“Did the man who was shot and the woman know each other?” I was trying to feel out if there was any sort of relationship between the victim and this woman.
McBride clamped his mouth shut, and that told me there was a connection between Reid and the woman, but he wasn’t about to confirm it.
“Did you know the victim well?” I kept leaving Reid nameless to aid in objectivity.
“Can’t say as I did. But today was only my fourth day on the job.”
If McBride was being honest, which I had no reason to suspect he wasn’t—his employment record could be easily verified—then maybe his predecessor would be able to provide us with some insight. “Did you know the doorman you replaced?”
“Just his first name. Gerald. He retired. Age sixty-eight. All the standing was getting to his knees.”
I nodded. We could get Gerald’s information through Nadia and building management.
“Is there anything you can tell us about the victim?” Paige asked.
“I know he was some bigwig. Had money.”
“And how do you know that?” The money part was rather easy, given Reid’s wardrobe, which I’d noted upon arriving on scene.
McBride seemed to hesitate, but Paige and I waited him out.
“Roy told me after the man got on the elevator,” he eventually said.
Paige leaned in toward McBride. “And who’s Roy?”
“He mans the front desk, calls up to tenants to clear their visitors.”
I looked around. “Where could we find Roy?”
“Knowing him, he’s probably still at his post. He’s one of those guys who takes his job almost too seriously.”
“When did the man show up?” I inquired.
“Last night about eleven.”
Two things occurred to me. One, if Reid had an interview related to his job as a prosecutor, eleven at night was rather late—and it didn’t explain why he’d be there all night. Two was, “You have a long shift,” I said to McBride.
“Everyone at Wilson Place does, the doormen and the people at the front desk. You’re either on from ten at night to ten in the morning or the opposite. The long hours are probably another reason why all this is affecting me so much.”
“You saw a person shot right in front of you. No matter how tired or alert you are, it makes sense it would affect you.” Paige, ever the empathizer.
McBride took another hit of oxygen. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Do you know why he was here?” If we could get an answer to that, we might have motive, and it could also give us some suspects.
McBride shook his head. “Again, try Roy. Not sure he’ll be able to tell you, though, due to confidentiality issues.”
“We appreciate your help.” Paige took her card out of a pocket and handed it to McBride.
“Not sure how much help I’ve been, but Roy has a sign-in book for visitors. That might get you somewhere.”
Paige pointed to her card in McBride’s hand and stood. “If you think of anything else, call me. Anytime. Day or night. Okay?”
“I will, but I don’t think there will be anything.”
“Thank you for your help,” I reiterated, and once Paige and I were out of earshot, I said to her, “We’ll need a background pulled on McBride, even if it’s just to rule him out.”
“Makes sense to me,” she said. “In the least, I believe McBride knows a lot more than he’s telling us. Not sure how we’re supposed to get it out of him, though. He seems pretty comfortable hiding behind his employment’s confidentiality clause.”
“Me neither. Not sure he’s involved, but we need to consider everyone a suspect until they’re ruled out.” Not that I needed to say as much to Paige. She’d also know that those who appeared innocent were often the guilty ones. What’s to say McBride didn’t have some beef with Reid and fed information to the sniper? He was, according to his own words, a new employ, so that made me wonder what had led him to Wilson Place.
“For sure,” Paige agreed, “and we’ll need a report on the former doorman as well and to have a chat with him.”
“Yep.” I pulled out my phone, called Nadia, and made the requests. As I did, I scanned the area. The initial buzz was dying down, and I could see the medical examiner and his assistant working on Reid. Herrera was towering over the two of them, arms crossed. I thanked Nadia and hung up. “She’s getting us the backgrounds on McBride and Gerald Whoever-he-is.”
“Knowing Nadia, that won’t take too long. Why don’t we go have a word with the ME?” She nudged her head toward him.
If talking to him would delay canvassing, then I was all for it. “Sounds like a plan.”
-
Five
Kelly was riding shotgun again as Jack drove them to the Reids’ house. It was located in an area of Arlington known as Woodmont. Jack was smoking away, a cigarette perched between two fingers that dangled out the open window.
Nadia’s voice was coming over the speakers. She’d already told them that Darrell’s wife was Arlene, and she was eight years her husband’s junior at forty-seven. She’d never worked outside the home.
“Arlene Reid was born Arlene Pryce to a wealthy British family in Wales,” Nadia elaborated. “Arlene’s parents followed her to the States when she came here for schooling, and none of them returned home. She met and fell in love with Darrell, and she married him soon after she graduated law school.”
“Yet she never practiced law?” Kelly asked, thinking that was such a waste of money and education.
“Not that I see.”
The whims of the rich, she supposed. They had to spend their time somehow, and much better it be in the pursuit of knowledge than frivolous endeavors.
“Any luck on finding similar shootings in any of the US that fit today’s?” Jack asked.
Luck? As if he wanted other shootings to be discovered. Tragic—but it would give them something else to analyze and compare, and clues may surface. She concluded Jack must suspect Reid’s shooting hadn’t been an isolated incident.
“None yet.”
“Well, keep looking.”
“Will do, Jack.”
With that, Jack ended the call and pitched the SUV back into an awkward silence that begged to be filled, but Kelly was at a loss for what to say.
He turned down a street of large homes, mature trees, and beautifully manicured lawns. It was autumn, but in such a neighborhood, the grass dared not turn brown just yet.
If it hadn’t been for Arlene’s family’s money, Reid probably wouldn’t be able to afford living here.
Jack pulled into the driveway of a redbrick, two-story home, though it had three levels of living space; they could see the basement windows just above ground level. Two sets of staircases joined at a landing and led to double front doors that were hugged by sidelights and a transom window and set back under two columns and an overhang. The word regal came to mind.
Jack got out of the vehicle, and she hurried to catch up to him. He poked the doorbell, and a rendition of some classical song chimed throughout the home and spilled through to the front step. Kelly wouldn’t have expected anything less from a place like this.
The door was opened by a pleasant-looking brunette who looked years younger than forty-seven. She was wearing a light-pink, silk blouse paired with pressed pants and teardrop earrings. Her eyelids were painted in shades of purple, and her lips were glossy pink. Her perfume smelled heavenly—and expensive—and was probably sold by the ounce.
“Mrs. Arlene Reid?” Jack asked while holding up his credentials. Kelly hurried to follow his lead and had hers displayed by the time Arlene’s eyes went to her.
“Yes.” Her one word held both caution and curiosity.
“I’m FBI Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Jack Harper, and this is Agent Marsh. Can we come in for a
moment?” Based on Jack’s body language, the way his leg rested, how his foot was positioned, his question wasn’t so much a question as a request.
“Sure.” Arlene stepped back and let them inside. She closed the door behind them and watched them, expectant.
“Do you have somewhere we could sit down?” Jack asked.
Arlene seemed to pry her eyes from Jack before turning and taking them to a sitting room that was to the right of the entry. Sunlight drenched a space that was stuffed with furniture along with antique trinkets and collectibles. She sat in a beige chair, and Jack and Kelly sat in matching ones across from her.
“We’re here about your husband,” Jack started. “He was killed this morning in a shoot—”
Arlene’s mouth fell open, and tears immediately pooled in her eyes.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Reid,” Kelly offered, trying to soften the blow, though realizing the futility.
Arlene met Kelly’s eyes and sniffled. “What am I supposed to tell Riley? Thank God he’s at school right now.”
Riley was the Reids’ teenage son.
Arlene blew out a deep breath. “How?… Where?… Why?”
Jack gestured for Kelly to answer. She’d been given a little rope; now she just had to be careful not to hang herself.
Kelly cleared her throat and pressed her hands down on her slacks. “Your husband was shot in Clarendon.”
“The sniper…” Arlene looked across the room as if she was seeing something, but there was nothing there to see.
“I’m sorry,” Kelly said, “but I’m not sure—”
Arlene met her gaze. “I saw it on the news…the shooting.”
The media never missed a beat.
“They said that a man was killed and—” She stopped, her chin quivering. “Others were injured.”
“We’re trying to figure a few things out. Do you know why your husband would have been in that area this morning?” Kelly asked.
Arlene slowly shook her head. “No idea, but I didn’t keep tabs on his calendar. He was a respected prosecutor. Good at his job.” Her brown eyes turned to burnt charcoal. “Was it what got him killed?”
“It’s too soon to say,” Jack jumped in. “We’re trying to figure out exactly what happened ourselves.”
“My husband was shot.” Venom licked her words. “What else is there to figure out?”
“In order to find who did this, it helps us to know what might have made him a target,” Jack responded coolly, not giving any indication that her outburst had affected him.
“Ohmigod.” Arlene slapped a hand over her mouth, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “He was targeted? Why? Why would anyone do this?”
Arlene’s emotions were all over the place, and Kelly struggled to remain objective and discern whether it was due to grief or an act that the wife was performing. “We intend to find out,” Kelly said. “That’s why it would help us to know a little bit more about your husband, starting with why he might have been in that neighborhood. Given the circumstances, it would seem that the shooter was aware he’d be there when he was.”
Jack looked over at Kelly, his mouth in a straight line. She must have been talking in absolutes more than Jack cared for. “Again, this is just one angle we’re working on,” Kelly said, trying to backpedal.
“One angle?” Arlene cocked her head.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s also possible that your husband was an unintended victim of the shooting.” This pained Kelly to say because she could easily conjure up the picture of that perfectly placed hole in Reid’s chest.
“I don’t understand.” Arlene snatched a tissue from a nearby box, dabbed her nose, then scrunched it in her hand, her fingers tugging on the corners.
“All Agent Marsh means is that it’s too early to conclude exactly what took place.”
“There’s that word exactly again.” Arlene’s eyes scolded Jack.
“What more can you tell us about your husband? Do you know of anyone who didn’t like him?” Jack asked, shifting the spotlight from why her husband was in Clarendon.
“I’m sure my husband had his enemies.” Arlene straightened her back, jutted out her chin just slightly. “No one gets to his position without them.”
“Anyone specific come to mind?” Kelly said gently, aware she was braving it by speaking in definitives—both with Mrs. Reid and Jack.
Arlene made a long, raspy sigh. “My husband was responsible for putting away a lot of very bad men. It could be any of them. I wouldn’t even know where to start with names. You’d best be going down to the commonwealth’s attorney’s office for those answers.”
“We will be, but just curious if Darrell happened to mention any recent cases he was working on?” It was possible that a conviction had led to revenge, but Kelly couldn’t close her mind to the possibility it could have been an active case.
“Darrell kept his work to himself. He kept a lot to himself.” Arlene’s gaze fell to her lap. For a few seconds, the confident debutante slipped away. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her head high. “I respect…respected…that about him.”
Even if Darrell had skeletons in the closet to find, they weren’t getting to them with Mrs. Arlene Reid guarding the door.
Silence stretched out for a couple of minutes before Arlene spoke.
“You said he was shot in Clarendon, and I caught as much on the news, but missed where exactly.” Arlene watched Jack, seeking an answer.
“In front of Wilson Place.” Jack paused, blatantly observing Arlene. Her brow wrinkled, and she sniffled. “Does that ring any bells for you?”
“No.” Arlene was quick to answer. “Why would it?”
“Your husband was coming out of the building when he was shot,” Jack disclosed.
“Oh.” She rubbed at her neck, where the skin had become blotchy.
“Do you know something you’re not wanting to tell us?” Kelly did her best to present the inquiry as coming from an equal, a friend, not law enforcement digging for a lead.
Arlene met her gaze and shook her head.
Kelly could tell right away she was lying. Mrs. Reid was holding back—but what was it and did it have anything to do with her husband’s murder?
-
Six
Paige wasn’t surprised when Jack paired her with Brandon. Jack liked to work alongside his new agents, but understanding his reasoning didn’t make working so closely with Brandon any less uncomfortable. He might have moved on with that officer named Becky, but Paige was single, and her feelings for Brandon were still very much alive—no matter how much she wished they’d die.
She led the way across the street to Wilson Place. Reid’s body was still on display, and he had an audience of three surrounding him: the medical examiner, his assistant, and Captain Herrera.
The ME looked up, squinting in the sun, from where he was crouched next to Reid when she cast a shadow over the body. It appeared he was about to say something when his eyes went to the acronym in large, yellow letters on the front of her vest. He grimaced and returned his attention to the body.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Paige Dawson, and this is Brandon Fisher.” She gestured to Brandon, but it was lost to the back of the ME’s head.
“I’m Clayton Shaw.” The ME’s assistant smiled weakly.
“Nice to meet you, Clayton.” Paige shook his hand.
“You’ll have to excuse Simon,” Herrera said. “He’s much better with the dead than the living.”
Simon paused his work and glanced up at the captain. “As if you’re one to talk.”
Paige wasn’t going to touch on the tension between the two men. “Simon…?” She was looking for a last name, and just when she thought he’d leave her hanging, he replied, keeping his focus on the body.
“Fleming.”
“What
are we looking at?” she asked.
“Gunshot to the chest. Instant death.” Simon’s gloved fingers prodded Reid’s body here and there as if he were on an Easter egg hunt.
“That I could have concluded myself,” she said with a little heat. “I was hoping for more specifics.”
Seconds ticked off, and eventually, Simon looked at her. “I don’t like to speculate or hypothesize. And I especially don’t like to do so before the body’s on a slab.”
What a piece of work!
She puffed out her chest, took a deep breath, and tried to pull on patience from deep inside. “Do you have any idea what type of bullet we’re looking at here?”
“A round from a sniper rifle.”
Trying to get answers from this man is excruciating!
Paige turned to Brandon, and she noted the subtle smirk on his lips. She narrowed her eyes at him and went back to the ME. “When do you think you’ll have him ‘on your slab’?” So uncouth, but she matched the ME’s attitude.
The ME’s assistant backed up a few feet. So did Herrera.
Simon got to his feet, his blue eyes like ice. “As soon as I’m finished here, we’ll be loading him up and taking him back to the morgue. The less chitchat, the faster we finish up here and get Mr. Reid on a table for autopsy.”
Paige’s jaw dropped open, then she snapped it shut.
“Are we done?” Simon huffed out.
She’d never met anyone so rude in her life—and she was used to dealing with serial killers, for goodness sake! “For now.”
“Best I can hope for, I suppose.” Simon returned to the body.
Paige glanced at the other men. Herrera blew out a breath, Clayton winced, and Brandon’s mouth was twitching like he was fighting off laughter.
She walked off a few feet away, and Herrera kept close. She turned to him. “You’ll keep us posted on the autopsy?”
“I will.”
“I’m right here,” Simon barked, “and I’m more than capable of—”
Paige took the few paces back to the ME and stuck her business card in his face. He snatched it and tucked it into a back pocket.
Past Deeds Page 3
