by Burton, Mary
They arrived at the Foster home, and Vaughan parked the car behind the forensic van that still had personnel working the interior of the home. He clenched his jaw as he calculated the next complication in this already convoluted case.
Out of the vehicle, the two crossed the street and approached the yellow crime scene tape, where Foster and Pollard faced off with a young uniformed officer. Foster was wearing a gray sweatshirt and pants, sneakers, and a Nationals ball cap. A sling was wrapped around his shoulder, holding up his injured arm, and he appeared to wince as he scooted to the door. Pollard, a portly man with thin graying hair, wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and polished black shoes.
Nikki McDonald was on scene and ignoring another reporter who was trying to get her attention. Vaughan had to give her props for her dogged pursuit of this story.
Pollard glanced at Nikki and then Vaughan before he whispered a few words to Foster. Like a windup doll, Foster stumbled toward Vaughan.
“This is my house,” Foster shouted. “I have a right to go inside. You can’t keep me out!”
“Yes, we can, Mr. Foster,” Vaughan said calmly. “This house is a crime scene, and we need to preserve as much evidence as we can.”
A few of the neighbors appeared on their porches or in front windows. Two news vans rolled up at the end of the block with their reporters and camera crews spilling out of them.
“The house is covered in my wife’s blood!” Foster shouted. “It’s not right.”
“No, sir, it’s not right,” Vaughan said. “But we have to tolerate it for now.”
Rodney Pollard put his arm around Foster’s shoulders. “Mark, you came here to make a statement. What do you want to say?”
The pain in Foster’s eyes appeared genuine. Even if Foster had planned to murder his wife as Spencer had suggested, he certainly couldn’t have been expecting this mess. “Yes, I have something to say.”
The cameramen and reporters edged closer, but it was Nikki McDonald and her GoPro that made it to the prime spot first.
“I want my wife and daughter back,” Foster said. “I will do whatever it takes to get her safely home. I love you both very much.” Tears welled in his eyes and then spilled down his face. He wiped them away and clenched his fingers into fists. “Please don’t hurt my girl.”
Vaughan was struck immediately by his use of the singular. My girl, not my girls. Her. Not them. It could have been the meds and stress addling him.
Pollard looked at the cameras with the practiced confidence of a man who was comfortable with the spotlight. “Mr. Foster loves his family, and he’s just as much a victim in this case as his wife and daughter. If anyone knows anything about Hadley or Skylar Foster, call the police or my office. We’re prepared to pay a reward for any information leading to their safe return.”
A reward would ensure twice the number of bogus calls.
“Detective Vaughan,” Nikki said, “is there any link to this crime and the recent identification of Hadley Foster’s sister?”
“No comment at this time.”
All the reporters began to volley questions at Vaughan. The back-and-forth between media and law enforcement went on for another twenty minutes before Vaughan called a halt to the conference and ordered everyone to leave.
Foster’s gaze held a mixture of sadness and anger. He appeared almost in a stupor. “Find my wife and daughter. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”
Sarah Pollard stepped forward and laid her hand on Mark’s. “Come to our house. You need to rest.”
“I’m not leaving my own house.” Foster snatched his arm from Mrs. Pollard’s grip. “I have a right to be here.”
Vaughan’s frown deepened. “You’re not helping your wife and daughter. Let us do our job.”
“Come to our house,” Pollard urged. “It’s quiet, and you can sit down. You look like you can barely stand.”
“I can’t sleep or rest now,” Foster said.
“No one is going to get any rest until Hadley and Skylar are found,” Spencer said. “Let us escort you to the Pollard house.”
Foster’s shoulders slumped forward, as if whatever adrenaline had fueled him had run dry. They crossed the side alley between the two privacy fences and made their way up the Pollards’ back steps into the sunroom that overlooked the Fosters’ house. By the time Mark Foster sat, he was pale and drawn.
“I’ll get us something to drink,” Mrs. Pollard said.
“Thank you, dear,” Pollard said.
Foster relaxed against large floral pillows that all but molded around his body. His face was pale, and his left hand trembled slightly. “Where are my wife and daughter?”
Vaughan asked Pollard, “Can you give us some privacy, please?”
“Pollard can stay,” Foster said. “I need all the friends I can get now.”
“I’m also his lawyer,” Pollard said. “Mark is not talking to you without representation.”
“Mr. Foster, do you feel like you need a lawyer?” Vaughan asked. “We are on the same side.”
Foster looked toward his neighbor. “Rodney says the cops always assume the spouse did it. And I know that you see me as a suspect.”
“We’re here to find your family,” Vaughan said.
“Your agenda is to close a case,” Pollard said.
Spencer paid keen attention to Foster, as if she did not want to miss a second of his reactions. “Sir, we found a woman’s body in a dumpster an hour ago.”
Foster stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as if searching. Finally, he blinked and shook his head. “It can’t be Hadley or Skylar.”
Vaughan noted a sense of surety he had not expected. “Why do you say that?”
Foster leveled his gaze on Vaughan and, with a true sense of certainty, said, “Because Hadley cannot be dead. And Skylar has to be okay.”
Vaughan had interviewed murderers who could look back on their own deeds in genuine disbelief. This was particularly true when the crime was intertwined with passion. The killer acted rashly and quickly and then, within minutes, could not believe what they had done.
But what struck him was a level of confidence that a man in his position just should not have.
“Were you able to make a solid visual identification of the body you found?” Pollard asked.
“Not yet,” Spencer lied.
There was nothing in the rule book that said a cop could not lie to a suspect. “Animals got ahold of the body,” Vaughan added.
The visual triggered more tears in Foster’s eyes. They flowed down his flushed cheeks, and his hands trembled as if a chill coursed through his body. “My poor girls,” he said. “They didn’t deserve any of this. Our family was so close.”
But it hadn’t been. He’d been having an affair, and so had Hadley.
“Mr. Foster,” Spencer said, “can you describe the man who broke into your house this morning?”
“I already have.”
“Yes, sir, but can you do it again for me?”
A sigh shuddered through him. “I don’t want to remember him.”
Vaughan was certain if the shoe were on the other foot, he would be moving heaven and earth to remember key details.
“Mr. Foster,” Spencer said, “let’s start at the beginning. You were taking the recycling out.”
“Yes.”
“Your recycling bin was still in the backyard,” she said.
“Then it was the trash,” he said. “Tomorrow is trash day, and I knew I wouldn’t have time.”
She didn’t argue but prompted him with, “You exited the house via the back door with the trash?”
“I started out the front door when I remembered the trash. I was in a rush and left it open as I hurried out the back.”
“What happened next?” Spencer asked.
“I heard a scream.”
“Your daughter’s scream?” she asked.
“No. My wife. I raced upstairs, and there was a man in our
room, holding a knife to her neck.”
“What was your wife wearing?” she asked.
“Her purple workout tank and shorts.”
Vaughan knew what Spencer was doing. She was peppering Foster with questions that he should remember easily if he was telling the truth.
“You said she’d already showered that morning,” she said.
“She was going to the gym,” Foster said.
“And your daughter?” she pressed. “Where was she again?”
“She was in another room.”
“What room?” she asked.
“Her own. What does it matter where Skylar was?”
“It matters,” Spencer said.
“You don’t have to answer these questions, Mark,” Pollard said. “The cops are fishing. And they’re trying to trip you up on details. They are building a case against you.”
More tears streamed down his face. “Skylar is such a good kid. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”
“No, sir, she doesn’t,” Vaughan said.
Pollard laid his hand on Foster’s shoulder. “You need to take a break.”
“Your wife and daughter don’t have time,” Vaughan said.
“Detective Vaughan, would you step outside with me?” Spencer said. Spencer’s frustration bubbled under her blank expression.
“Sure.”
He followed her out of the house, and when the two were outside, she crossed to the Fosters’ fence and opened it. She walked directly to the trash can and raised the lid. It was half-full.
“Doesn’t look like it was trash day either,” she said.
“No, it does not.”
“Foster is lying,” she said.
“Divorces and children are expensive.”
“With them both gone, it would clear the decks for a new life.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But we also have a potentially troubled kid who wasn’t afraid to push the boundaries and could have brought all this upon her family.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, August 13, 10:00 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Fifteen Hours after the 911 Call
It was as if Zoe had opened the puzzle box and dumped all the pieces onto a table. She had all she needed to create the picture featured on the box cover, but she had no idea how to connect them yet. “Have you tracked down any of her friends?”
Vaughan checked his notebook and nodded. “The place to go next is the gym. Apparently, Hadley spent most of her waking hours there.”
“Agreed.”
The trail of bread crumbs they were following was scattered at best. But it was all they had for now. “Right.”
They drove to the gym located on King Street, parked in a lot behind the building, and pushed through the glass front doors and walked up to the front desk. A young woman wore a T-shirt that read KING STREET GYM. She had blond hair pulled into a perky ponytail and wore almost no makeup on flawless skin.
She looked up at both of them, smiling until she saw Vaughan’s badge. “Is this about Hadley? We all just saw the news.”
“Yes,” Vaughan said. “She worked out here but was also an employee. I would assume she would have some acquaintances.”
“She and Sharon hung out a lot. Sharon’s the fitness director and has her office in the back. I’ll show you.”
“Did you know Hadley well?” Zoe glanced at her name tag. “Misty.”
“I’ve only been here a few weeks. But she was always nice to me. I hope when I get to be her age, I’m in as good a shape.”
When Zoe had been this kid’s age, she’d still been dancing. In those days, she had felt invincible. Her body had responded when she had demanded it, and the aches and pains had been minor annoyances. She had been told she had tremendous potential, and she had begun to look at the more established dancers with a similar kind of awe. Never once had she pictured herself as anything other than a dancer.
They found Sharon sitting behind her desk when Misty knocked on the door. Sharon, like Misty and Hadley, was fit, her arms and legs finely toned. Zoe and Vaughan introduced themselves, and when Misty left, they sat in a pair of wire chairs next to a set of scales.
“I still can’t believe Hadley is missing,” Sharon said. “Who would do that to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Zoe said. “What can you tell us about Hadley?”
“She was a hard worker. If she wasn’t training or teaching, she was working out. She never sat still. I asked her once if she ever relaxed, and she laughed and said she couldn’t. I wonder if she knew something like this might happen.”
“Did you know about her affair with Roger Dawson?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. It was hard to miss. Those two could barely keep their hands off of each other.”
“Dawson said Hadley wanted to divorce her husband,” Vaughan said.
Sharon shifted in her seat. “It sounds cheap when I hear you talk about it. But I think she loved Roger.”
“She was going to leave Mark?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. She was only hesitating because of Skylar.”
“Why?” Vaughan asked.
“Sky has been a handful the last ten or eleven months. Hadley caught her sneaking out, and she had grown very secretive. Hadley was getting frustrated with her. Last week, she said life would be easier if she’d never become a mom.”
“Did she have a desk or a locker?” he asked.
“She did. I can show you.” She rose, almost relieved to be getting out of the room. They walked past several doorways before Sharon pulled out a key and unlocked a door. She pushed it open and flipped on the lights.
The office was barely big enough to hold a small desk and two chairs. The desk was clean, except for a picture of Hadley and Skylar and an award. The picture had been taken at the beach and appeared to be as recent as this past summer. Both Hadley and Skylar had broad grins that lit up their faces.
“That was taken on the Eastern Shore,” Sharon said. “She and Skylar went away for the weekend.”
“Mark didn’t go?” Zoe asked.
“She said he had to work.” Sharon folded her arms. “Hadley wanted to be close to Skylar. That’s why she entered them in the spring DC metro area fitness dance competition. They were both great and won first place. It was even in the papers.”
“What was Hadley’s relationship like with Mark?” Vaughan asked.
Sharon hesitated. “You know about his affair, right?”
“Yes,” Zoe said.
“I can tell you that it really irked Hadley that Mark and Veronica still saw each other every day at work. I think that’s what finally drove Hadley to Roger.”
Zoe sat at the desk and opened the center drawer and found basic supplies: pens, pencils, paper clips, and rubber bands. She reached inside the drawer and patted her hand along the back edge but felt nothing. The next drawer contained Hadley’s calendar with workout schedules. A pat down of this drawer also revealed nothing. The third and final drawer was deeper than the first two and contained fitness manuals.
She thumbed through each book and found only random notes that Hadley had made in neat handwriting along the edges that referenced questions about the book’s content.
When she searched the back of the third drawer, her fingers skimmed over the edge of something. She removed a worn envelope and its contents.
The much-older picture featured a family of four, including Dad, Mom, and their two smiling blond daughters. There was no mistaking the girls. They were Hadley and Marsha.
All the Princes were smartly dressed and looked happy. This picture appeared to have been taken shortly before Marsha had vanished. She flipped it over, and written on the back were the words I remember. Do you?
“Remember what?” Vaughan asked.
“Good question. The photo is weathered and bears the photographer’s embossed logo,” Zoe said.
“Why would Hadley hide the picture in the back of an office desk drawer?” he a
sked. “If it upset her that much, why not just destroy it?”
“My guess is she wanted to, but something held her back,” Zoe said. “Guilt. Remorse. Fear.”
“Have you ever seen this picture?” Vaughan asked Sharon.
“About three weeks ago, I saw it on her desk, but as soon as I came in her office, she put it away.”
“She would have been about seventeen when this was taken.” Zoe showed the picture to Vaughan.
Interest flickered in his gaze, but he said nothing. He snapped a picture of the photo with his phone and removed a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“No. No. If you think it will help find Hadley and Skylar,” Sharon said.
“Thank you, Sharon,” Zoe said. “Detective, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Neither spoke as the beat of music, the clink of weight machines, and the whoosh of elliptical trainers followed them out through the glass front doors. The parking lot was thinning as the ten o’clock closing time approached.
When they reached his car, she asked, “What did you make of the note?”
“Written by someone who knew Hadley before her sister vanished.”
“What do you think the chances are that we’ll pull a good print from the photo?”
“Slim. But it’s worth a try.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tuesday, August 13, 10:30 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Just over Fifteen Hours after the 911 Call
The police tip line lit up within minutes of the press conference, and as predicted, it was generating dozens of leads. Several callers said they had seen either one or both of the Foster women, but each time a uniformed officer followed up, the lead took them nowhere.
Vaughan was pulling into the police station when his phone rang. “It’s the medical examiner.”
Spencer checked her watch. “They’ve had the Jane Doe from the dumpster for two hours. And Galina Grant for almost two days.”
“Detective Vaughan.” It had been less than two days since he’d dropped Nate off at school, but it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago.
“This is Baldwin.”
Phil Baldwin was the medical examiner, and the two had worked together on many cases. “Phil. Sorry I didn’t get by today for the Grant autopsy.”