by Burton, Mary
The sound wasn’t coming from the hallway but from behind her.
Someone was in her room.
The phone woke Nikki McDonald, startling her from a hazy, restless sleep. Her body was still buzzing with too much caffeine, and her mind was crammed with ideas about the Marsha Prince story.
She reached automatically for the first of three cells on her nightstand. Blinking away the sleep, she focused on her phone.
What do you think of my tip?
She sat up so quickly the papers piled on her chest slid to the floor. She had received nothing from the tipster who had contacted her early in the summer through her website. And now, he was texting her.
Heart pounding, she drew in a breath. She gave out this cell number to anyone and everyone. It was the number she used when she worked a story, so no surprise that whoever her mystery person was, they had gotten ahold of it.
Nikki texted back: Who is this? How did you know Marsha Prince was in that storage room? She waited for the text bubbles. “Come on. Don’t leave Mama hanging like that.”
And then the trio of rolling bubbles appeared. I know a lot about Marsha Prince.
Who is this?
The bubbles vanished.
She typed, Reward for more information.
“Come on, come on.” She gripped the phone for minutes, staring, waiting, before realizing whoever had contacted her might not be motivated by money. If coins were not going to do the trick, a few ego strokes might.
No one can tell your story like me.
Silence.
She fell back against the mattress, holding the phone to her chest. Whoever this was, this was contact number two. This mystery source was building up his nerve. He wanted something from her but was not ready to ask.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She dialed her contact in the police department.
“Manny Jackson.”
“Manny, this is Nikki McDonald.”
“Long time no talk.” The rough edges softened as he was likely remembering the multiple rounds of bourbon she had bought him while working the Beltway Bomber story three years ago.
“Been on the move.”
“So I hear.”
She rose and paced, making herself smile. “Hey, Manny, got a favor to ask.”
“You always have a favor to ask.” He sounded more amused than put out.
“Hey, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Your department came off looking like heroes when I covered the bomber.” The cops had been heroes. In cinematic fashion, they had found the bomb and disarmed it so quickly she had almost been disappointed. A little explosion or fire would have made for great footage, plus more airtime for her.
“You back on the job at the news station? For what it’s worth, the gal who took your place looks like she’s still in high school.”
She pictured the brunette with the smooth olive skin. “Kelsey Jennings was in high school five years ago.”
“Shit.”
“I might have a shot at returning if you help me with this.”
A sigh shuddered over the line. “What do you need?”
“Marsha Prince.”
The beat of silence went from weary to charged, like she had struck a nerve, and it was sending shocks through his body. “What about her?”
This time her grin was real. “Vaughan came to see me today. He told me the skull I found shoved in the gray trunk was Marsha Prince. How did she die?”
He blew out a breath. “If the detectives know, they aren’t telling.”
“How long has she been dead?” When he hesitated, she added, “Do a down-and-out gal a solid, Manny.”
He chuckled. “No one is sure. Now that they know who she is, they’ll run more tests.”
She paced the carpeted floor, glancing in the mirror as she passed. She sucked in her stomach. “What’s the FBI’s involvement?”
“Strictly support at this point. They did the bust and made the identification. Now, Ms. Prince is Alexandria PD Homicide’s case.”
“Thanks, Manny. I owe you a round.”
“Make it two.” In the background, a phone began to ring. “Got to go.”
“Thanks, baby.”
When the phone went dead, she pressed it to her chest and paced around the room. She owed Vaughan a phone call on this mysterious text, and she would tell him about it. Soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday, August 13, 5:30 a.m.
Northern Virginia
The Day Of
The instant Vaughan woke, he knew she was gone. He should not have been surprised. She never stayed long, but he’d thought last night would be different.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and instantly spotted the note on the mirror. It was written on the back of the fast-food receipt in fluid and graceful handwriting.
Called a car. Didn’t want to wake you.
Spencer. He knew how to make that woman’s body tighten with desire and how to make her moan in a way that told him she was fully attuned to his body. But beyond that, she was still a complete stranger.
He flicked the edge of the note, surprised he had not awoken. Since he had become a cop and father, he had turned into a light sleeper. Both incarnations, like a doctor on call, were summoned at all times of the day and night. His ability to shake off sleep in seconds and then think clearly was well honed. But yesterday had been long, even for him.
He laid the note on his dresser as he glanced at the pillow that still held the impression of her head. It was not like him to be sentimental, but he was sorry he likely would not see her for a while.
He showered, and fifteen minutes later he was dressed, his badge and sidearm on his belt. As the coffee brewed, he scrambled five eggs before he realized Nate was gone. He toasted a bagel and ate alone at the kitchen table.
He filled a travel mug with more coffee and was on the road by six o’clock. Moonlight mingled with the lights looming over I-395 as he looped around the beltway and headed north toward his exit. The traffic was already building, and soon it would slow to a snail’s pace.
With luck, the first wave of files from the Prince case would be in his office. He had been warned that there were a dozen file boxes, but he did not care. He also had the autopsy of the Jane Doe stabbed to death in the motel room to attend. It was going to be another long day.
Fifteen minutes later, he had parked and was in the break room, refilling his coffee. When he flipped on the lights of his office, there were six file boxes stacked in front of his desk. A green sticky note read More to come.
It was too early to call the medical examiner about his Jane Doe from the motel room, so he set his cup down and flipped through the first set of files.
He spent the next hour and a half reading through the detectives’ notes. At the time of Marsha’s disappearance, the detectives had exhausted every lead and tip that had come into the station, but in the end came up with nothing.
Vaughan juxtaposed the image of the blackened skull in the trunk and the smiling face of Marsha Prince. Only a monster would do this to a young, vibrant girl who had been Vaughan’s son’s age when she’d died.
When Nate had been a little boy, he had wanted assurance that monsters were not real. Before Vaughan could confirm they were, his ex-wife had been quick to tell the boy that they were only in storybooks. But Nate had been savvy enough to know even then that she had lied. When Vaughan had been tucking Nate into bed that night, the boy had asked his father about the monsters.
Vaughan could not lie and had simply said, “I got your six, pal.”
“I got yours, too, Dad.”
A knock on Vaughan’s door brought his attention to the present. Detective Cassidy Hughes stood in the doorway. He had worked with Hughes for a year now, and the two got on well. Short with a sinewy frame, Hughes had curly hair and always dressed in well-fitting clothes. Today it was snug jeans, a silk blouse, and heeled boots.
“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she said.
H
e cleared his throat and shut the dead girl’s file. “What’s up?”
“A real shit storm of biblical proportion.”
Zoe stood in her kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the still-packed boxes she had moved to her townhome six weeks ago.
Technically, she had the day off. Ramsey had told her to kick back for a few days after what had been an endless stream of weeks filled with different cities, police departments, and killers.
Try as she might, she had not been able to sleep more than a couple of hours, so she had risen and made coffee. As she sipped, she cared less about the flavor and more about the punch of caffeine to chase away the fatigue. She really did not want to unpack boxes today any more than she had during the other countless opportunities. Even an armchair psychologist would call this procrastination classic avoidance. She had legally claimed the property and sold a perfectly good condo, but for some reason she could not settle into living here.
She crossed the stone floor to the table nestled in the nook of a bay window and thumbed through the stack of mail. A glance out the wavy glass windowpanes, original to the 1801 house, showed a vivid blue sky. Bright sunshine shone down on Prince Street’s cobblestone road sloping toward the Potomac River less than a block away. She climbed the narrow staircase to her room, thinking she would slide back into bed and catch up on reading.
The stairs creaked and the banister wobbled a little as she climbed the stairs past the dozens of black-and-white photos featuring Uncle Jimmy in all the incarnations he had enjoyed during his eighty-two years.
Vaughan had hit the nail on the head when he had questioned why she was keeping this place. As tempting as it had been to sell, as it was worth millions even in its dilapidated state, giving it up felt disloyal to Uncle Jimmy and Jeff. Uncle Jimmy, who had raised Jeff, was her last tangible connection to him. However, the true cost of repairing and maintaining this home was beyond her means. So here she was, able neither to sell nor to keep. She was caught in no-man’s-land.
The digital clock on the antique nightstand and her phone charger looked out of place next to the four-poster Queen Anne bed that dominated what had been a guest room.
The last time she had slept in this room had been the night Jeff had died. She had been unable to go home to the apartment they had shared, and Jimmy had been the only refuge that had felt remotely comforting. The old man had welcomed her in with open arms.
Before she had left for her last trip to Nashville, her single act of making this house her own had been to change the sheets on the guest bed, which, to her great relief, were seductively comfortable.
Hanging above the bed was one of the best forgeries she had ever seen of Monet’s Impression, Sunrise. If Uncle Jimmy had known anything, it was how to paint the best fakes. Over the last few years, Zoe had often had dinner with Jimmy, and over a bottle of Chateaux Margaux, he had shared the tips of master forgers like himself. Jimmy had given her the skills to become the agent she was.
Her phone rang, and she fished it out of the back pocket of her jeans. Caller ID displayed Jerrod Ramsey. Her boss had a reputation for not sleeping, which she had been warned was a hazard of the job.
Zoe took another sip of coffee that had cooled. “Agent Ramsey, how did you know I was awake? It’s my day off.”
He chuckled as if she had made a joke. “You met with Vaughan yesterday?”
“I did.” He never called for idle chatter. “Do I still have the next four days off?”
“Technically, you do. And technically, I’ve had five vacations in the last four years, but I’ve worked through every one of them.”
She pressed the mug to her temple, grateful her plans to unpack today were officially shot. “What do you need?”
“Hadley Foster.”
Her interest perked. “I met her yesterday. I went with Vaughan to make the death notice.”
“She’s missing, along with her daughter. The father is in surgery right now. He told the responding officer that he was stabbed by an unknown intruder.”
There should have been a universal law forbidding evil on such beautiful days, she thought. “I can be at the residence in a half hour.”
“Good. The media has already gotten wind of it, and I’m sure you realize there’s a lot of pressure to find the mother and daughter as quickly as possible.”
“Vaughan and I spoke to Nikki McDonald yesterday as well.”
“She’s no doubt leading the charge from the media.”
“Understood. I’m on it.”
He ended the call, and she quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. She toweled off, dressed in a dark pantsuit, and coiled her long auburn hair into a twist. She drained the last of her coffee and then, securing her badge and gun to her belt, grabbed her purse and headed down the stairs.
Out the back door, she cut across the long narrow backyard, past Jimmy’s private garage, currently crammed full of God only knew what, and through the tall privacy gate to the street. Up a block, she found the spot where she had parked her Ford Explorer. She made a mental note to clean out the damn garage.
After tossing her bag in the car, she slid behind the wheel. She had thought after last night it would be a while before she would see Vaughan again, if ever. It had felt a little too personal, and a long break was in order. But here they were, working together again. At least this morning she had left him a note.
“No rest for the wicked,” she muttered as she pulled out of the space.
AMBER ALERT
Seventeen-year-old female Skylar Foster and her mother, thirty-five-year-old Hadley Foster, are missing and considered in EXTREME DANGER. The family’s 2017 black Lexus is missing and presumed stolen and was last seen in Alexandria, Virginia.
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday, August 13, 8:00 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
One Hour after the 911 Call
The call played in Vaughan’s mind as he scanned the Fosters’ suburban street and the neatly maintained yards. Today, the safe, upscale neighborhood had been invaded by a collection of marked police cars parked on the street, the department’s forensic van, and three news station vans. Channel 5 and their primary anchor, Rick McGuire, were on scene. No sign of Nikki McDonald yet.
He ducked under the tightly strung yellow crime scene tape and paused to speak to the uniformed officer. He extended his hand. “Oscar, what’s going on?”
“It’s a mess inside,” he said.
Officer Aylor was young and had been in the department less than a year. The first homicide or truly gruesome death often shook up the rookies. He had wiped the blood from his hands, but his shirt and pants were stained.
Vaughan could still recall his first homicide. A woman had gutshot her husband. The smell of that scene had lingered with him for weeks. “I understand Mr. Foster called 911?”
“He did at 7:00 a.m. He was lying in the foyer when I arrived at 7:05 a.m. He was barely conscious, but he kept insisting that we find his wife and daughter.”
“Did you ask for a description of the assailant?”
“Foster kept saying the guy wore a mask, and he didn’t see his face.”
“Did you search the premises?”
“The ambulance was seconds behind me, and when they took control of Mr. Foster, I searched the house. No sign of the wife, daughter, or perpetrator. But it’s clear whatever went down happened in the master bedroom.”
Vaughan would see for himself soon enough. “Thanks, Oscar. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Vaughan removed latex gloves from his pocket and slid them on his hands. As he climbed the front steps, he glanced left and right into the flower beds, thinking there might be footprints or a discarded item that would indicate what had happened here. It was the crime scene’s job now to tell him the story.
When he saw nothing that caught his attention, he reached in another pocket and removed paper booties. When he reached the front door of the house, he slid the booties over his sh
oes.
“Detective Vaughan!” A woman called his name, and when he looked back, he saw Nikki McDonald. She was dressed in a lightweight red pantsuit that showed off her figure. Her hair hung loose around her face, and her makeup was flawless. “Do you have a comment or an update?”
“What time did you post your story?” It wasn’t a matter of if but when with her.
“Five a.m. The story is up, as are the comments. Nothing unusual yet. Can I ask you a few questions?”
The release to the media had gone out minutes after he and Spencer had spoken to her, so she could not be blamed for revealing any secrets. “Not now.”
“When can you talk to me?” Her high-heeled shoes clicked against the pavement as she walked up and down the yellow tape framing the sidewalk. Rick McGuire was crossing the street toward them.
Reminding himself he might need her, he kept his voice even and steady. “Soon. I don’t know what I have yet.”
Nikki glanced back at Rick, offered a small salute, and returned to her car as a Ford Explorer pulled up on the other side of the street, several houses down. Agent Spencer got out of the vehicle.
Her dark suit emphasized her long legs, which ate up the distance between them. Her gaze hitched on his briefly as she slid gloves on her hands. She climbed the stairs and slipped on the booties Vaughan handed her. “Thanks.”
“Not how I expected to spend this morning,” he said.
“You and me both.”
“How did you hear about this?” he asked.
“Ramsey called a half hour ago. Can you give me a brief?”
“I just got here myself. All I know at this point is that the wife and daughter are missing, and the husband was transported to Alexandria Hospital a half hour ago. He was barely conscious but insisted a masked assailant took his wife and daughter.”
“Did he recognize the intruder?” Spencer asked.
“No.”
“And his injuries?”
“The uniformed officer stated he was semiconscious. The full extent of his injuries remains unknown.”
“The press is going to eat this one up,” Spencer said. “Young girl’s remains found after eighteen years, and then her sister vanishes a day later. Christ, this is going to go nationwide.”