by Burton, Mary
She tensed and took a step back but kept pressing with her statements. “I think Veronica was a two for one. She just happened to be your type, and you knew she was Mark’s girlfriend. Maybe Skylar was upset that her daddy was messing around. Maybe you just wanted to hurt Mark.”
“I don’t like Mark. That’s no secret. But I don’t care who he sleeps with. That was between Hadley and him.”
“Galina was convenient and easy. But after her, I’m surprised you went after Kiki. Were you stressed out? Does killing help you feel in control?”
The frown lines around his mouth deepened. “This has been fun, but it’s now boring me. It’s been a long day, and I want to go home.”
She prayed Vaughan was close. “You’re under arrest.”
He laughed. “You’re full of shit. Now, unless you have a warrant, I’m leaving. I been working for ten hours, and I’m beat. And I don’t have time to play cops and robbers with you.”
“Stay right where you are, Mr. Dalton. Detective Vaughan is minutes away, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Minutes away? Shit, that’s a lifetime.” He took a step toward his car, but in the next instant, he stopped and pivoted toward her.
The next few seconds slowed to a crawling pace. She caught the glint of a blade. As she locked him in her sights, he lunged. The blade slashed through the air, slicing through the tendons and muscles on her forearm. Pain cut through her body, and blood soaked the sleeve of her blouse. The fingers in her right hand went numb and were unresponsive.
Adrenaline pumped and dulled the pain in her arm. But she knew that wouldn’t last. Soon, her arm would burn, and what little advantage she still had would vanish.
She had practiced scenarios like this thousands of times, and muscle memory kicked in. She angled her body back a couple of steps, giving herself the space to shift the gun to her left hand and regain her footing. The grip felt slightly awkward in her left hand, but again, countless practice sessions with her nondominant hand kicked in. She tightened her hold and leveled the gun, refusing to allow any thoughts or emotions to dull her focus.
He raised the knife and lunged forward, ready to plunge the blade into her. She tweaked the angle of her sights, caught him in her crosshairs, and fired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thursday, August 15, 11:00 p.m.
Sixty-Four Hours after the 911 Call
Zoe stood on the sidewalk, her heart pounding as blood soaked her blouse, pants, and arm. Her breathing was rapid and shallow as she tried to settle herself. Agents went their entire careers without firing their weapons, and she had just fired hers point-blank into a man’s chest.
She heard police sirens in the distance, shoved aside the emotions that were sure to come later, and hurried toward her attacker. He lay on his back, staring up at her, his eyes focused sharply on her. She quickly kicked the knife out of his reach and pointed her weapon at his bloodstained chest should he make any move toward her. She did not have the strength or dexterity now in her right hand to cuff him. “Jason, can you hear me?”
He blinked, but it was a slow, lumbering move that suggested he was slipping.
“Did you kill Marsha?”
He closed his eyes as a slight smile tugged the edge of his lips. The color in his face drained.
“Jason, did you kill Marsha? Don’t come clean for me, but do it for Skylar.”
His eyes opened at the sound of his daughter’s name. He looked at her and then slowly nodded and smiled before he closed his eyes. His breathing quickly grew shallow and faded.
The lights of a cop car flashed around her, and she heard her name. She did not move or look back as she kept her gaze locked on Jason.
“Zoe!” It was Vaughan. “Zoe, are you all right?”
She did not dare look toward him. “I’m fine. You need to check for a pulse. He took a round to the chest.”
He reached for his cuffs, moving past her as he grabbed Jason’s hands and secured them before he pressed his fingertips to the man’s throat. “He’s dead.”
She slowly lowered her weapon and took a step back. “He came at me with that knife.”
Vaughan took Zoe’s weapon from her and then called in the shooting. “You’re bleeding. Did he stab you?”
“He tried. I’m fine.” She dared a glance down at her arm and tried to wiggle her fingers. They did not move.
Flashing blue-and-white lights mingled with the now-screaming police sirens. Two police cruisers barreled toward the garage, one from the south and the other from the north. They came to a stop, nose to nose, in front of the building.
“This is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer,” Vaughan said to the uniformed officer. “She and I have been working a case.”
Her mouth was dry, and the trembling in her hands was seeping through her body. Intellectually, she understood this was the adrenaline dump, her body’s reaction to the attack.
Blowing a breath between her lips, she reached for her badge and held it up. Her right arm burned, and she realized just how badly she was injured.
The paramedics arrived and unloaded a stretcher and supplies. One raced toward Jason as Vaughan led Zoe back toward the ambulance.
The paramedic pulled on fresh gloves and had her sit on the edge of the truck. “You’re going to need stitches, likely surgery,” the paramedic said. “It’s a nasty gash.”
“How deep is it?” She watched as a uniformed cop secured the scene with yellow tape.
“Deep enough,” the paramedic replied.
“Is there tendon damage?”
“Too soon to tell.”
As Vaughan stood beside her, she tried to move the fingers on her right hand again. They remained unresponsive.
“You’ll be fine,” Vaughan said. “They’ll get you patched up.”
“I’ve been down this road before. It doesn’t end well.”
“Don’t borrow trouble,” he said.
She looked up at him, searching for something that would assure her she had come through this, but the look of concern darkening his gaze told her just how much she stood to lose.
The paramedic applied a bandage to her cut, and as he pressed, pain burned through her, and she hissed in a breath. “Easy now.”
Vaughan laid a hand on her knee. It was steady and sure and brought her gaze into focus on the worry etched deep in his face. “Let’s get you to the hospital, and then we’ll figure this out.”
She closed her eyes, knowing this was the kind of injury that could end a career. God, but she had worked so hard to rebuild her life after her leg injury. If she could not be an agent, where would she go? Not again, she prayed.
Vaughan’s temper was stretched thin. Seeing Spencer covered in blood was something he never wanted to repeat. He followed the ambulance to the hospital, and he stayed with her. Both of them were silent as the doctor examined her wound and then made quick arrangements for a surgeon. He knew she was worried about future use of her hand and her career. The quieter and more reserved she became, the angrier he grew. Finally, when the doctors told him he had to leave, he was ready to argue, but Hughes appeared on scene, and she reminded him he had a job to do. He kissed Spencer and left, determined to dig up whatever he could find on Jason Dalton.
That vow rested heavily on his shoulders now as he handed the search warrant to the rotund building manager, who appeared half-asleep. Searching the apartment was the first step to figuring out what had driven Jason to attack Spencer with a knife and likely Veronica and Galina.
The manager handed Vaughan back his warrant and unlocked the front door of the apartment.
Vaughan reached in and turned on the light. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
“Sure.”
Vaughan and Hughes stepped into the small studio apartment. It was simply furnished with a couch, a television, and a coffee table covered with a couple of old pizza boxes. Clothes were scattered on the floor, and the trash can beside the couch was filled with beer cans.
�
��For once, I’d like to deal with a criminal who keeps his place clean,” Hughes said. “It smells like a pigsty in here.”
The walls were bare, and the curtains that covered the windows were a bland beige that looked like they came with the unit. He walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. The view featured two dumpsters and several parking spaces filled with boats and campers.
He moved to the kitchen and found more pizza boxes and empty Chinese takeout. More beer cans in the overflowing trash can, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink.
“Let’s look at the bedroom,” he said.
It took less than ten steps to cross from the kitchen to the closed door. He turned the knob and discovered the door was locked. The lock was a standard issue with a small opening in its center.
Vaughan ran his gloved fingers over the top of the door until they skimmed over a small metal skewer. He pressed the end of it in the hole, and the lock on the other side popped open.
“Not exactly state-of-the-art security,” Hughes quipped.
“Just enough to keep any visitors from wandering into his room.”
He flipped on the light. There was a double bed with no sheets and a rumpled comforter. The nightstand was an old crate box with a small lamp that looked like it had been a find at Goodwill. He crossed the carpeted floor, stepping around more clothes and shoes to open the closet door. It was a walk-in closet with a pull-down entry into the attic.
He switched on the light, and the bulb flickered. Instantly, he was taken aback. The side walls of the large closet were filled with pictures of women. The pictures were divided into two categories. The first set appeared to have been taken before his incarceration. The second set after, and most likely in the past year. In the older set of photos, there were pictures of Marsha and Hadley Prince. Both were young, vibrant, smiling teenagers, and they looked remarkably alike.
Hadley was also featured in the newer images. He had taken pictures of her coming out of the gym, at the grocery store, and jogging along the river. He’d been watching her for months.
It struck Vaughan how much Hadley had changed from the first set of images to the second. She was still fit and still stunning, but the former spark in her gaze had dulled. Most would say that was due to age and time. It happened to everyone. But he had to think the rigid control she’d maintained over her life was a reflection of something deeper and darker.
“There are driver’s licenses of Galina Grant, Veronica Manchester, and Marsha Prince,” Hughes said. “It’s his trophy room.”
He leaned forward and studied the DMV photo of Marsha Prince. She had rich, glowing skin, bright brown eyes, and a broad smile. It had been taken back in the day when the pictures were in color and one could smile. “I keep thinking about that blackened skull found in the storage unit trunk.”
“I contacted Helen Saunders’s apartment manager, and he found her original application. Apparently, he’s been looking for it. Nikki McDonald offered a bounty on it.”
“I give the woman points for her investigative skills. What did you find?”
“Ms. Saunders listed a Marjorie Dalton as her emergency contact. She was Jason’s grandaunt.”
“That explains why he chose her unit to store the bones.”
“But why did he torch them and save them in the first place?”
Vaughan shook his head. “Maybe she was his first. Maybe he thought if he kept her, he’d have some kind of hold on Hadley.” He searched the piles. “Is there anything for Hadley Foster?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen anything yet, beyond the creepy stalker pictures,” she said. “But it could be here.”
“Dalton was recorded on video surveillance at the garage when Hadley Foster was murdered, so he couldn’t have killed her.”
“Do you really think Mark killed his wife?”
“I don’t know.” Vaughan reached for a bag and discovered several burner phones inside. It would take time, but he would bet money they would find links to Nikki’s phone and Skylar’s. “Time to find out what really happened in the Foster house.”
Zoe was not at the hospital long before a surgeon was called into her room. She was asked to wiggle her fingers, something she could not do. And it seemed the harder she tried, the less they responded. She went into surgery that evening to have the muscle, tendons, and, most importantly, the nerves repaired.
The surgery was finished by midnight, and back in her room, she was left with the entire night to think about how she would be able to do her job without a fully functioning right hand. The new world she had created for herself would go the way of the old, wiped away by a violent moment that would echo through her life forever.
Vaughan knocked on her hospital room door at four o’clock in the morning.
“Enter,” she said.
“The nurses told me you weren’t sleeping.”
Cupping her arm, she shifted her position and sat up. “Tell me you’ve talked to the doctor and that there’s no nerve damage. He wasn’t saying much to me earlier.”
He came to her bedside and pulled up a chair. “The tendon and muscle were repaired. We won’t know about permanent nerve damage for a while. Until then, you’ll be in a cast. I’m sorry.”
Sorry never did her any good. “Water under the bridge. When can I get out of here?”
“You’ve only been out of surgery for a few hours.”
“Like I said, when can I get out of here?”
“Tomorrow, if all goes well.”
“I’d rather leave now.” She pushed herself into a sitting position, pausing as her head spun. “Where are my clothes?”
Vaughan arched a brow. “You’ll stay put if you want that wound to heal properly.”
“Can you at least raise my head?” Zoe asked. “I’d like to sit up a little more.”
Vaughan pressed a button on the side of the bed, and her head slowly rose as Vaughan approached. At least sitting up, she didn’t feel so helpless. “Tell me about the case.”
As the nurse closed the door behind her, he opened with an update of what he and Hughes had found at Jason’s apartment. She listened, locking on his words as if she needed an anchor. Finally, he shifted to the shooting. “Your left-handed shot was textbook center mass.”
“I’m lucky.”
“You’re good.” He leaned forward. “The knife was found. We’ve already found his fingerprints on it and your blood. What happened?”
“I saw him preparing to leave, and I approached. He attacked. The entire exchange lasted only minutes.”
“Did he say anything?” Vaughan asked.
“Not much. When I showed Dalton the sketch, he was calm and challenged me to prove it. His demeanor was nonchalant. I think he planned to kill me the instant he saw me standing outside the garage.”
Vaughan frowned, his fingers drawing into a fist before he relaxed them. “The forensic team is searching for signs that he’d been in the Foster home but so far have found nothing. Mark Foster’s toxicological screen came back. He had high levels of sleeping pills in his system.”
“So did he kill himself?”
“Good question.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday, August 18, 4:00 p.m.
Two days postsurgery, Zoe probably should have been inside with her feet up. But inactivity would have given her time to worry about the hand that still felt numb as well as the inquiry into the Dalton shooting. It was a recipe for insanity.
She sat in a wooden card chair by her garage, her arm in a sling, watching the two men she had found on Craigslist willing to haul away her junk. She had been holding on to all of Jimmy’s things as if she were protecting a piece of the past. But she knew it was time to let some of the memories go.
She’d also never thought she would be giddy at the thought of parking her car, but knowing she would not have to circle the block or hoof it through the rain was just this side of nirvana.
The crewman carried out a large cardboard box, set it at her
feet, and opened it. This had been their process. They hauled and opened, and she then inspected. So far, what she had found had ended up on the donation pile.
As she opened the latest box, she almost did not bother to glance inside until her gaze landed on a neatly folded shirt that had belonged to Jeff.
She gently ran her fingers over the worn flannel. The softness triggered memories of Jeff laughing and teasing her out of a mood she had slipped into after she had received a B instead of an A in one of her classes. He had coaxed that smile, and they had ended up in bed. When he had first died, that memory had not only taunted her but reminded her of everything they would never share again. Uncle Jimmy had told her to put Jeff’s things away and come back to them later, but she had tossed his clothes into a box and dumped them on the curb.
“Jimmy. You’re a sneaky one,” she whispered.
She raised the shirt to her nose, unmindful of the heat as she inhaled deeply. For just a moment, she caught a faint whiff of Jeff’s spicy aftershave.
How could you love someone so much and forget so much about them? Tears welled in her eyes. One escaped down her cheek before she caught herself. Carefully, she placed the shirt back into the box and closed the lid. She would always love Jeff and wonder what it would have been like to grow old with him. But he was gone. And for the first time in a long time, she was grateful to be alive.
“Is that for the junk truck, ma’am?” the man asked.
Zoe cleared her throat. “These are good clothes. I want these donated.”
“Will do.” He reached for the box and lifted it.
As he turned, she stood quickly. “Wait.”
“Ma’am?”
She opened the top and removed the flannel shirt. “The rest can go.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She sat back in her chair, holding the shirt close, and watched as the men cleared out the last of the items and closed up the truck. She walked into the now-empty garage. Her phone rang. It was Vaughan.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I am.”
“I’ve arranged with social services and Mrs. Bradford to be present when we talk to her. I don’t want to take any shortcuts with this one.”