a sloppy note, and Sean scribbled a signature.
“When did you last see her?”
“I checked her in late Friday, but I don’t work weekends.”
“Had she stayed here before?”
“I’d never checked her in. I’d remember that hot blonde in a heartbeat.”
Sean stared at the old pervert with distaste, couldn’t summon a thank-you at that point, and left with Kirsten’s suitcase.
He put the suitcase in his trunk and opened it. Clothes. Toiletries, shoes. Enough for two or three days. Inside the zippered front pocket was a canceled Amtrak ticket from D.C. to New York, plus an unused return ticket for last Sunday at 3:10 p.m. A hundred dollars in twenties was tucked away in the same pocket.
He closed her suitcase and the trunk and sat in the driver’s seat.
Had he found the suitcase but not the message Kirsten had sent to Trey, Sean would think she was dead. But something had happened over the weekend that had left her disoriented, and possibly injured, and she was in hiding.
He pulled out his phone and saw that Lucy had sent him an email.
Jessica Bell is dead. She was murdered last weekend at a warehouse party in Brooklyn. Maybe you can check it out if you’re still there? An article about four identical murders is attached.
Both Jessica’s roommate and her boyfriend recognized Kirsten as “Ashleigh,” and the boyfriend saw her a few weeks ago. I’m going to talk to a couple neighbors to get a better idea of the last time they remember Kirsten visiting. What if the other three victims were also on the Party Girl site? I’m going to check into it before meeting you at the church.
Kiss Me, Kill Me Page 13
