I See You

by Burton, Mary

Every time she heard the words, they fell short of doing anything other than filling the silence. At least these days they did not make her angry. “Thanks. He was young, and it was so unexpected; it’s still not easy to talk about.”

  He cleared his throat. “Let me show you the storage unit.”

  “I understand Alexandria PD still has it closed off.”

  “We were waiting for identification. I’ll lead the way,” he said.

  As they entered the lobby, the sounds of children laughing echoed over the tiled floors. There were three elevators, and all appeared to be in use. A man on a cell phone stepped off the center one, glanced at them, and then kept going.

  Vaughan circumvented the elevators, choosing a set of stairs to the right. She followed him down two flights until they were on the garage level. In the distance, a car door opened and closed, and two people were having a heated discussion about where to have dinner.

  He crossed the garage and led her toward a dimly lit corner. He unlocked the door and flipped on a light. Immediately, she spotted the strip of yellow tape wrapped around the third caged unit.

  “Whoever stashed Marsha Prince here must have known Ms. Saunders,” she said. “He or she would have known she barely used the unit. I wonder if we can identify that great-nephew Ms. McDonald mentioned.”

  “We tried. We went through her phone records and financials and found no consistent caller. No distant relative or con man. Nothing.”

  Her heels clicked as she walked up to the cage door, turned the latch, and swung it open.

  “There were twenty-eight boxes in here of all shapes and sizes,” Vaughan said. “We searched them all. But we didn’t find any more human remains, and there was no connection to the Prince family.”

  She ran her finger over the dusty edge of the back window. “Did you ever hear of any theories from the cops that worked the case about who killed Marsha Prince?”

  “There was never one person in their sights, but they all made several big bets that she knew her killer.”

  “Most women do,” she said.

  “I’ll put in a request for the old case files.”

  She imagined the attention and paperwork a case like this generated. It would take Vaughan weeks to dig through the old files. “I don’t spend six weeks re-creating a woman’s face without becoming invested. I’d like to help.”

  He leaned against the side of the cage. “I never say no to help.”

  “Good.”

  “Seeing as we’re going to be partners, want to grab dinner?” he asked.

  “I’m starving, and we could talk about the case.” It was a ritual she had shared with her late husband. Dinner had always involved a cold beer, maybe a steak, and discussion of a case. They had both loved the intellectual challenge, the sparring, and the lovemaking afterward.

  “I know a place.”

  “Lead the way.”

  He drove them to a small diner surrounded by a cluster of fast-food restaurants near the interstate. When she shot him a questioning look, he held up a hand. “Trust me.”

  “I’m holding you to a good meal, Detective Vaughan.”

  He opened the door, held it, and waited for her to pass. The hostess called out his name; he waved and headed toward what had to be a favorite booth. Men, she noted, were creatures of habit and liked routine.

  She slid across the red vinyl seat of the corner booth. From this vantage, they both had a clear view of the front and back exits. Like all cops, he probably wanted to know who was coming and going while he ate.

  She reached for a laminated menu and opened it. “So, how many nights a week did you and Nate come here?”

  “At least three. He never gets tired of the cheeseburgers and fries.”

  The idea of a burger and fries did tempt, but too many years of eating lean had left her unable to deviate from her strict diet. When the waitress appeared with two ice waters, she ordered a salad with grilled chicken. Vaughan got the cheeseburger and a soda.

  She took a long drink of her water.

  “The last time I saw you, you were on the hunt for a killer in Nashville,” he said.

  “South Broadway Shooter, according to the media.” This serial killer had shot couples as they strolled along the Cumberland River near Lower Broadway and the very popular tourist and entertainment strip. When she’d arrived, the shooter had killed six people in the span of one month. Local law enforcement had called her in to create a profile of the killer as well as a sketch based on scattered eyewitness testimonies. Two days after the media had telecast her sketch, he had been captured.

  “The capture made national news.”

  “The citizens of Nashville were scared. He all but shut down the tourist trade in the downtown area.”

  “The media never explained what his motivations were.”

  “Other than he was insane? He felt slighted by the music industry.”

  The waitress delivered his soda, and he thanked her by name. Vaughan was good that way. He smiled, used first names, and made eye contact, as if you were the only person in the world. It was what had made him one of her best students at the training session. And a good lover.

  “How many crimes boil down to hurt feelings?” he asked.

  “Too many.” She took a sip of water and, when the waitress delivered their meal, carefully unwrapped her paper napkin from around the stainless fork and knife. She sliced into the chicken and was pleasantly surprised to find it was moist.

  He bit into his burger, and for several minutes, the two sat and ate in silence. Cops on a case were damn lucky to sit at a table and eat a hot meal.

  “What about the security cameras aimed at the apartment complex or on Helen Saunders’s floor?”

  “We pulled the camera footage, but the building only stores the video for two weeks. And there were thousands of people who came and went during those weeks.”

  “What about known associates of Helen Saunders? I suspect that her unit was not picked at random.”

  “We couldn’t find anyone connected to Ms. Saunders who knew Marsha.”

  “With all the media attention during the initial investigation, no one came forward?”

  “There were hundreds of leads called in, but none of them panned out.” A bitterness sharpened the words.

  “You sound troubled. Why?”

  “I worked the stabbing homicide of a young sex worker today. Her case deserves that much attention.”

  Zoe understood the grim realities of a cop with limited time, too many cases, and a strong desire to find justice for all. “And she won’t get it.”

  “She will if I have a say.”

  They sat in silence for a few more minutes, finishing up their meals, searching for conversation that strayed beyond their jobs.

  “Any big plans now that you’re an empty nester?” she asked.

  “No idea.” He set down the last bit of burger and again carefully wiped his hands with his paper napkin.

  Her gaze dropped to his hands, remembering what they had felt like on her body.

  “Want to come back to the house with me?” he asked, as if his own memory mirrored hers.

  “Your actual house, and not a hotel room?” she asked.

  “Nate’s gone. The place is in a little disarray after this morning’s packing, but it’s clean and so very close,” he said with a slight grin.

  The colloquial term for their arrangement was friends with benefits or, more aptly, occasional work colleagues with benefits. Whatever the primary distinction, it was the benefits that were key.

  This was the first time she would go to his house. The half dozen hookups over the last few months had been at either her old apartment in Arlington or a hotel room. Never at his home and never at the Old Town place that had belonged to Jeff’s uncle. Made sense. Neutral locations kept their relationship from getting too personal.

  “Early day at the office,” she countered.

  “My morning call is early as well, but you also get breakf
ast and personal delivery to your destination of choice in the morning. That gives us the bulk of the night, and then I’ll drop you off.”

  She pictured those hands again on her naked body. “I’m ready when you are.”

  He tossed his napkin aside, his half-eaten meal seemingly forgotten. “I’ll get the check.”

  When Nikki arrived at the Foster house, she was still reeling from the news. The skull had belonged to Marsha Prince!

  She had not heard the name in thirteen years. The Marsha Prince disappearance had been the first big story she had covered, and she had been handed the assignment because of pure dumb luck. The station’s crime reporter had been sick with the flu. Her boss, in a moment of desperation, had sent Nikki out to cover what the police dispatch had been calling a “possible abduction.”

  The instant she and her cameraman had shown up at the Prince residence and seen the three cop cars, she had known in her bones she had hit pay dirt.

  Maybe she should have given Hadley more time to process, but she wanted to strike while the iron was hot. As she raised her hand to press the bell, angry voices, full of frustration, echoed from the home.

  She rang the bell, and when no one answered, she knocked harder. Finally, the voices silenced, and footsteps hurried toward the door. When it snapped open, she found herself staring at Mark Foster. He was a tall man, but not as fit and lean as she remembered from the days she had covered the Marsha Prince disappearance. He wore suit pants, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a red tie that he had loosened.

  “I’m Nikki McDonald. I’m here to see Hadley and talk to her about her sister, Marsha.”

  “No. My wife is not up to giving a quote.”

  “Mark, who’s at the door?” The woman’s voice grew louder, along with clipped footsteps.

  Nikki recognized the petite blonde, who looked very much like the girl she had tried to interview eighteen years ago. Her body remained trim and fit, though her angled face had lost the softness of youth. “Mrs. Foster.”

  “I’ve seen you on television before.”

  “Nikki McDonald. I also talked to you years ago.”

  “You flew out to Oregon.”

  “Yes, I did.” She’d arranged to do a fifth-year anniversary piece, and Hadley had agreed to the interview. But when she had flown out to Portland, Hadley had refused to see her. She had changed her mind.

  Instead of wallowing in the failed story, she pressed forward. “I’d still like to sit down with you and talk to you about your sister.”

  Hadley’s cheeks flushed. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Years ago, I remember you mentioned that you and your sister did not get along.”

  “That’s not how I remember it,” Hadley said. “I loved my sister.”

  “Some of her friends said that you two were fighting a lot that summer. Your parents had money for her education but not yours.”

  “I was immature in those days. I should have been kinder to my sister,” Hadley said. “Ms. McDonald, our family has been through a terrible ordeal. We don’t need you digging into old wounds.”

  “If not me, then it’ll be the cops. They won’t let this go.”

  “Good night.” Mark moved to shut the door.

  Nikki stepped forward and put her foot on the threshold so he could not shut it. “No other reporter knows as much about this case as I do. I’m the best person to tell your sister’s story.”

  “She would not want her story told,” Hadley said, stepping forward. “She’d have hated the attention.”

  Mark stepped between Nikki and Hadley. As he had been back in the day, he was her protector. “This is enough. Leave, or I’m calling the cops.”

  “There are going to be other reporters,” she warned. “Talk to me. Tell me your story.”

  “We’re going to ignore all the reporters, including you,” he said. “This is a private family matter.”

  “There is nothing private about it,” Nikki countered.

  “Just like before, the story will die, and it’ll be forgotten,” Hadley said.

  “Do you really want Marsha forgotten?” Nikki said.

  A girl appeared at the top of the stairs, and she regarded them for a beat before she began to descend. “Mom!”

  “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about my sister and what I could or should have done to save her,” she hissed. “But I can’t change the past.”

  Nikki lowered her voice, leaning forward. “What is it about your past with Marsha that you want to change?”

  Hadley pressed her fingers to her temples and turned from the door. “Leave me alone.”

  Hadley’s last words had barely been spoken when Mark pushed Nikki back and closed the front door in her face.

  Nikki stood on the porch, more irritated with herself than put out. As she walked down the steps, she heard shades snap shut behind her in window after window.

  Her desperation for a story had gotten the better of her, and she had pushed Hadley too far and too fast. But she would regroup and return. This story was her ticket back, and she was not going to let it go.

  Minutes before seven, he watched Skylar’s sappy boyfriend, Neil, pick her up, and then almost immediately, Hadley pulled out of the driveway.

  He waited for Hadley’s car to go around the corner before he started his engine and followed. Normally, Hadley waited longer to leave and was careful about her speed in the neighborhood, but tonight she appeared in a rush.

  He wasn’t worried, because she always went to the upscale hotel in Crystal City where her lover waited in the dimly lit bar. They would meet, flirt, and then find their way separately to his room. She always left by eleven and by midnight was home, showered, and in bed, curled on her side, likely pretending to sleep.

  However, this Monday was different. The cops had come to her house. He didn’t need to see badges to know they were the law. The plain suits and the way they had moved had given them away. The camera he had mounted on a neighbor’s tree had alerted him. They were there to inform Hadley about the gift he had given Nikki McDonald.

  God, if I could have been a fly on the wall. It would have been priceless to see Hadley’s expression when the cops told her about Marsha’s bones rolling around in that chest.

  He tried to imagine Hadley’s reaction. She was always cool and could hide her true feelings. He, better than anyone, knew that. Hadley had spent eighteen years pretending she did not know what had happened to Marsha. Now she had to be wondering if the secrets were finally going to bubble to the surface.

  As he followed her through Arlington, he already knew she would not waver from her Monday night dalliance. Her regimented schedule was the only thing keeping her glued together after today’s knock on the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday, August 12, 8:30 p.m.

  Northern Virginia

  One Day Before

  Zoe was not surprised that Vaughan’s home was modest. Cops in the Northern Virginia real estate market did not have many options, and she imagined he counted himself lucky that he was inside the beltway.

  As he pulled into the driveway, security lights mounted on the side and front of the house clicked on. The one-story brick house was located on a cul-de-sac that was ringed by a half dozen larger homes more recently built.

  There was no garage, and the closely cut grass had browned and bristled in the August heat. No flowers in the edged beds or extrafussy accoutrements such as flags or garden statues women tended to like. But there was a wooden fort built in one large tree, and judging by the graying wood and weathered rope ladder, it had been there at least a decade.

  As she stepped out of the car, her general assessment of the Vaughan home was that it was normal.

  He pressed several buttons on the keypad mounted by the front door, and it opened. A sensor inside the house triggered interior lights, and a security alarm pinged as he punched in the code.

  Okay, maybe Vaughan’s emphasis on security was not
exactly run of the mill. But once anyone saw what a homicide detective witnessed, they understood monsters did not just inhabit fairy tales.

  The interior setup was very masculine. Large overstuffed couch, twin recliners, and a massive television mounted over a fireplace that looked unused. The pictures on the walls were themed around his son or sports. The place was clean and neat, and the only hints of Nate’s major transition were several unfilled boxes.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I have bourbon.”

  “Thanks. No ice.”

  He opened a kitchen cabinet and removed a half-full bottle of bourbon and poured two fingers in everyday glasses. As he handed her a glass, her fingers barely brushed his. It was a light touch, scarcely noticeable, but it sent a thrill through her. It had been a while since they had been together, and she hungered for what was coming.

  She took a sip, impressed. “Nice.”

  “Glad you like it.” His gaze studied her over the rim of his glass before he downed it in an uncharacteristic show of impatience.

  She finished the last of her drink and set the glass down beside his. “You going to give me the grand tour or take me straight to the bedroom?”

  He loosened his tie. “Do you want the grand tour?”

  “How about a rain check on that?” It surprised her how much her impatience had seeped into her tone.

  “Good.”

  Vaughan took her by the hand and led her down the central hallway peppered with more pictures of Vaughan and his son.

  The bed in the master room was a king with two pillows and a neatly made blue comforter. Twin nightstands had lamps, but the table closest to the door was piled high with books on history, mathematics, and politics. Topping the stack of books was a pair of dark-rimmed glasses.

  “There’s a bathroom in there if you need it,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  She removed her weapon and holster from her waistband and set them both on a dresser outfitted with a large mirror that caught the bed’s reflection.

  She shrugged off her jacket and laid it beside her weapon and kicked off her shoes. As she unbuttoned her blouse, she caught Vaughan’s reflection in the mirror. He had removed his badge and gun but was watching her closely as he unfastened his shirt buttons.