“I think you might be right,” Keenan said. He filled the others in on their experience at Smith’s office—and how Peggy Bronsen had come to them and what she had said.
“I always thought he was dirty,” Jean said. She lifted her hands defensively. “That being important only because it has to do with our case.”
Keenan liked Jean. He’d learned she’d started with the police straight out of college and earned her way up. She was dedicated. Nearing fifty now, she had never married but kept a lively-enough social life, continually taking martial-arts classes and ballroom dance. Her first devotion was, however, always to her work. She had short dark blond hair and bright hazel eyes, and was wiry and athletic and deceptively small.
This was often to her advantage. Tough guys thought that they could escape her in an arrest situation. They were sadly mistaken.
Jean continued. “So, our guy kills two street girls, and then, someone—still unknown—in Billie’s basement, and then Billie. But you said that Peggy Bronsen doesn’t believe that Congressman Smith did the actual killing, and I’m inclined to agree. If this is about black-market human organs, more than one person is involved. If we get Smith, will he give up whoever else is doing this?”
“I think he’d sell out his own mother if it would help him,” Fred said dryly.
“If they are taking organs, there’s big money involved. I think Jackson already has our forensic accounting department seeing what they can dig up on Smith,” Keenan told him.
Jean looked down at her notes. “His wife is Sandra Smith, forty-seven. They have two grown children, one son living in Los Angeles, another working in London.” She sighed. “Doesn’t look like they’re depending on him for survival. The LA son is working in movie production with a big studio, and the second son is on contract with a major pharmaceutical company—he’ll be in the UK for another six months.”
“Their colleges?” Stacey asked.
“Princeton and Yale. But the youngest graduated two years ago. So, no obvious major expenses or debts. I don’t know why Smith would be so greedy. And if they are taking organs, where are they going? I can’t believe that we have any of our transplant hospitals in on this.”
“No known hospitals. If that is what’s happening, there’s an underground operation going on somewhere, or they’re being shipped out of the country,” Stacey said.
“Organs are only viable so long,” Fred reminded them. “But they’re being cleanly taken, according to our MEs.”
“Then there’s the kidney piece that was sent to Stacey,” Keenan said. “We need forensics on that.” He paused for a moment. “We’re also checking into disappearances or any like murders of men. This whole Jack the Ripper thing may be to throw off law enforcement. Hopefully, we’ll learn more on that soon as well. At this time, we do know that if we don’t catch him, this man—or his accomplice or accomplices—will strike again. They’ll need a Mary Kelly victim. We have the six women who lived with Jess Marlborough. We have Tania Holt, Billie’s assistant. And we have Peggy Bronsen, the congressman’s staff member, who is terrified of him. Any of those women might make a fitting victim, or the killer may strike somewhere we’re not even thinking about.”
“We’re watching the home and surroundings of Jess Marlborough’s friends,” Fred assured him.
“And we have Peggy Bronsen and Tania Holt in protective custody. I believe we also need eyes on Cindy Hardy. She was vocal and furious,” Stacey said.
“And you,” Keenan added.
“Hey, I have you—the best of the best,” Stacey said, smiling.
But all eyes were on her. Jean reached out and touched her arm. “Don’t take this lightly—receiving a kidney from this killer, be he a madman or a businessman.”
“We’re not taking it lightly,” Stacey assured her. “We’re staying together, 24/7.”
“That’s a relief,” Fred put in. “I’m still having your place heavily patrolled—your place, or are you two hiding out elsewhere?”
“My place. There’s no need to stretch resources further,” Stacey said. “We have way too many women to protect as it is, and I’m the only one who is both armed and trained.”
“No one can watch his or her own back,” Jean said softly.
“That’s why we’re taking every precaution,” Stacey assured her.
The door to the conference room opened, and Jackson Crow joined them.
“We got a report from the gated community where Cindy Hardy is living,” he told them. “She lied. Video showed her leaving the night Billie Bingham was killed.”
“Possible victim—or possible murderer?” Stacey wondered.
“Should Jean and I take a run on her this time? We can ask if she wants protection,” Fred suggested.
“Mixing it up might be a good thing,” Keenan said, addressing Jackson. “Stacey and I plan on a meeting with the good congressman again—at his home.”
“You might want to hurry,” Jackson told him. “According to some congressional sources friendly to law enforcement, Smith is planning a trip back home. Due to leave tomorrow morning. You’ll need to catch him this evening.”
“We’ll report to our forces, state and local, to keep up the vigilance,” Jean said. “And we’ll be back here eight sharp tomorrow, unless we hear otherwise.”
“Great. See you at the task-force meeting tomorrow morning,” Jackson said. “For now, go. Get on it.”
He stopped Keenan and Stacey as they started to follow Fred and Jean out.
“Stacey, I know you don’t want to be coddled. But that piece of kidney did come to you. Not only are you yourself at risk, but our chance to solve this could be in jeopardy if we’re not careful.”
“We’re good,” Stacey said. She grinned at him. “We have a plan, and Keenan is spending the night at my place.”
Jackson arched a brow to Keenan. He didn’t seem to be skeptically questioning them, but rather, he appeared amused and pleased.
“She’s dreaming it—dreaming the final scene,” Keenan said. “The last murder, the next in whatever is happening here.”
Jackson looked at Stacey with a worried frown.
“Just—the beginning?” Jackson asked her.
Stacey knew that Adam had fully briefed Jackson on her background. “Just the beginning,” she said.
He looked at Keenan again. “You can handle this?”
“He’s great at—handling me. My dreams, nightmares, I mean. He didn’t jerk me up or out, but he was there, ready to help. I...wasn’t expecting to fall asleep when I did, and Keenan was able to deal with me, step by step. I wasn’t taken out of it—and yet I didn’t go through the terror of being alone. I don’t really know how to explain. But it worked.”
Jackson was smiling. “Glad to hear it. This could be the real key. Keep dreaming, Stacey, and keep our dreamer safe, Keenan, as she dreams.”
“Will do,” he promised. He looked at Stacey. She was smiling at him.
He looked back at Jackson, nodding in an acknowledgment.
“Jackson, you couldn’t have given me a better partner,” he said quietly. “Stacey, shall we?”
They made it out at last.
In the car, she turned to him, and said, “Thank you!”
“For?”
“The acknowledgment.”
He didn’t glance her way. He just nodded.
She laughed. “You must really have bitched about me at the beginning!”
He shrugged. “Maybe. You’re still a rookie.”
“But a rookie with great nightmares.”
“A rookie with great nightmares,” he agreed. He glanced her way. “In fact, I just can’t wait until bedtime.”
He half expected her to hop on his teasing. She didn’t. She looked straight ahead. “I know. I’m just hoping, praying...”
“Yes?”
She turned to look at him again as he drove. “That I can see more. Get an idea of where the room is—where he’s planning to do it.”
She fell silent, appearing worried and deep in thought.
Eventually she said, “I don’t know how it works. When my dad was in danger, there were nights when there was nothing. Then, the dream would come again. And later, it was the same. I don’t think... I just don’t think that we’re going to have much time.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand, surprising himself.
“I think you’ll see it,” he said.
“I must see it.”
“Before it can happen,” he said.
She allowed the touch to continue, almost as if it was reassuring. Good.
“Before it can happen,” she agreed.
They drove in silence.
* * *
There were times when Stacey felt the reality that she was a rookie—and that it was good to be with an experienced agent.
“What do we do if he won’t let us in?” she asked as they neared the congressman’s house.
“Well, if we’re lucky, their housekeeper will open the door. When they do, we gently but persistently make our way in. Then, we’re in before they can get Colin Smith and he can throw us out,” Keenan told her.
“He might yell ‘Who is it?’ and warn them not to let us in.”
“He might.”
“Where do we go from there?”
“We warn him that we’ll be happy to go to a judge and get a subpoena. He’s not going to want that—that will be too close for comfort.”
“Will his wife be there?”
He looked over at her, grinning. “Hey, I talk to the dead. I’m not a mind reader. I’m assuming his wife will be here, but I have no idea. If they’re leaving tomorrow, she may be packing.”
“If she’s going with him.”
“It’s all if until we get there!” He added, “Call Angela. Let’s see if she can find us anything helpful about his address.”
“Just—call Angela?” Stacey asked him, aware her tone was a bit on the skeptical side.
“Yep.”
“She doesn’t mind?”
“She’s incredible. What she can’t get to, she has someone else working on almost instantly. But this is the driving pursuit in our offices right now.”
He was right: Angela answered when Stacey dialed. She quickly identified herself, though she knew her ID would have popped up on Angela’s phone. Stacey told her that she and Keenan were nearly at Congressman Smith’s home and asked if she could give them any info on the house and anyone else who was living there.
Angela informed them Colin Smith and his wife were in a row of historic townhomes that were now condos, with a large unit on the ground floor. The room above was owned by a diplomat who was assigned to the Middle East for the next several months.
“So, they’re alone at the house,” Keenan said thoughtfully.
“What does that mean?” Stacey asked.
“Probably nothing. But it’s good to know going in,” he said and then spoke loudly for the phone. “Angie, do they have live-in help?”
“They do. Anika Hans, from the Netherlands. She’s in the States on a student visa,” Angela told them.
“Here’s hoping she’s not at school,” Keenan said.
He parked, grateful to have found parking on the street. The building that housed the congressman’s DC dwelling was a colonial structure with grand columns. So close to the White House and the Capitol Building, it had received tender care throughout the years. It—and the other houses in the row—had most probably been built in the 1830s, after the War of 1812 and the burning of the area.
“Wonder if Dolly Madison ever came here for tea,” he said, surveying the building as he stepped out of the car.
“Well, we can wander back to Lafayette Square and ask our spectral friends if they know,” Stacey said dryly. “We should do that, anyway—see if your ancestor Bram noted anything the night that Jess Marlborough was killed.”
“Not a bad idea.”
They headed up a tile path to the front door. Signs on the little picket fence in front and on the lawn warned them that the house was protected by video surveillance.
The same signs sat in front of every house on the block.
There could be video surveillance of the congressman’s comings and goings, thought Stacey.
Keenan rang the bell. The door opened, and they saw a young blonde woman.
“Anika?” Keenan asked.
She immediately looked confused.
“You have the food?” she asked. There was a slight accent in her words. “Two of you—to deliver Chinese?”
She had to be the student/maid, Anika.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” Keenan said, producing his badge as he moved forward to step in.
The young woman instinctively stepped back; it was natural to give a man as large as Keenan space. Stacey seized the opportunity and followed him in.
“We’re FBI agents. We need to speak with Congressman Smith,” he said.
Stacey smiled at the girl.
“Oh! Oh!” Anika said, dismayed, stepping back farther.
They were in the house; they’d made it this far.
“Could you inform the congressman that we’re here?” Stacey asked politely.
“I... Oh, he doesn’t like me letting people in. I...um... Why are you here? Shouldn’t you have made an appointment or something?” Anika asked.
They didn’t have to answer. A woman of forty-five or fifty, slim and fit, with platinum hair coiffed in a soft bouffant around her features, came hurrying in from a doorway to the left.
“Anika, dear, is that the food?”
She stopped short. Stacey figured she had to be the long-suffering but stand-by-your-man—especially if he’s a congressman—Sandra Smith. She seemed to be in casual mode, dressed in gray sweats that still fit her attractively, and thus the call out for Chinese delivery.
She stood dead-still, staring at them, her eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?” she asked.
“We’re FBI, Mrs. Smith,” Keenan said. “We spoke with your husband earlier; I’m afraid we just have a few more questions to clear up some discrepancies.”
“Discrepancies?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Keenan said politely.
“This is our home. How dare you come here! My husband is overworked, and that silly woman wanted a picture...and... She has caused enough trouble in this town. I’d like you to leave my house. Immediately,” Sandra said indignantly.
Stacey believed that Sandra Smith had hated Billie Bingham and might even be glad that she was dead. She wasn’t sure that Sandra believed that her husband was all innocence when it came to the woman.
“We are sorry to bother you—” said Keenan.
He didn’t finish.
The congressman, now in jeans and a T-shirt, came out of the same doorway, obviously concerned about the ruckus going on in his foyer.
He, too, stopped in his tracks seeing the two of them there.
Then he grew angry. “What the hell are you two doing in my home?” he demanded. “Anika!”
“I thought they were Chinese food!” the young woman cried.
“I’m so sorry, Congressman Smith,” Keenan said. “We’ve had a report that puts some of the information you gave us into a bit of confusion. We’d like just a few more questions with you, just to clear things up.”
As Keenan spoke, Stacey saw that Smith’s line of vision left Keenan’s face; he glanced quickly—and worriedly—at his wife.
“Colin, this is just—” Sandra began.
He rallied quickly. “Sandra, that woman was a thorn in my side from the second she asked for a picture,” Smith said. He hurried across the room, clearly with the inte
ntion of confronting Keenan, but then backed away a step. The congressman seemed uncomfortable with having to crane his neck to look into Keenan’s face.
There was something inherently intimidating about Keenan’s height, Stacey thought.
But Smith had to keep up a gruff front.
“You have more questions?” he demanded. “You really want to clear this up? Then, fine—I want done with it. Really done with it. Let’s go in to your headquarters. I’ll answer questions all night if it will bring an end to it all!” He turned quickly back to his wife. “Sandra, I’m sorry. I’m getting this solved as quickly as possible. This is bull! Yeah, I know. Run for office, you become a public figure—a public target is more like it! But fine. I’m sorry, honey. You and Anika enjoy your dinner. I’ll be back when I get back.”
“Darling, we were going to head out tomorrow,” Sandra reminded him.
“Well, now we’re not leaving in the morning—I damned well won’t look as if I’m running away,” Smith said. “I am sorry,” he repeated. Then he looked at Keenan and then Stacey. “Let’s go. Let’s get to one of your interrogation rooms where you can really give me the third degree. Am I being charged? Can you arrest me? I think not. So let’s talk. And then you will stay the hell away from me!”
He might have been intimidated by Keenan, but he pushed his way past him. Stacey noted that he didn’t push her—he’d risk Keenan before pushing a woman. She wasn’t sure if that meant anything or not.
But then, she didn’t think that he’d gotten his hands dirty, physically doing the killing himself.
He walked to the sidewalk and waited for them to show them which car was theirs, then crossed his arms and waited for Keenan to open the rear door for him.
Keenan arched a brow to Stacey; she nodded and slid into the passenger’s seat in the front.
“I intend to report you. I am a powerful man, you know.”
Stacey kept silent. Keenan cast a smile at the man through the rearview mirror. “Maybe,” he said. “I mean, well, you are now, but...”
That angered Smith. He lunged up against the seat, as if he would do Keenan harm. Stacey spun around in her seat to face the back, her hand up flat and firmly blocking Smith on his shoulder.
Dreaming Death Page 15
