“Elizabeth Stride,” she murmured.
“A body. In the basement. Throat slit on this one. And when the medical examiner looks at her, I’m willing to bet he’ll find she was killed before Billie Bingham. She hasn’t been disemboweled. She was left, as if he was interrupted in his work, as the police back in the day believed with Elizabeth Stride. Stacey, he is doing it in order.”
She stared at him. “Then, it isn’t over.”
Four
Ben Wimberly, head of the forensics team who had searched Billie Bingham’s home, was mortified. “I swear, my team is good. We are excellent at details, fingerprints, fibers, the tiniest speck of blood or any kind of body fluid... I even walked down the basement stairs and...wow. Maybe I should resign.”
“Ben, it’s all right. I would have concentrated on the rest of the house. You weren’t looking for a body; you were looking for records. For her last movements,” Keenan told him. Well, the man had missed a body. But it was true, too, that their assignment had been to discover Billie’s life—not another death.
He thought as well that the body had been meant to be more easily discovered than it was—the killer hadn’t planned for the weight of the wood in the pile to shift and fall.
“Do you trust me to even be here?” Ben asked him glumly.
Keenan smiled. “Yeah. Get to it.”
Jackson Crow and Detective Fred Crandall had arrived. Jackson stood back, watching while the CSI team began working. Dr. Beau Simpson was doing his preliminary exam of the body.
Keenan had been careful not to touch anything—not even the fallen logs around the body—until Beau had arrived. But he had observed that little had been done to the woman as far as torture went.
She’d been killed swiftly. The massive spill of blood on the bricks, the floor, and the victim’s face, body and clothing showed that she had been killed here—in the basement.
Jackson walked up to him. “I imagine she was one of Billie’s escorts,” Keenan said to the assistant director.
“But what was she doing in the basement? I can see her outfit—designer pantsuit. She didn’t come down here looking for more firewood,” Jackson said dryly.
Beau looked up at them. “The house was occupied until the police came and executed the warrant. Whoever did this did it with Billie’s secretary and the two live-in maids here.”
“Stacey and I have another lead,” Keenan said. “She found a little notebook in one of Billie’s robes. We’re going to do our best to decipher who the nicknames in it might be for—and who she might have been planning to meet the night she was killed. We’ll get on that while they track down the secretary and the maids.”
“The case that keeps on giving,” Jackson said.
Beau stood up then, his salt-and-pepper hair a bit awry, like that of a mad scientist.
“I’ll do the full autopsy immediately. But I can tell you now—she didn’t have a chance to fight back. Stacey, if you would?”
Stacey had been watching Beau work in silence. She stepped forward, allowing Beau to use her to show how the woman had been killed. “Swift and sweet. The killer stood behind her, used a very sharp blade. She was choking on her own blood before she ever knew what happened. This is different—notably different—from the other murders. Billie Bingham was strangled. The others were strangled. And then the organs removed. No ID on her that I can find, but I’m estimating late twenties. No mutilation of the body.”
“Elizabeth Stride,” Keenan said.
Beau frowned, looking at him.
“The third victim,” Stacey said, moving away from Beau and his imaginary blade. “Jack the Ripper. According to historians, he killed five women. Two mutilated—the third, they believe, wasn’t mutilated because someone came by or he was otherwise interrupted. He went on from Elizabeth Stride to Catherine Eddowes that same night—ripping her to shreds.”
“And a piece of her kidney was sent to the police,” Keenan said.
“I don’t think our police are going to receive a bit of kidney, and if they do, it won’t have belonged to Billie Bingham,” Stacey said. “That kidney is too valuable on the black market.”
“Yes,” Keenan found himself agreeing. “This is all a sham. Beau, when you’re working on our unidentified woman here, please check if she has any health issues that aren’t obvious. I mean, from what we can see, she was young and fit.”
“But there’s going to be some issue,” Stacey said, looking at Keenan. She seemed grateful for his support on her theory.
“You want to start with the maids or the secretary?” Fred asked Keenan.
“Secretary. You have info?”
“Angela just called it into me,” Jackson said. “The secretary’s name is Tania Holt. I’ll forward the exact address. It’s an apartment complex near the Smithsonian. Fred, can you get an officer to see that she’s there and stays until my agents arrive?”
“Will do,” Fred said, studying his own smartphone. “And I’ll check out Miranda Lopez and Greta Gunderson, the housekeepers. We’ve got them at a small hotel near here—neither had family or a place to go, so we decided to put them up and keep them near in case we needed them.” He shrugged. “And to let them get on their feet. They’ll obviously be needing new employment.”
“Stacey?” Keenan said.
“Ready,” she assured him.
They headed out. Jackson would be overseeing the removal of the corpse. Beau would make the autopsy top priority. DC would be in an even greater frenzy when news of another murder—this one at Billie’s infamous mansion—reached the media.
They were soon in the car, the address of Tania Holt in Keenan’s phone. Her hands still gloved, Stacey was at his side, studying the little diary she’d found in Billie Bingham’s robe.
“Her last notation was on the evening before she was killed. Assuming that Dr. Simpson was right, and she was murdered between, say, three and five in the morning. Well, it’s her last entry. She has written here, Sigh. Guess I’m going to be meeting with Coffee Boy myself. I had thought he’d want to come to the mansion. Ugh. God knows what is up. Maybe just a business meeting. That would be preferable to all else. But must keep businessmen remembering the rewards of business.”
“We need to know who Coffee Boy might be. The CSI team might have missed a dead body in the basement, but they have Billie’s computers and other datebooks and notebooks. We’ll have to start a process of elimination. But we need to find out what went on at the house—and who the body in the basement belonged to. We’ll know that soon enough. How she was murdered with no one seeing anything is beyond me.”
“Maybe not so strange. I did notice there were no cameras around. Billie’s clientele would not want to be recorded. Though, I’m surprised she wasn’t doing some filming in secret. Maybe she was, but I didn’t see any cameras. And that basement... I guess the tapestry was to cover anything as menial and mundane as a basement.”
“I’m not sure how she always stayed ahead of the law, but she did. She was always on the pages of the scandal magazines, dragging down a lot of names—and I’m not talking about any particular political party. Billie was a businesswoman. She had no party loyalty,” Keenan said. He glanced at Stacey, who was studying him curiously. He laughed. “Trust me. I never knew her. I just knew that at times, there were going to be investigations, but no one—other than Cindy Hardy—ever tried to bring her down. Her clients were close-lipped. We can go through old magazines and find out who she was pictured with. And Cindy will remain in our suspect pool.”
She smiled. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever had to pay for a date.”
He smiled.
A compliment—of sorts—at last.
“You’d be surprised. There are people who really hire others just as escorts. Individuals who just don’t want to show up somewhere alone but don’t want any involvements. Male—and female.�
��
“I know. I’m not judging—I just don’t imagine you... Never mind. Let’s focus on Coffee Boy. Someone who likes coffee, I take it.”
“Or someone with an interest in a coffee company,” Keenan said.
“Maybe both!”
“Maybe.” He slowed the car. “That’s the building, with the—cop car out front. I’ll slide in behind it.”
“Can we park here?”
“With the medallion on this car? Yes.”
As they got out of the car, an officer approached them, assuring them that, to the best of their knowledge, Tania Holt was in her apartment.
They headed up in the elevator. Billie’s secretary had apparently been well-paid. The apartment complex was new, taking the place of a building from the 1920s that had been condemned.
The place was all chrome and glass and was very clean. The elevator plaque informed them that the spa, pool and gym were all on the penthouse level.
Keenan knocked on the door of Tania Holt’s apartment. There was no answer. He knocked harder.
“FBI, Miss Holt. Please open the door.”
Still nothing.
Stacey glanced at him and knocked again. “Miss Holt? Let us in. Under the circumstances, if you don’t answer, we’ll have to break the door down and make sure you’re not in danger.”
The door flew open.
Tania Holt stood there in a flowery silk robe that would have done her boss proud. She looked at them with fear, auburn hair a mess around her face. She was an attractive woman, probably in her midthirties.
“FBI?” she said, stepping back. “Really? Show me your badges!”
They flipped out their ID.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit down,” Keenan said gently.
“Yes, I should. I...um, should offer you something. I have tea. I have stronger stuff.”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Stacey said.
With a jerky movement, Tania indicated her living-room couch.
“Thank you,” Keenan told her, taking her arm and leading her to the sofa. She suddenly fell against him, sobbing.
He winced, balancing her until he could get her sitting down. Stacey looked around for tissue and found some.
“Oh, what was done to Billie!” Tania cried.
Stacey was looking at him. They both knew that her grief was real.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but another woman was found dead at Billie’s house,” Keenan said quietly.
“What? No! Who? Oh, my God! No!” Tania cried. Then she began to babble. “But...that’s impossible. We were there when we found out, when the police came. You can’t come in unless someone opens the gate. Billie said no cameras—because of all the high-powered people who came—but she had an alarm system, and she had the gates, and...and there was no one there that day after she left, just me and Miranda and Greta. Oh, no—please, please, tell me that it wasn’t Miranda or Greta!” she said, staring at them.
“I don’t believe it could be one of the maids,” Stacey said.
“Why?”
“The way the victim was dressed,” Stacey said.
Keenan quickly put in, “Honestly, Ms. Holt, she’s right. The clothing, the look... I don’t believe that it will prove to be either of them.”
He hesitated. He remembered he had a picture of the dead woman on his cell phone.
Tania was talking again, worried. “They are such sweet women, so good. New to the country—such hard workers. Billie helped them and insisted on work permits. She wasn’t going to get caught hiring anyone illegal. She kept it all so...clean.”
“Her escort service, you mean?” Keenan asked softly.
“Yes, of course. Her business. And I know the reputation, but Billie wasn’t a horrible person. No one ever had to do anything they didn’t want to do. I came to her, thinking that I wanted to be an escort. But I wasn’t right for it. She needed someone, though, to keep her straight. I’m very organized. Sometimes, she’d act as an escort herself, but only for certain people. We paid taxes. We did it all...the American way?” she asked, sobbing again. “Who would do that to her?” Then suddenly she was angry. “There’s a lunatic on the street! A psycho would-be Jack the Ripper. And you’re here... Billie’s killer is out there, and you’re harassing me!”
“We’re certainly not trying to harass you. Billie isn’t the only victim,” Keenan reminded her. “We need to find out about the woman in the basement.”
That caused Tania to pause and then to shake her head with something like desperation. “It’s not possible!”
“When did you leave the house after Billie went out—the night before she was killed?” Keenan asked.
“About seven. I said good-night to Miranda and Greta, and I drove home. Oh, no, I stopped. I stopped at the diner on the corner and picked up a to-go order, and then I came here. There was no one at the house except Miranda and Greta when I left. There had been no one there since earlier in the day, and then...”
Her voice trailed.
Keenan pulled out his phone and said softly, “I’m sorry to show this to you. But I believe that it’s important and may, at least, show you that the dead woman isn’t one of the maids.”
Tania stared at him wide-eyed and nodded, then slowly moved her eyes down to look at the picture.
She gasped.
“Do you know—” Stacey began.
“Lindsey! She came to work for Billie not long ago. Lindsey Green. I—I don’t know her well. I—I—didn’t know her well. I don’t know anything about her. I...oh!”
Tania sobbed for a minute, and then Stacey gently urged her on. “You said that there had been no one there earlier in the day, but then?”
“Someone came. Who was it?” asked Keenan.
“I can’t say. I really can’t say. We work on anonymity.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to say. No one is working—not for Billie Bingham, not anymore,” Keenan told her. “Who was there?”
She paled. “Smith.”
Keenan and Stacey glanced at one another. “Smith?” Stacey repeated. And then she said, keeping her voice level, “Congressman Colin Smith?”
Tania had a look of pure desperation on her face.
“Tania, it’s all right,” Keenan said softly. “Billie is dead. No one can hurt her anymore.”
“But...all those people. All those powerful people. And those women. Dead. Horribly.” She shook her head. “But I’m safe. I’m careful. I don’t open my door. I watch what I’m doing... I’m lying. I’m scared silly. The woman in the basement...to get into the mansion, she had to be one of our girls.”
“Most probably. Tania, as you know the police and crime-scene units have been through the house. No one will know that you ever said anything to anyone,” Keenan assured her. “If you fear immediate danger, call 9-1-1. We’ll leave you our cards. If you’re suspicious of anyone, don’t hesitate to call us.”
He produced his card, and Stacey handed over one of her own.
As Stacey caught Tania’s gaze, she asked, “Who is Coffee Boy?”
“Coffee Boy?” Tania repeated, sounding strangled.
“Does that refer to Colin Smith?” Stacey pressed gently.
Tania nodded. “The congressman really likes coffee,” she said.
“Where did the two of them meet—if not at the house?” Keenan asked.
“He almost never came to the house,” Tania said. “Billie would meet him. At the old Victory Inn, out on the Beltway. I honestly don’t know quite what their business was. I think that he had her encouraging investors for a clothing line. Yes, she made all the tabloids, physical and online, but Billie was stylish, and she held a lot of sway.” She looked at Stacey. “I’m sure you don’t approve. But Billie was honestly a nice person.”
“Tania, I’m not going to judge
her—we’re going to try to find her killer,” Stacey said.
“And whoever killed the woman in the basement,” Tania said, burying her face in her hands. “What if... Oh! It could have been me!”
Stacey reached out and touched her hands, gently leading them from her face. “Tania, it wasn’t you. And this is painful and horrible. But if you’re afraid, dial 9-1-1 immediately. And if you think of anything, if you’re worried about someone trying to contact you or see you...call one of us. Okay?”
She nodded. “I’m scared.”
“That’s understandable. You’ll be very careful,” Keenan said.
Again, Tania nodded. “I won’t leave. I’ll send out for groceries. Just groceries—no other deliveries. And I’ll have a friend in the building be with me.”
“Smart. Very smart,” Keenan told her.
Her eyes widened. “You’ll catch him fast, right? I won’t be a prisoner forever?”
“We’ll do our best,” Keenan promised.
Stacey smiled weakly. They rose to leave. Stacey stretched out a hand to Tania. “You call if you need us,” she reminded her.
Keenan stretched out a hand, too. Tania didn’t take his hand; she threw her arms around him again, holding so tightly he had to disentangle himself.
He managed to eventually get out the door with Stacey behind him.
She was smirking.
He groaned as they entered the elevator. “Don’t!” he warned her.
“Hey. You’re a big, strong guy. You make her feel safe...” He gave her a warning glare. She was still grinning. “You can’t help being a stud, Special Agent Wallace.”
He stopped, hands on his hips, amused and ready to turn the tables. “Jealous, Special Agent Hanson?”
“She’s a pretty woman,” Stacey countered. “But not my gender of choice.”
“Uh, I meant jealous that she was all over me.”
“Sure. Because you’re so charming and good to me.”
“Well, you did just call me a stud.”
“You’re tall. Being tall can go a long way for a man.” She strode out of the elevator and across the lobby.
Dreaming Death Page 8
