by Burton, Mary
“Kids from nice neighborhoods think they’re invincible and trust too damn easily. They think that protective bubble will follow them everywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday, August 14, 2:00 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Nineteen Hours after the 911 Call
Zoe and Vaughan worked past three o’clock in the morning, reviewing the Fosters’ financial and phone records. Fatigue was settling into her body, but she pushed through it, refusing to quit. A couple of times, he checked his watch and, when he caught her studying him, smiled sheepishly and admitted he had to remind himself that Nate wasn’t home. She felt for the guy but knew there wasn’t much she could say.
They had learned the Foster family enjoyed nice clothes, fancy restaurants, and expensive jewelry, but they were in deep debt. The house had two mortgages against it, and both Hadley’s and Mark’s credit cards were nearly maxed out.
Vaughan had also discovered that Mark had taken out a three-million-dollar life insurance policy on his wife a year ago. He was listed as the sole beneficiary.
By three in the morning, Zoe and Vaughan agreed to take a two-hour break so each could swing by their home to shower and change clothes.
He walked her to her car, and she drove back to her town house, cutting down the quiet streets of Old Town Alexandria. She parked and hurried down the brick sidewalk to her front door.
Zoe’s ring of keys rattled in her hand as she twisted the old lock to the front door of her home. The hardware was brass and had stunning detail on both the handle and faceplate. However, it required finesse and jiggling to work, as if it really did not want her in the house.
She missed her modern condo with the doorman and the view of downtown Arlington and the Potomac. She also dreamed about the dual-head jet shower and the huge walk-in closet. Sure, it had had zero personality or history, but it had been convenient for work, which was what had kept her going after Jeff had died. And yet here she stood.
She closed the door behind her and hooked her purse strap on the end of the bullnose banister. Climbing the narrow staircase, she passed the wall cluttered with photo memories and paused to look at the picture of Jeff and his uncle. Both were still grinning.
It had been eight years since that picture had been taken, but it might as well have been a lifetime. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the picture.
As she climbed the last steps, she shrugged off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. She was anxious to peel off the smells of the day and wash away the lingering scents of the crime scene. She turned on the shower, knowing the old pipes needed time to coax out hot water. As the water ran, she stripped and unfastened her hair.
A glance to the right captured the large picture of her when she had been at her peak physical shape, leaning back against a tree. She would have tossed it, but it had been a favorite of Jeff’s.
Zoe turned to the mirror and ran her hands over a belly no longer rock hard or perfectly flat. Her hips had also rounded since then, and the tone in her muscles had softened. She missed the ability to command her body to move in any direction and have it immediately obey.
She stepped under the hot spray, shifting her focus from the past to a very dark present that involved two missing women, a body in a motel room, and another stuffed in a dumpster.
She lathered her hair and washed. The warmth stoked the fatigue, and she was drawn to the unmade bed that waited for her. Instead, she turned the warm tap to cold, inhaling a breath as the chilled water smacked her skin and made her heart jump.
She switched off the water, quickly dried her hair, and dressed in a clean suit. The other would be dry-cleaned before she would consider wearing it again.
After heading downstairs, she made a cup of coffee and sipped it as she stared out her back window toward the long thin yard now overgrown with vines and weeds. She remembered visiting this house when she and her husband had first met a decade ago. It had been spring. The yard had been meticulously groomed, with its garden full of red and white tulips.
She popped a frozen bagel in the toaster, pleased with herself for stocking a few items in the freezer before she’d left for her last assignment. She set up her french press for another cup of coffee, knowing it would take at least two to shake off the dull headache.
As the bagel heated, she checked the fridge and pulled out a stick of butter. The toaster clicked off the seconds. Her phone rang; it was Vaughan.
She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound awake and alert. “Did you miss me?”
“Guess who our Jane Doe is.”
Our. A dead body seemed such an odd thing to claim as a pair, but this was police work, and partners bonded over the strangest things. “Must be good—I can hear it in your voice.”
“Veronica Manchester. Mr. Foster’s office buddy.”
A pulse of energy more powerful than any caffeine jolted her into high gear. “Do you have an address?”
“I do. I’m on my way there now. Care to join me?”
“You couldn’t keep me away.”
Fifteen minutes later, the black SUV pulled up in front of her townhome as she was wrestling with her backpack, freshly filled coffee mug, and the damn lock that required two hands. Coffee sloshed on her skin. She cursed, yanking on the door handle while turning the key. It was quite an art.
Shaking the coffee off her hands, she slid into the passenger seat.
“I can’t get over the fact that you live on Captain’s Row.” He stared at her townhome with a tinge of disbelief. “What did Uncle Jimmy do?”
She set her mug in the coffee holder and clicked her seat belt in place. “James Malone was one of the best art forgers in the world. He made a fortune before he was arrested by the FBI. Law enforcement gave him a choice to either rot in a cell or help them. Jimmy didn’t want his talent to go to waste nor his assets seized, so he put his heart and soul into finding forgeries while living quietly here, where no one was the wiser.”
“He must have been talented.”
“He was in his own right but was never a great commercial success. He decided to show the art world he was better than they were. And then taught me how to spot the fakes. His tutoring got me my job at the FBI.”
“Why tell you his secrets?”
“He wanted the world to know. Didn’t want his skills going to the grave.”
“You going to sell the house? It’s got to be worth a fortune.”
“Maybe. Eventually. I have to clean it out, and that’s going to take time.”
“Looks pretty good to me.”
“Don’t be fooled by the outside.”
“You could get two million right now even if it was crammed full of stuff.”
“That stuff contains a lot of my history. And I want to figure that out before I make a decision.” She shifted in her seat. “Now, if we are finished with the twenty questions about my strange inheritance, can we figure out who killed Veronica and abducted Hadley and Skylar Foster?”
He pulled onto the cobblestone street and drove toward the banks of the Potomac River. The moon was full and cast a bright light over the smooth waters that drifted past.
“What can you tell me about Veronica Manchester?” she asked.
“As you already know, she worked as a new accountant at Foster’s firm. She was thirty-four and from the area. That’s all I have so far.”
He drove along Union Street and then worked his way back up toward King Street and I-395. Another ten minutes, and they were in Arlington, parking in front of a high-rise modern apartment building. In the lobby, they showed their badges to the guard at the desk.
“I’m Agent Vaughan. I called you about an hour ago. Agent Spencer and I are here to see Veronica Manchester’s apartment.”
“It’s early,” the guard said.
“I know it’s early. I still need the apartment opened.” He removed a piece of paper she knew was a search warrant from his breast pocket. She had to give Vaughan credi
t for finding a judge so quickly and getting a warrant executed.
“I’ll take you up,” the guard said. He spoke into a two-way radio and notified his partner to work the front desk. As soon as a second guard appeared from a side door, the trio took the center elevator up to the eighth floor.
“You know your residents pretty well?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. That’s part of the job,” the guard said.
“When is the last time you saw Veronica Manchester?” she pressed.
“At least a week ago.”
“Did she travel a lot?” Vaughan asked.
“Not a lot. She works long hours and only recently started talking about a vacation to France, I think. She was real excited. I figured she was in France.”
“Do residents notify you when they travel?”
“Most do, but not all.”
The doors opened up to a simple carpeted hallway painted in light grays. At apartment number 806, the guard paused and typed a code into the keypad and pushed open the door.
The guard switched on the lights, and they found themselves staring at a modestly decorated one-thousand-square-foot apartment. She knew firsthand that rent in this area went for about three grand a month and was barely affordable on a cop’s salary, including overtime.
“Do you mind leaving us?” Vaughan asked.
The guard glanced at the neatly folded search warrant and held it up. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s your copy.” Vaughan dug out his business card and handed it to the guard. “Any questions can be directed at me.”
Zoe dug out her own card. “Or me.”
The guard glanced at her card. “Does murder always get federal attention?”
“It does this time.” She studied the guard a bit more.
The guard closed the apartment door behind him, leaving them alone. She walked into the galley-style kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The standard single-girl fare, including a box of old Chinese takeout, three bottles of white wine, and a container of expired strawberry yogurt, was staring back at her.
She checked cabinets and found a collection of plates, utensils, and pans that all looked fairly unused. The living room looked as if it had been furnished from a Pinterest page. A large piece hanging over the couch was made of rustic whitewashed wood and sported the word BELIEVE in black scripted letters.
The single bedroom was off the living room and featured a queen-size bed covered in a rumpled coverlet. The pillow closest to the door still had the impression of a person’s head, as did the pillow to its right. Two people had slept in this bed.
As Vaughan studied an open calendar on a small desk, she went into the bathroom and found a used towel hanging on the rack.
Draped on a shower door was a washcloth covered in old makeup. There was a collection of hair-care and makeup products on the counter. Off to the right of the feminine chaos was a man’s razor and shaving cream. In the small trash can were two used condoms.
“Nice of her boyfriend to leave us a DNA sample,” she said.
“I’ll have forensic do a sweep,” Vaughan said, texting.
As she searched the closet and bedroom, she found no connection to Mark Foster. And judging by Vaughan’s silence, he had found nothing either.
“Most women have pictures of their boyfriends, right?” Vaughan asked.
“I’m sure some do, but many store photos on their phone,” she said. “That’s where we’re likely to find her contacts as well. I suppose you’ve pinged her phone.”
“I did. It’s not putting off a signal.”
“The guard said she has been gone at least a week, so if the phone is intact, the battery must be dead.”
“There was no sign of her purse or keys in the dumpster,” he said.
“It could have been stolen, or maybe the killer kept it as a memento.”
“Saving mementos is the kind of behavior associated with serial killers.”
“I know.”
He shook his head. “A serial killer from Hadley Foster’s past comes back, stabs Veronica, Galina, and then stabs her and takes her daughter.”
She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck, massaging the tension from her muscles. “It’s all just too coincidental.”
He pulled the door closed, and it locked behind them. They made their way down the elevator, past the guard, and out the front door to the street. A coffee shop across the street had opened, and the glow of its warm light was too much for Zoe to resist.
“I’ll treat you to a cup,” she offered.
“I won’t say no to that.”
They crossed the street, which was only just filling with the morning rush hour, and walked through the front doors of the sleek shop. A young guy with dark hair swept back in a ponytail took their order and swiped her credit card. As they waited, she stared across the street at Veronica Manchester’s apartment building and knew if she herself lived there, a place like this would be a daily stop.
She pulled up a picture of Veronica Manchester on her phone. “Don’t suppose you ever saw this gal?”
“Sure, that’s Veronica.”
“She comes in here often?”
“It’s her first stop every morning. I think she’s on vacation.”
“What makes you say that?” Vaughan asked.
“It’s all she’s talked about for the last few months. She just met a guy, and he was taking her to Spain or France.”
“Her boyfriend ever come in here?” Zoe asked.
The guy shrugged. “No. But I saw him come out of her building with her pretty regularly.”
“What’s he look like?” she asked.
“Tall, fit. Maybe late thirties or early forties.”
“They look serious?” she asked.
“She said he had just asked her to marry him.”
“Nice,” she said as she selected a picture on her phone. “They set a date?”
“I asked, but she was kind of vague. She said there was a lot of details to work out before they could settle on a date.”
“He look like this?” She held up a picture of Mark Foster.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Thanks.”
As she and Vaughan walked across the street toward his car, Zoe said, “It’s time we brought Mark Foster to the station for questioning. Dead girlfriend. Missing wife and daughter. It’s not looking good.”
“No, it certainly isn’t.”
Zoe checked her watch. “I want to go back to the Foster house and have another look. I want to revisit the Fosters’ neighborhood. Someone there must know more about the family.”
“Let’s go.”
They drove through the streets already heavy with traffic as the sun rose in the sky. She nestled in the seat, savoring the morning sky before dawn broke.
When Vaughan pulled up in front of the Foster house, there was a marked car outside, and the crime scene tape still maintained a tight perimeter around the yard. The news vans were gone for now, and the cluster of neighbors had cleared.
A woman walked her dog, a short mixed breed, on the other side of the street, while a man dressed in a charcoal-gray suit was opening his car door.
“Be right back.” Zoe hurried across the street toward the man as he got behind the wheel. “I’m Agent Spencer, and I’m working the Foster case. Are you familiar with the family?”
The man was in his late fifties—handsome in a worn sort of way. “How could I not know? Cops and reporters have been swarming all over my lawn.”
She let the comment go. “How well did you know the Fosters?”
“Casually. I work a lot of long hours. But I saw them at the neighbors’ night out last week. They seemed normal enough.”
“Can you clarify that?” she asked.
“Hadley was tense, but she’s always been a little high strung, and Mark had had a few beers and was feeling no pain. Skylar looked bored like all the other teens did.”
“Any idea why Hadley was always so uptight?”
<
br /> “It’s how some people just come wired,” he said. “Knock on the front door and talk to my wife. She’s up and knew Hadley better than me.”
“Did you spend any time with Mark Foster?”
“No. Like I said, I work long hours.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to get going. Go talk to Barb. She’s pretty connected in the neighborhood.”
“Thanks.” Zoe walked to the front door, past a planter filled with yellow flowers and vines tumbling over the sides.
She knocked and heard the volume of a morning television newscast grow quieter as footsteps approached the door. The door opened to a heavyset blond woman in her forties.
“You’re police,” she said, somewhat startled. “I saw you yesterday at the Foster house.”
“Agent Zoe Spencer. Your husband just told me you know Hadley Foster well.”
“Sure, I’m Barb. Hadley and I didn’t know each other that well, but Skylar and my daughter, Devon, used to hang out.”
“But you spoke to Hadley from time to time?”
“Sure.”
“Did Hadley ever sound like she was afraid for her life?”
“God, no.”
“Did she ever mention that she wanted out of her marriage?”
“Who doesn’t from time to time?” And then, as if she realized her quip had fallen flat, she added, “No.”
“Can I speak with Devon?”
Barb shifted, twisted the ring on her finger, and then finally nodded. “Devon’s in the kitchen, having breakfast. Please come in.”
Zoe followed the woman through the house, past a collection of pictures and antique furniture. The place was clean and organized and stood in stark contrast to Uncle Jimmy’s place on Prince Street. She wondered if she would ever have the time to give the house what it deserved.
“Devon, Agent Spencer would like to talk to you about Skylar.”
Devon’s long lean frame was hunched forward over a phone as she quickly typed a message. Her hair was jet black and fell over her face in a thick curtain. “What?”
“The police are here, Devon. Put the phone down, honey.”
Zoe waited for the girl to type a few more words before she looked up, though she kept a firm grip on her phone. “You’re friends with Skylar Foster?”