“What about that congressman’s wife? The one who created all the hoopla over Billie Bingham and her husband, forcing him to resign?” an officer asked. “That’s motive for murder.”
“Yes. We’re investigating along those lines. The point is, the killer is out there. We need the officers working the streets to warn the women they know to be sex workers. Everyone needs to be vigilant. There will be dozens of people who need to be questioned, and we’ll be asking for help in all directions. I know in this room we’re all aware that these are particularly heinous murders and we must find the killer—or killers—quickly.”
Jackson took the floor again, and Keenan stepped back. Soon enough, the meeting ended. He noted Stacey, Jean and Fred were talking together. He couldn’t get to the group right away because he was greeted by longtime friends who had just come in from the field and a few others who were heading out to other states.
He was stopped by Will Chan, one of the six original members of the Krewe of Hunters and a fascinating man. Will had worked as a magician, and those talents still stood them well at times when they were investigating.
Will knew how to work a crowd.
“I just wanted to let you know that the Krewe has faced something similar before. Way back, Whitney Tremont worked with then-detective Jude Crosby on a case in New York City. Bodies being left in shreds. Jude and Whitney are finishing up some work out in Seattle right now, but I’ve let them know we’re looking at a similar case. I don’t think the details are quite the same, but they might have some insight. I personally think your theory on the organs just might be right.”
“Thanks,” Keenan told him. “I’ll look forward to their take on what we’ve got here. And it was Stacey Hanson who brought forward the idea that the killings might be for organ harvesting.”
He’d been anxious to get to Stacey, Fred and Jean, and it seemed they’d been as eager to talk to him. The room was thinning out, and the three came over to him.
Stacey hadn’t met Will yet; Fred had, but Jean hadn’t, either.
Intros went around.
Keenan looked at the detectives. “Later, I want to cruise the streets where Jess Marlborough was working. Find some of her friends, see if they know anything. We’ll do the same with Andrea Simon. Stacey, the CSI crews have finished up at Billie Bingham’s residence. We should have a look there.”
She nodded, told Jean and Will it had been a pleasure to meet them, and followed Keenan to the door. Jackson was standing there.
He was studying Stacey as they prepared to leave. He glanced at Keenan, nodded to him grimly, and looked at Stacey again.
“Anything new?” he asked her.
It took a second for her to realize that he was asking if she’d dreamed any more details. “I’m sorry, no,” she said.
“We get what we get,” he assured her. “Going to the Bingham place?” he asked Keenan.
“Right now. We’ll just keep going from there,” he told Jackson.
“We’re working it here,” Jackson said. “I’ll call you with anything at all.”
Keenan nodded.
As they left the building and headed to the company SUV, Keenan asked Stacey, “He thinks you can dream an answer?”
He’d grown up being taught to be polite, so automatically, he opened the passenger’s side door for her.
She just murmured a thank-you and slid in.
He went around and took the driver’s seat, revving the ignition and starting out. She hadn’t answered him yet.
“Stacey?”
She swung to look at him. “He’s hoping the dream will come again—and go further. When my dad—well, my whole family, really—was in danger, I saw a little more bit by bit. The same with the situation you were called in on. When you were a rookie. The dreams develop with more and more information each time.”
He thought about that, wondering what it must be like. Before he had a chance to ask more about how it worked, Stacey spoke up again.
“So, you know about me. I know nothing about you. What brought you into this? I don’t know a lot about people like...like us. Those who see the dead. I didn’t know anyone else who had this talent until Adam told me about the Krewe, and I finally came here and joined. Everyone I’ve met all have something in the past that brought them to the Krewe. Then, there’s you—a seasoned agent having a hard time believing in me. So, what’s your story? Because if you want anything more on me, you’d best start sharing, too!” Her tone had hardened with every word.
He supposed she had the right to question him, and she couldn’t possibly know what his answer would be.
“A murder,” he said tightly. “My girlfriend.”
She gasped. “Oh, God! I’m so, so sorry,” she said and fell silent.
It was long ago now. Most of the time, the pain was on the back burner, along with the helplessness he had felt when it had happened. Yes, he’d been involved with finding the killer. But that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop it—and Allison had paid the price.
“Even as a kid, with my family’s past, I knew I wanted to be a cop, a detective, or an agent. The tales in my family are intriguing. My great—I don’t know how many greats—grandfather guarded Lincoln at that time. And my great-grandfather worked on some of the most notorious cases. He helped bring down a lot of mobsters. So, hearing all that as a kid, yes, I wanted to follow the path.” He paused, shrugging. “With Allison...well, I knew where I wanted to go and what I wanted to be. It wouldn’t bring her back, but I knew that it mattered that we find her killer. And after that...well, I guess I was like you. I became passionate about stopping what I could—and about finding and stopping killers before they could kill again.”
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured again.
“We all came from something, like you said,” he told her.
There was a pause between them. He felt closer to Stacey, and incredibly awkward at the same time.
Then he purposefully changed the subject. “So. At the Bingham house—CSIs have been through. They’re working on what they’ve gathered. I’m afraid what we need isn’t going to be on any kind of a list. And I doubt anyone is going to be able to trace much through credit cards. We’re looking for what others don’t see, right?”
“Right,” she said.
They arrived at the Bingham house—or estate. In an area where homes might be grand but land limited, there were gates and a drive that led to the imposing Victorian manse.
Stacey stared at the arched iron gates, manned by two officers in uniform, one of whom quickly pressed a button that sent the arched iron gears in motion, and then at the house they approached.
“Whoever thought there could be this much money in sex!” she said.
He glanced her way, smiling. “My dear Miss Hanson, they do call it the oldest profession. Now, this is an escort service, you know. Billie Bingham would have had you believe she merely supplied handsome people to link arms with the high-and-mighty when they were supposed to make appearances at galas or balls.”
“Yeah, right, whatever,” Stacey said, shaking her head and still staring at the house. “I just wonder...”
“What?”
She shook her head, wincing.
“What is it? Tell me?”
“I...I was just wondering how good you have to be to make this kind of money! Wow, sorry, that was embarrassing.”
He laughed. “Good, I imagine, is in the mind of the...client. Which again makes you wonder about the massive difference between Billie Bingham and unfortunate girls like Jess Marlborough and Andrea Simon. I guess wealthy clients can pay more. And Bingham ran it like a business. She was the boss.”
* * *
They pulled behind a police car at the curve in the driveway. Keenan got out, flipping his wallet and ID out for the officer at the door of the house.
&n
bsp; “CSI is done, but we were told to hold guard here for today,” the officer told him and Stacey. “We’ll be out here, should you need us for anything.”
“I’m sure she had live-in help,” Stacey said.
“All told to leave,” the officer said. “The house is empty.”
“What about heirs to the estate?” Stacey asked. “Did anyone attempt to stop searches or gain entry?”
“She was apparently queen of her own castle,” the officer said. “Her secretary was terrified when she learned about the murder—ready to do anything the cops said. Forensic Accounting is going through Bingham’s books. There were two live-in maids, and they were eager as hell to get out and away. This killer...the brutality... People are scared. There’s not a protest to be found.”
Keenan thanked him. They went in.
“I’m sure there are plenty of protests,” Keenan said. He glanced at Stacey. “From scandal mags and media, I’m willing to bet that there are many high and powerful men—and women—who would have loved to have gotten in here first.”
“Definitely. But they’d have no power to stop a search.”
“Exactly.”
The entry was grand, with marble floors, high ceilings, a curving stairway to the second floor, a finely carved mantelpiece over a fireplace, and red velvet sofas and love seats with carved wood end tables for whatever libation someone might need to set down.
“They had parties?” Stacey said.
He laughed. “Hey, I don’t know. I was never here. Above my pay grade,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Joking.”
She smiled weakly. “Above my pay grade, too,” she said. Then she grew serious, shaking her head. “I don’t get the murder of this woman. As we were saying before, if he’s kind of copying Jack the Ripper, there’s a lot off. No slashed throats. The victims killed elsewhere, and their bodies dumped. And something else. The Ripper—according to most detectives, then and now, and scholars who have studied the case—started with Mary Ann Nichols and then killed Annie Chapman. But his third victim was Elizabeth Stride, found with just her throat slashed. He killed two women that same night—the next being Catherine Eddowes, who was ripped to shreds. So, our guy is off already—if he even is trying to be the Ripper. It still makes no sense.”
“Maybe he wants to be his own kind of Ripper. Maybe it’s a loose inspiration, and he doesn’t even know all the details. The media came up with the name, after all.”
“Yeah, but...something else is up.”
“I told you, I think your theory is solid.”
“So...what now?” she asked.
“Let’s see if we can discover anything here. Find her bedroom. That’s probably where she’ll have anything meant to be hidden,” he said. “I’ll do a cursory search down here, see if CSI left anything unturned. I doubt it. They’re good. You take the bedrooms and the attic. I believe her live-in help, the two maids, had tiny rooms up there. But find Billie’s bedroom first. Think outside the box. You have instinct—use it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said.
He grinned. “I am the senior partner.”
She glanced back at him. “As I said, aye, aye, Captain!”
She started up the stairs, her movements slightly slow as she studied the artwork lining the walls. There were no nudes or anything that could be even slightly suggestive. Billie Bingham’s place was above the tawdry and obvious.
Keenan started his search.
He slid on his back to look under chairs and sofas. Finished with the grand entry and parlor, he moved on to the dining room. Handsome hutches contained plates and service items.
He picked them up one by one, went under the tables and chairs, moved the furniture to see if there was anything behind it, lifted picture frames. She might have a safe in the wall somewhere.
But not here.
The kitchen took him longer. He went through all the cabinets, looked over and under dozens of dishes and containers.
And then, he noticed the tapestry that hung from the far side of the wall, away from appliances and the large island in the center of the state-of-the-art kitchen.
It was an odd place for a tapestry, even in such a residence.
Walking over to it, he studied it for a minute. It was of a medieval domestic scene, women working at the hearth, men talking in the background with one holding a pheasant, a recent kill.
Right for the kitchen, but still...
A tapestry in the kitchen.
He reached out, tapping it. Sounded like a wall. He kept tapping, and the sound changed. He’d hit wood.
A door. To a basement? But why cover it up? Had Billie Bingham hidden something there? Had she just considered the door an eyesore?
He moved the tapestry and found an old-fashioned latch opening to the door. The space was dark, but he found a switch. The light that came on was still weak, but he could see down. It was a basement—and seemed to be used as such. He had half expected to find an exotic cave with a hot tub and feather fans over a plush daybed.
He could see containers of cleaning fluids, yard tools and a huge pile of wood along with a wood-burning stove. He almost closed the door.
He walked down the wooden steps, shining his powerful penlight over the place as well.
At the woodpile, he froze for a moment and then moved forward.
Billie hadn’t been keeping her basement as a secret rendezvous haven. She hadn’t been hiding anything down here.
But the killer had been.
* * *
The grand house had five bedrooms, all beautifully appointed, and each themed. There were even little plaques to designate the rooms. The first she entered was labeled The Jungle. The walls were painted with lush scenes of vegetation. Ropes—imitating vines that Tarzan might use—were suspended from the ceiling over the bed. In all, it looked like a charming little tree house.
Not Billie’s room, Stacey was certain.
The next room had a plaque that read Animal Kingdom, with the bed a giant platform that might have been in the center of a circus ring. The walls were painted with lions, tigers and bears. Various whips rested on a table by the door.
The third room she came to was labeled The Bird’s Nest. Naturally the walls were painted with images of various birds in flight. The bed was big and puffy and covered with a comforter that had scenes of a cloudy sky.
“For her tamer visitors,” Stacey said aloud.
But not Billie’s room.
Two left: she tried the door opposite. A small plaque designated it as the entrance to The Dungeon.
It was definitely designed for a different clientele. This one had a bed with black sheets, and the scarlet walls were covered with hooks that held handcuffs and leather straps and various other implements for bondage.
She felt a little shudder rip through her. Some of the things on the wall...
Well, they weren’t appealing to her.
Only one room left; it had to be Billie’s.
The room was handsomely appointed with the walls simply painted a light mauve. The bed had a comforter that was a bit darker than the walls. There was a full-length, swiveling mirror to the side of the bed before a balcony, and a large and impressive dressing table.
The closet door stood open. She was sure CSI had been there, and they had gone through every drawer in the dressing table and in the dresser that stood against the opposite wall.
She went into the closet. Shoes neatly aligned; the woman had at least forty pairs.
And the clothes filled the racks in a horseshoe shape within the walk-in closet.
It would take forever, Stacey thought, drawing her thin gloves on more securely, to go through every outfit. And yet, that might be what was left to do.
She started with the right side, methodically going from elegant g
owns to business apparel, designer dresses, pants, tailored shirts, feminine blouses.
Then she stopped. If Billie had been keeping any special assignations a secret, they wouldn’t be in her cell phone—too easily seized and tracked if a search warrant was issued at any time—nor would she keep it stuffed away in the pocket of a designer gown.
It might well be in a robe.
The woman kept five of them, from flashy satin to cozy terry.
She reached for the terry robe, a simple garment in dark red with a belt and two pockets.
Reaching into the right pocket, she found a small notebook.
“Yes!” she murmured out loud, dropping the robe and flipping open the pages of the notebook as she moved into the hall.
There were names in the book. Dates! And references to the various rooms. She flipped, anxious to find what had been written for a day and a half ago, for the night—or early morning—when she had been killed.
“Stacey!”
She heard Keenan calling to her from below and she hurried to the stairway. “Keenan, I’ve found something!”
“I have, too,” he told her.
“Her little notebook, Keenan. Names and dates and...”
She ran down the stairs and stood before him. There was something about his face.
“Excellent,” he said. “We’re really going to need it. To follow everything within it.”
“I was just getting to the date she was killed. She uses nicknames or pet names. Obviously—you’ve got to see some of these rooms—even in her notes, she’s careful to hide the identities of her clientele.” She paused. “What did you find?” she asked him.
“Your Elizabeth Stride,” he said quietly.
Dreaming Death Page 7
