The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries)

by Merry Jones

  “Turns out our jogger was penetrated.” He announced it just like that. No introductory phrases to prepare us for the topic. No segue or transition from food to forensics. “Both vaginally and anally.”

  For a moment, nobody spoke. All eyes were on Nick.

  “So she was raped.” Sam picked something from his teeth.

  “Well, that’s still a question.” Nick leaned back, crossed his legs. “There were some pretty brutal rips and bruises, but no DNA, no semen, no definite proof that the motive was sexual. The penetration could have been for the same reason as the disembowelment—”

  “In other words, they were searching for something.” Sam mirrored Nick’s posture, executives at a conference. “Looking for drugs anywhere she could stash them.”

  “That’s one theory.”

  One theory? “What do you mean, ‘one theory’?” Were there more?

  Nick sighed. “They’ve just released this. They’ve got an official ID on her.” He stopped, building the dramatic effect.

  “Really.” Sam leaned forward. “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Jennifer Harris.” Nick paused. “She was a federal agent.”

  Sam and I spoke at once. “No shit,” he breathed while I asked, “You mean a narc?”

  “No, technically, she wasn’t a narc. They’re DEA. Harris was Homeland Security.”

  Wait. What? I tried to digest what I’d just heard. The dead woman had a name, an identity. Jennifer Harris. Jennifer Harris must have had friends, family. People who would mourn her loss. Maybe a boyfriend or a husband, maybe a child.

  “Homeland Security?” Sam’s eyes were popping. “So what does that mean? What was this Jennifer Harris doing on the patio— hunting terrorists?”

  Oh God. Good question. Homeland Security agents tracked terrorists, didn’t they? Did Jennifer’s presence here mean that there was a cell in our neighborhood?

  Nick took his time answering. “It’s not clear what she was doing. The feds don’t give out a whole lot of information. In fact, since she’s one of theirs, they’re trying to lift the case. But there’s some talk going around. Not to be repeated, okay?”

  We all nodded. Okay.

  “The talk is that there might be links between drug traffickers and certain terrorist groups. There’s a lot of money in drugs, and terrorists need a lot of funding. I doubt they’d be picky about where the cash is coming from.”

  “So if she tracked the drugs, she might find the terrorists.” Sam snorted.

  “If it’s drugs.” Tony hadn’t said a word during the whole conversation. Now, he stood, began pacing. “But they’re not sure it was drugs. I mean, are they?”

  “No. The feds aren’t telling us what she was doing, and nobody else is sure of anything.”

  “What else could it be?” Sam growled. “I mean there’s not much room in your average—” He stopped and glanced at me, cleaning up his language. “Um, orifice.”

  “Whatever is the size of a suppository or a condom would fit. Could be a weapon of some sort. Or a piece of one. Something biological, maybe.” Nick spoke casually, discussing disasters.

  “But drugs are still a possibility, right?” Tony sounded hopeful.

  “I guess. But I think the feds would tell us if she’d been carrying drugs. Drugs are passe’. They’re everywhere. There would be no reason to withhold that information. In my opinion, whatever the killer was looking for, the feds probably know what it is. But they aren’t telling.”

  Sam reached for another beer, popped it open. “Christ. What could it be?”

  The brothers began to hypothesize, brainstorming about what would fit in a woman’s intestines or private spaces. Vials of a virus or other biological weapon. A tiny atomic bomb or part. A toxic chemical agent. Some kind of poison gas. A secret formula for a lethal or destructive compound.

  The list went on, got vaguer and raunchier, but I was considering a completely different possibility: Bonnie Osterman. I told myself that it was unlikely that she’d killed Agent Harris. It had to be just a coincidence that the agent’s murder had so closely resembled those committed by my former patient. And just a coincidence that the agent had been killed so soon after Bonnie Osterman’s release. Bonnie Osterman, in all likelihood, was no threat to anyone anymore, just as the Commonwealth had determined.

  The brothers were still theorizing about what Jennifer Harris might have been carrying. Embryonic cloned cells. Engineered mutant cells. Robotic self-reproducing killer cells. I crumpled up the wrappings from the cheesesteaks, rolled them into a wad, went to the kitchen and tossed them into the trash.

  Then, standing at the window, I scanned the street, wondering not what Jennifer Harris had been carrying but what a Homeland Security agent had been doing on our street. What had she been doing on our back patio? And if it hadn’t been Bonnie Osterman, then who had killed her?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “IT WASN’T HER.” NICK stooped to catch Oliver so he could attach his leash. “Don’t worry about it.”

  See that? I assured myself. Nick agrees; Bonnie Osterman didn’t kill the agent. “How do you know? I mean she could have. And she could have rammed her car into Bryce, too—”

  “Now you’re getting paranoid.” Just as Nick was about to grab him, Oliver darted away. “Come, Oliver. Time to go out.” Oliver sat down a little more than arm’s length away and grinned at Nick, panting.

  “How is it paranoid?” I had to compete with the dog for Nick’s attention. “You don’t know this woman. You’re underestimating her. Nick. She made beef stew out of infants.”

  “Baby goulash. Now that’s ghoulish.” He pounced suddenly, but the puppy darted away. But now, Oliver was convinced that they were playing a game. Again, he sat eager and panting, positioned just beyond Nick’s reach.

  I glared. “Dammit, Nick. That’s not funny. I’m trying to talk to you, and you’re trying to lasso the dog.”

  Breathless, sprawled on the floor, Nick seemed surprised at my tone. “He needs to go out.” Nick pulled himself to his feet, brushing off his pants. “But okay. You want to talk? We’ll talk.”

  I went into the kitchen, sat on a stool, Nick trailing me, Oliver trailing Nick. “Those babies were real, Nick. As real as Luke. It’s not a joke. She killed them.”

  “I know.” He didn’t apologize. “It was gallows humor, Zoe. When you deal with homicide all the time, you see stuff you can’t handle. You let out the stress. You make stupid jokes. It happens.”

  I didn’t excuse him. “So. If Bonnie Osterman didn’t kill her, why did Agent Harris just happen to be in my backyard? And why was Bryce Edmond hit when he just happened to be standing with me and my infant?”

  Nick rested a hip on a kitchen stool and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Great. I crossed my arms, ignoring Oliver whining at my feet.

  “This is what I do know, though. I know that federal agents like Harris are highly trained and in peak physical condition. They know how to make themselves all but invisible in public. The only reason Tony remembered Harris was because she bumped into him. Otherwise, she would have blended into the sidewalk and run off unnoticed.”

  I wasn’t convinced. Nobody was invisible. Certainly not an athletic young blond woman.

  “These people operate among us but out of our reach, on their own plateau.”

  “So you think they’re infallible?”

  “No, but someone like your Bonnie Osterman wouldn’t have focused on someone as strong as Harris. She wouldn’t have selected Harris as a victim. Harris wasn’t pregnant. And she would have made a tough opponent.”

  “But Harris was here. At our house. Maybe Bonnie wanted our baby and, by some twist of fate, Agent Harris was in her way—”

  “Zoe—it didn’t happen.” Nick stopped me, put his arms around me. “Luke’s fine. He’s in his playpen.”

  I knew that. And I knew that Tony was with Luke, and that Sam was near them, in my office with a gun in his briefcase, checking s
tocks or making investment deals on his computer. I also knew that Bonnie Osterman was unaccounted for.

  “Okay. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that Bonnie Whatever- her-name-is—”

  “Osterman.”

  “Let’s say she did want to kill Agent Harris. Your patient is what—sixty-five? More? And she’s been institutionalized for decades, so her muscle tone is gone and she’s been eating too much starch. No way is she going to be strong or agile enough to harm Harris. Harris would deck her forty ways before your lady could lift her arm.”

  Of course he was right. Bonnie Osterman was stout, thick legged. She moved slowly, with effort.

  “It’s much more likely that Agent Harris was killed by one of the people she was tracking, like a drug dealer or narcoterrorist who cut her open looking for drugs he thought she was carrying.”

  Much more likely, yes.

  “Besides, your Bonnie wasn’t released onto the street all on her own. She must have been sent to live under some supervision somewhere—a halfway house or something, right?”

  I didn’t know. There wasn’t much money for halfway houses; the ones I knew of rarely had space. But I nodded anyway, seeing no point anymore in speaking. Nothing I said seemed to make an impression. I’d told Nick about Bonnie’s murders, the babies, the small legs and thighs found in her freezer. I’d described their mothers’ violated, gutted bodies. But he’d seemed unfazed. To Nick, the curiosity Bonnie had shown about my pregnancy, the threat she might pose to our baby, the coincidence of a gutted woman on our porch, the hit-and-run attack on the man who’d warned me that Bonnie was loose—none of that seemed to merit concern. Nick humored me by letting me talk, but his muscles never tensed.

  So, I gave up and stopped talking, partly to see if he would notice.

  After a few too many silent seconds, Nick reached out, touched my cheek. “Zoe. Hey. Look at me.”

  I looked at him but found it hard to breathe.

  “So. All this is really upsetting you.”

  Bingo. The man was amazing. A genius. I blinked and looked away.

  “What, now you’re not talking to me?”

  Wow, he was right twice in a row. Nick’s accuracy was mind- boggling.

  “You really think this Bonnie woman’s a threat?”

  Still silent, I shrugged. She might, might not be a threat.

  He sighed. “Okay. It’s not worth having you this upset. How’s this? I’ll have her checked out. We’ll find out where she is.”

  I waited, said nothing. My silence was clearly having more effect than my voice.

  “All right. If I find out she’s anywhere in the area, I’ll have her picked up for questioning. I’ll talk to her myself and see what she’s been up to. There. Does that make you feel better?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” It did, and, relaxing, I smiled.

  “Good.” Nick half-grinned. “Anything to get you to stop pouting.” He leaned over, brushed his lips against mine.

  I grabbed his shirt and stood, pulled him closer, planting a big one on his mouth. One arm, then another slid around my back. My hands reached up behind his neck. We stayed that way for a while, bodies pressed together and mouths locked, Oliver yapping at our ankles until we had to break for breath.

  And then Nick took him by surprise, dropping down and attaching the leash quickly, before Oliver could run off and piddle on the floor.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE BROTHERS WERE OUT for a nightcap, the kids in bed, the puppy asleep at my feet. I sat in bed, staring mindlessly at reruns of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, a half-emptied cup of tea and half-eaten box of Mallomars on my nightstand. And leaning back, too drowsy to move, I heard someone in the house, creeping around, searching for drugs—or no, not drugs. A bomb. And it wasn’t just one guy. There were a bunch of them, all over the place. Dangerous, dressed in long dark coats and hats, they were tearing open the velvet cushions of my purple sofa, upending tables, tossing collectibles off the shelves, shooting flashes of light up the chimney, rolling up the rugs. But why were they looking under the rugs? You couldn’t hide a bomb there—it would make a lump. But then I realized that they weren’t looking under the rug for the actual bomb. They were looking for a trapdoor, a place to hide the bomb. As I watched, the intruders tore apart my kitchen, the hall closet, the hutch in the dining room, the file cabinets in my office. I could see them scurrying about, watch them in every room at once like an infestation of insects, invading each crevice and corner. Suddenly, I’d had enough. I was outraged. This was my home, and I wasn’t going to allow them to destroy it. I grabbed Nick’s spare gun from his nightstand and rushed down the hall, shouting. “Get out,” I screamed. “Get out of my house or I’ll shoot.”

  Their hat brims hid their faces as they came at me from all sides, so I couldn’t see who they were. I just shot. They rushed me, shouting at me to stop, but I fired again and again, trying to fend them off, still recoiling from the blasts, when suddenly they dropped to the floor and disappeared in a flash of white. The room glowed, the house melted away, and there was nothing but the blinding heat of their bomb, exploding.

  I opened my eyes in a jolt, found myself face-to-face with Oliver’s snout. He must have moved to Nick’s pillow while I’d been dozing, and now Oliver slept peacefully, undisturbed. No bomb had gone off. No spies in dark coats had invaded the house. It had just been a dream. Still, seeking comfort, I put my hand on Oliver’s soft head. His eyes half-opened, registered me and closed again. Nothing, according to Oliver, was wrong. Still, I was shaken, and I lay still, recovering, listening to the televised dialog of the cops interviewing a perp. The rhythm of their voices was soothing, normal. As always, Detectives Stabler and Benson would catch the bad guys. I boosted myself up against the pillows, turning to the screen, only vaguely noticing the creak in the floor.

  But then there was another one. The house is getting old, I told myself. Old wood makes noises. And at night, houses settle; floors creak. Nothing’s wrong. I tried to focus on the interrogation. Elliot lost it, as usual, pushing some suspect up against the wall, pushing his nose into the guy’s terrified face. This time, there were two creaks, one right after the other. Like footsteps. I sat up straight, alert, waiting.

  Beside me, Oliver snored. Wait a second, I thought. Dogs are supposed to have better hearing than people. If someone was creeping around the house, Oliver would bark, wouldn’t he? He’d smell a stranger. He’d warn me. But the puppy was content and calm. I was still on edge because of the dream; that was all. I reached around to the nightstand and got a Mallomar, popped the whole cookie into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks with chocolate and marshmallow, and chewing, basking in sugar, I heard a definite, unmistakable, unsettling set of creaks.

  Okay. There was no mistaking it. I sat, frozen, listening. I muted the television, waiting. And again, after a long silence, I heard a creak. The floorboards were groaning under somebody’s feet. Someone was in the house. Sneaking.

  The dream was still fresh in my mind. Probably I was still in its clutches, imagining things. But then, I heard the muted pad of footsteps outside my bedroom door. Nick’s gun—I remembered it from the dream. I rolled over, slid the nightstand drawer open and pulled the gun out, felt its cold, reassuring weight. Now what? Molly and Luke were down the hall, defenseless, and someone was out in the hall, creeping around. Oh God. Was it Bonnie Osterman? Was she here to take Luke? Well, if so, she was going to have to get past me. Oliver lifted his head, watching me as I got out of bed, holding the gun in both hands, arms outstretched like the cops on the television, and stepped slowly toward the door.

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE HALLWAY WAS EMPTY, the feeble glow of dinosaur and puppy night-lights spilling from the children’s rooms. I looked both ways, measuring the stillness, then stepped out, the gun still raised. On tiptoe, I moved to Molly’s room first, found her soundly sleeping. Her mouth hung open; her golden curls haloed her face. With the gun, I nudged her closet door open but found no one hiding t
here. I drew a deep, relieved breath. But I didn’t let it out; behind me, I heard a soft rustle. And then, behind me, just outside my peripheral vision, something moved. I spun around, knees bent, arms extended, ready to fire. And saw Oliver smiling up at me. Damn. What was wrong with me? I’d almost shot the puppy.

  Finally, I released the breath, but I was shivering and unsteady. Settle down, I told myself. Relax your shoulders. Breathe deep. But I couldn’t. Someone—maybe a drug dealer or a narcoterrorist or maybe Bonnie Osterman—was in the house. I had to check on Luke. With my back to the wall and gun still raised, I edged out of Molly’s room and headed to Luke’s. Shifting my weight slowly from foot to foot so the floor wouldn’t creak, I stepped through the darkness, body taut, arms out, Nick’s weapon leading my way. Oliver scampered, circling me, nipping at my ankles, and I was afraid that he’d bark, warning the intruder. But then, even if Oliver didn’t, the roaring thumps of my heart might. The hallway between Molly’s door and Luke’s was less than ten feet long, but somehow that night it extended, and with each step I took, the distance seemed to grow. As I neared the baby’s room, I realized that too much light was spilling out, more than just the bulb of the night- light. Luke’s lamp was on. Could I have left it on? Could Nick? My heart stopped its pounding, plummeted into my stomach.

  I hadn’t left the light on. Neither had Nick. Someone else had. Oh God. Was Bonnie Osterman in there? God help her if she was. And, if she had harmed Luke—