“No, cash.”
The bartender rang up the receipt and slapped it down on the bar. He examined it. Six fucking dollars for a bottle of beer. No wonder they had no money while he was growing up. His dad spent it all on liquor.
He paid and sat there, sipped his beer, discreetly looking around.
A couple other people drank alone, watching the muted news behind the bar, the words scrolling up; a few of the guests sat together at tables.
He almost did a double take.
In the corner of the bar was Deputy Chief Brian Maddox and a blonde. A young blonde who was not his wife. She was very pretty, but she was a cop. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. Maybe it was because of how she seemed to know he was looking at her and glanced in his direction. He pretended to be watching the news.
New cop? A fed? He didn’t recognize her, and he’d been watching the Spokane Police Department for two full months. Didn’t mean much—there were a lot of cops here. But it was clear that this lady cop and Maddox were friendly. Why hadn’t he seen her before? If Maddox was cheating on his wife—the bastard—why hadn’t he picked up on it?
She must be a fed. She wasn’t in town before, now she was, and maybe she and Maddox knew each other from something or were just working together to find him.
He almost smiled at the thought that here he was and they had no idea.
Still, he didn’t like not knowing all the players he might encounter.
He almost walked out, but then Maddox and the blonde got up and left. They talked in the lobby for a minute, then Maddox left the hotel and the blonde went up the staircase.
He breathed easier. He was right; she was with the feds. He hadn’t screwed up his surveillance.
He took another sip of his beer and said to the bartender, “I noticed a couple police cars outside. Trouble?”
He shook his head. “Not here. We’ve been getting a lot of them in and out this week. With the murder up in Liberty Lake and all. A couple of the federal agents are staying here.”
“How exciting,” he said. A couple of the feds? Wouldn’t they all stay in the same hotel? Did that mean there were only a few working this case? That would confirm the information in the paper. But how few were a couple? Two? Four? Six? “I read about the murder in the paper.”
“There was another one, early this morning.”
“Really? I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Was on the news, right before you walked in.”
Perceptive bartender. He wasn’t going to be able to stay long, didn’t want to be remembered.
“Another nurse?”
He shook his head. “Some guy. I didn’t catch the name. It was up in Liberty Lake.”
“Wow. Spokane used to be really safe.”
“Where you from?”
Careful.
“Born here, but left for college. Stayed in California for the weather, just here on business.”
“I hear ya. If my parents didn’t need me here, I’d be down south so fast. Arizona. The desert. I’ve been trying to convince them to move.”
Fortunately, another customer wanted a refill, so the bartender walked away without any more small talk. So he left a buck on the bar—not too large or too small a tip to be remembered. He walked out, got in his car. He almost drove away.
This is where the FBI is staying. This is where they are plotting against you. They don’t know you, but they think they do.
He bit his lip. It was risky, but he prided himself on always having another plan. And being here, in this hotel, could be useful.
He walked back in with his backpack and smiled at the clerk. “I need a room for a couple nights. Do you have anything available?”
“Yes. I just need an ID and a major credit card.”
He slid over both. The clerk barely looked, ran the card, handed everything back to him.
It didn’t really matter. His ID was a good, high-quality fake, and his credit card was a business, one of the three shell corporations he’d set up when he first set out his plan of retribution.
“How many nights?”
“Four—but I might be here all week.”
“That’s fine. You can let us know the morning you’re supposed to check out.”
“Anything on the top floor?” he asked casually.
“Do you want to be close to the elevator?”
“Not really.”
The clerk typed, smiled. “All set.”
He signed and got the key. He went up to the room, looked around. It was on the top floor—the fourth floor—next to the stairwell. Perfect. Were the feds on this floor? It almost made him giddy to think about.
He took a book out of his backpack and put it on the nightstand. He pulled down the comforter and rolled around on the bed. Just in case anyone talked to the housekeeping staff. Washed his face and used three towels.
Then he left.
31
Spokane
9:45 p.m.
When Kara walked into the war room, Matt did a double take. He hadn’t expected to see her tonight.
“You didn’t have to come down. It’s getting late.”
Michael—who still looked like he walked out of a GQ magazine even though he wore sweatpants and a T-shirt—said, “Kara’s been here for hours.”
“Just talked to Maddox in the bar for a few,” she said. “He stopped by on his way home.”
“I didn’t see you when I came in.”
He should have noticed, though the bar was off to the side and not all seats were visible from the lobby.
“She may have found something.” Michael was at a desk reading a thick file.
“It just seemed...interesting,” Kara said. “GQ here told me what you learned from the teacher who worked with Marston—about an employee who lost his wife, then his job. And then I got the luck of the draw.”
She called Michael GQ. Why? Did Michael actually tell Kara that had been his nickname in the Navy? Or did she pick up on it intuitively?
Or was she flirting?
Don’t go there. She doesn’t owe you an explanation.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Quinn,” Michael said. “Both Ryder and I had already gone through all these files.”
She dismissed his comment. “I made a leap, and it paid off.”
“Details,” Matt said.
Michael said, “So there’s this lawsuit that was dismissed. It was filed, had depositions, then deemed without merit by the court. The plaintiff appealed. That appeal was also denied. Eighteen years ago, there was a horrific multicar pileup on Interstate 90. Nine vehicles were involved and the nineteen injured were split between Spokane General and Mercy which is farther out. Because Spokane has the trauma ward, the most serious injuries were brought there. Eleven people total at Spokane—three had been declared DOA at the scene.”
Matt asked, “That was in the lawsuit?”
“No, Ryder pulled up the press reports on the accident.”
“Okay. Sorry, just trying to picture it.”
Michael nodded. “They were all in the same vehicle. Went straight to the morgue. Two victims died en route to Spokane. The remaining nine were brought into the emergency room and triage was performed by the head RN—Anne Banks.”
Matt closed his eyes so he could picture the scene. “I’m with you.”
“According to the lawsuit, a Zachary Hamilton claimed that Anne Banks prioritized patients who were less critical than his wife, costing his wife her life. She died in the emergency room. The hospital responded that triage is difficult in the best of circumstances, and the hospital will always prioritize patients they believe have the greatest chance of survival with medical attention. Lorna Hamilton had already lost a tremendous amount of blood, had been unresponsive in the ambulance, and suffered severe head traum
a. An autopsy was performed that indicated that it would have been extremely unlikely that she would have survived her injuries even with immediate surgery, coupled with having a rare blood type.”
“And Anne Banks made that decision.”
“Yes. And she, and the hospital, were sued.” Michael paused, and Matt opened his eyes.
Something in his tone had Matt asking, “What?”
“I’ve been in situations like Banks. Where you have a dozen bodies, and you have to make split-second decisions. I wasn’t a medic, but in the field you have to make the call. Who gets out first. Who has the greatest chance of survival—but won’t without medical attention. It’s the worst feeling. Makes you feel like you’re playing God, and you feel wholly inadequate.”
Michael was internalizing—which was good and bad. Good because he could put himself in Anne Banks’s shoes, and in the shoes of a grieving family. Bad because, being a soldier who had some PTSD issues when he got out, Matt hoped the memories wouldn’t cause him sleepless nights.
Matt prompted, “And the court dismissed?”
“Said there was no merit to the lawsuit.”
“Hamilton. We need to find out everything we can about him.”
“We know at the time he lived in Liberty Lake, on Vine Street. No longer there. He was in prison for a year—drunk driving, third time’s a charm. Ryder is trying to find out what happened to him after his release.”
“This is good.” Matt glanced at Kara. She was sitting in a chair, eyes closed, and he wondered if she was sleeping. “Send his name to Maddox and Knolls. They might recognize it. Liberty Lake is the connection—his old stomping grounds.”
“Yes, sir.”
Matt saw Kara’s mouth curve up, just slightly.
Matt asked, “Is that all we have?”
Michael shook his head. “There are a couple other potentials, but that was the only lawsuit that had a man who lost his wife within a year of Marston firing an employee of the high school.”
“And where did Hamilton work?”
“We don’t have that information yet.”
“Maddox is working with the superintendent,” Matt said. “Did you tell him all this?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Maddox is on it. He’s a solid cop.”
“Good. This might be it. What were the other cases that you flagged?”
“The lone survivor of a family in the same pileup outside Liberty Lake sued the hospital—and the Sheriff’s department and Liberty Lake PD and FD—for wrongful death. I don’t quite understand the reasoning here, but it was a young guy, sixteen, and he would have had to have had an adult working this for him.”
“Fucking lawyers,” Kara mumbled.
“Guy’s name is McCafferty, and we’re trying to track him down, too. Another lawsuit that Ryder flagged happened early in her career, where a pregnant woman died while Anne Banks was attending her. She had preeclampsia, came into the hospital, and they were trying to get her blood pressure down to perform an emergency C-section when the woman—and child—died.”
“Why Banks? She wasn’t in the OB department.”
“Emergency, I don’t know. Husband’s name is Holloway.”
“That’s it?”
“Nothing else stands out, but Ryder is running all the plaintiffs. It just takes time.”
“Where is Ryder?”
“His room. Said Kara and I were too chatty.” Michael laughed.
“I can multitask,” Kara said. “Read tedious lawsuits and play games.”
Ryder ran into the room waving a printout. “I think I have something.”
“Spill.”
“March 3—that was the night of the pileup. The one where Hamilton’s wife and McCafferty’s family were killed.”
Ryder handed Matt a printout of the newspaper article the day after the tragic accident. He skimmed it and his gut twisted in excitement. This was it. He knew it.
“It’s one of them,” Matt said.
He sent Catherine a text message, though she’d be sleeping right now. “It’s after eleven on a Saturday night. We’re not going to get anything on them now. But start the ball rolling—I want to know where those two men are before the briefing tomorrow. And if we can locate them, I want to talk to them. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Ryder sat at a computer and started typing.
“I left Jim Esteban at the lab,” Matt said, “I don’t know that he’s going to get back anytime soon. He and Miles Jordan are working on the forensics from Ogdenburg’s bathroom and think they might have something. Plus they’re going back to Joanne Grant’s house to make sure the CSU didn’t miss anything when they processed. The guy was in a rage—he might have left blood, hair, his fucking wallet.”
“That would be nice,” Michael said, “however unlikely.”
“Point is, we don’t have anything else until morning. Go to bed. Meet here at oh-eight-hundred. Everyone needs sleep—including you, Superboy,” he said to Ryder.
“I will,” Ryder said with no reaction to his new nickname. “I’m just starting the criminal search on the names, and sending a note to Tony to assign someone to run a thorough background on both of them. I can do it, but not as fast as headquarters.”
“Delegate. I’m fine with that.” Matt turned to Kara. “At noon we’re having a debriefing with every cop who has worked in Liberty Lake or has a strong affiliation with Liberty Lake—retired and active.”
“Good.”
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thanks, maybe. Liberty Lake’s my home base, and this guy is really pissing me off.”
Matt left Kara, Ryder and Michael in the war room. He didn’t know what was going on between Michael and Kara—nothing, he was sure, except that they had this rapport that he was a bit uncomfortable with.
¡Me resbala!
Who was he trying to fool? Himself? Yes, he did care.
Why, Matt? Why do you care? Kara is a big girl, just because she slept with you last night doesn’t mean there’s anything between you but mutual lust.
He liked her. He wanted to spend time with her.
Estás actuando como un adolescente cachondo.
You’re acting like a horny teenager. Grow up, Costa.
Yeah. Easier said.
He kicked back on his bed and hoped that he would drift off, but his mind was working double time.
“Well, shit.” He sighed, got up, and took a long, hot shower. When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and looked at the digital clock by the bed.
It flipped to 12:00 a.m.
It was March 7.
Hamilton? McCafferty? Was the Triple Killer one of them? Or were they completely missing the boat?
He didn’t think so. Not when that pileup happened on March 3. They were close. Very close. But were they close enough? Even if they identified him, if he had changed his name, if he was in hiding, if they didn’t have a good photograph of him—they just didn’t have the time. Everything had to come together, and fast.
He was about to pull on sweatpants when he heard a knock at his door. He glanced through the peephole.
Kara?
He opened his door. She looked as exhausted as he felt.
She stepped in and shut the door behind her.
“Kara—” he began.
She silenced him with a kiss. A hard, passionate, desperate kiss. His towel fell to the floor and he took her to bed.
“Are you okay?” he asked, breathless, when their lips parted.
“Very,” she mumbled. “Shut up.”
“Demanding.”
“You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
She flipped him over so she was on top and he couldn’t talk if he tried. Every thought left his mind as she took charge.
After they h
ad sex—mindless, passionate, very physical sex—he slept like a rock for five hours. He didn’t even hear Kara leave.
32
Sunday, March 7
Washington DC
10:30 a.m. ET
Catherine Jones made a point of having brunch every Sunday with her husband and daughter. When she was still living with them in Stafford, Chris and Lizzy would go to church in the morning and Catherine would cook. She loved trying new recipes, but there were a few go-to dishes that everyone loved. She and Chris would have mimosas and enjoy a leisurely morning that would spread to a leisurely afternoon—unless one of them was called into work. Often, her sister, Beth, would join them, occasionally Matt if he was in town, and less often, Chris’s family.
Sundays had been her favorite day of the week because of her family, until Beth was murdered and Catherine couldn’t pretend anymore. Pretend that her job didn’t affect her. Pretend that she was normal.
Still, even though they were separated, Chris brought Lizzy into the city after church and they would go out for brunch. Not the same as before, certainly, and she was never as comfortable as she had been when they were still together, but she loved them. She loved them so much that it hurt, and if she lost them like she’d lost Beth she didn’t know how she could survive it.
Which was why she had to step away. No one seemed to understand that. Chris tried—and she loved him for it—but he didn’t realize that if she lost him, she would be dead inside.
But she couldn’t live like his, in a half-packed condo. Late last night she’d unpacked most of her boxes. She realized she wasn’t going to sell. Maybe Matt was right. Maybe working again would give her other crimes to focus on instead of Beth’s murder. And she couldn’t very well live with her mother, who had made it perfectly clear that she blamed Catherine for Beth’s death.
Catherine had enough blame and guilt of her own.
After unpacking, a couple hours’ sleep, and a half pot of coffee—Catherine sat at the computer, her alarm set to remind her when Chris would arrive. She pulled up her emails, thrilled that Matt and his team had uncovered so much information about the potential killer. Catherine spent the morning reading the two lawsuits that had been brought after the pileup on Interstate 90 in Liberty Lake. She didn’t have a sense of who the killer was from those two men—an older man, perhaps, still grieving for his wife, angry that the hospital—that the nurse, Anne Banks—had chosen to save someone else over his beloved. Catherine could picture the grieving husband going after her—but so many years later? And why the other victims?
The Third to Die Page 24