“When was that?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m not sure. A week or two before Kenny was murdered. I called her to tell her, and she was heartbroken. I thought there was something special between them. But she couldn’t come to the funeral. She had taken a job out of state. That’s what the fight was about, apparently. She wanted him to move with her, and Kenny, he was happy with us old folks. He was only fifty-three, but he was an old soul.”
“Do you have her name? Contact information?”
“In my address book. Just a minute.”
Several minutes later, Mrs. Lyons came on the phone. “Hannah.”
“Hannah what?”
“I don’t have her last name, but here’s the number.”
After Mrs. Lyons recited the digits, Megan said, “That’s a New York exchange.”
“She’s from New York, and she went back. It was her cell phone—I hear you can keep the same number no matter where you move. Isn’t that amazing?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “Hannah had moved here to be with her parents, who were getting on in years and needed some help. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing? I know so many people who have children too busy to even visit, let alone help with grocery shopping and transportation. I can’t drive anymore because of my eyes.”
“I’m sorry,” Megan said as she finished writing down information. “Your eyes?”
“I’m blind. Well, not blind as a bat, but I can’t see more than two feet in front of me even with my glasses. So you can understand why I would love to have some help, but I never was able to have children. Though some of my friends have several children and none of their kids help out—”
“Mrs. Lyons, I really appreciate your time and information. I may call you again, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course, anytime. Please.”
“One more thing, how long was Mr. Russo involved with Hannah?”
“Several months. They met at a community mixer.”
“How old is she, would you say?”
“Young. Forty, forty-five.”
“I thought you had to be fifty to live there?”
“Yes, but she was taking care of her parents—didn’t I say that? I’m sure I did.”
“Are her parents still there?”
“Oh no, when Hannah left for her new job, they went to a nursing home. They were in their eighties, I think Bernard was close to ninety. He had a pretty good head, but didn’t say much of anything. Millie had advanced Alzheimer’s. Couldn’t remember anything, bless her heart. I don’t blame Hannah for moving on. Bernard never made much money working for the county, though they had a nice retirement. I think Hannah was struggling to make sure their bills were paid. Before Millie was diagnosed, she’d bought thousands of dollars of stuff she didn’t need off that shopping channel. Finally, Bernard cut up the credit cards. At least, that’s what I heard.“
“Do you have the name of the home?” “Sunny Day Adult Living. It’s one of the nicer places in Orlando. If any of those places are nice.” “And their last name?” “Rubin. Bernard and Millie Rubin.” “Was that their daughter’s last name as well?” “I suppose so. I honestly don’t know.” “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Lyons.” “We’re here,” Officer Dodge said after Megan hung up. “Ready?”
“One minute. Let me make a quick call.” Megan dialed the number Mrs. Lyons gave her for Hannah, Ken Russo’s ex-girlfriend. Her head was abuzz with questions, namely did Hannah know if Russo had been threatened or seemed distracted prior to their breakup. Megan was shocked when Mrs. Lyons told her the community was a private, gated development. Only one major theft, with a murder attached, and the police weren’t suspicious of a more personal motive?
An automated voice mail system picked up and Megan debated leaving a message. When the beep sounded, she said, “Hello, my name is Megan Elliott and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I spoke with someone who said you used to date a Mr. Kenneth Russo in Orlando, Florida, who was murdered in a robbery last year. I’m following up on the case and have a couple questions, and would appreciate a call back.”
Next she called information for the Sunny Day Adult Living Center in Orlando and asked for the administrator. Unfortunately, being five in the afternoon on the East Coast, he had already left. “This is an FBI investigation that may relate to one of your residents,” Megan told the manager who answered the phone. “If you would please give me the administrator’s home or cell phone number, I would appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry, that’s against protocol, but I’ll be happy to contact him if you can tell me what this is regarding.”
“The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Rubin may have information that will help in a criminal investigation, and I’m looking for a current phone number and address.”
“I’ll have Dr. Boswell get back to you, Ms. Elliott.”
Megan gave her contact information and hung up, frustrated. Two potential leads—two good solid leads— on hold while she waited.
“Let’s go,” she said to Officer Dodge.
The two women exited the patrol car and walked up the short stone path to the quaint Victorian house in downtown SLO. Megan hoped Hans hadn’t sent her on a wild-goose chase.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
The bartender at the hotel bar had been less than helpful, Jack thought. While they had a vague description of the woman, the bartender sat with a police artist for an hour and nothing came of it. If they needed a description of her breasts, no problem. The artist told a frustrated Hans that sometimes it took a few hours, but she wasn’t confident that the bartender would remember enough detail to render an accurate picture.
Still, the meeting confirmed one fact: General Hackett had gone to the bar as was his custom when he arrived on the third Thursday of the month, ordered a drink, and then bought a drink for the lady in the red dress. The bartender also confirmed that the lady had invited Hackett to her table, where they engaged in conversation and another round of drinks for forty-five minutes, before leaving together. Hackett had a habit of meeting with pretty, fortysomething blondes each month.
Approximately fifteen minutes later—about the length of time it would take for a leisurely stroll from the bar to the beachfront cabins, reports of gunshots came into the reservation desk and the police station. Security was dispatched, but no one was at the cabin for nearly five minutes after the reported gunshot, largely because the security guards had all been at the main hotel, and had been uncertain where the shots came from—whether on the resort grounds or the beach itself.
Five minutes had been more than enough time for Rosemont’s murderous partner to slip away.
“A woman,” Jack said almost to himself as he and Hans walked back to the small conference room that the hotel had set aside for law enforcement.
“Excuse me?”
“Rosemont’s partner is a woman.”
“Don’t leap to conclusions. She could have—” Jack raised his eyebrow and Hans stopped. “You’re right. There is no other explanation.”
“Someone led Hackett to that room. The bartender said it was a mutual flirtation.”
“But why the elaborate plan?” Hans asked. “They were practically in public. Though the cabins are more private, they couldn’t be sure that someone walking by wouldn’t have heard the shot. And they would also have had to know Hackett’s schedule.”
“Hackett had a routine,” Jack said. “The third Thursday of every month.”
Hans sat down and nodded. “They knew Duane Johnson’s schedule, Perry, Bartleton—” He glanced at Jack.
Jack nodded. “It’s a woman. What she was doing with Rosemont is anyone’s guess. But she’s just as dangerous—”
“She could have been a battered partner. Females account for less than ten percent of serial murderers. In many killing pairs, the female participant suffers from domestic violence. They are too scared to leave or not do what their partner demands. Perhaps she saw an opportunity and to
ok it—domestic violence often ends in murder. Usually, the abused wife or girlfriend, but occasionally, the abused decides murder is her only way out.”
“Good in theory, but—”
Hans interrupted, “Which would support Father Francis’s visitation the other night. If that woman, and it’s not certain because it doesn’t fit the M.O., was Rose-mont’s partner, then perhaps seeking out the priest was her first attempt at getting away.”
Jack considered and dismissed the argument. “Let’s take this from the beginning. Can we agree that the woman in the red dress intentionally lured General Hackett to Ethan Rose’s room?”
Hans considered, then nodded. “Yes, because Hackett would have no other reason to go there. It’s across the resort from his room.”
“There were no prints found. If she was truly fighting for the gun and shot Rosemont out of self-defense, why aren’t her prints there?”
“She may have been scared and wiped them off.”
“Wiped them off, sure. But scared?” Jack shook his head. “She had four and a half minutes from the sound of the first gunshot, and just over two and a half minutes from the sound of the last gunshot, before security arrived. She wipes the gun, takes the knife, runs out the back, and disappears? She must have had blood on her, so that means she changed clothes somewhere.”
“Holden’s people canvassed the entire hotel. No one saw the woman except in the bar prior to the murders.”
“And what’s accessible from the beach?”
“Several hotels both up and down the coast, the pier, farther up there’s little commercial business, and the road access is limited. I suspect she went south.”
“I don’t see a panicked, abused woman killing two men in cold blood, even in self-defense, and then disappearing without a trace of evidence.”
Hans took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “So she’s an active and willing participant in Rosemont’s killing spree.”
Jack nodded. “We need Padre’s sketch.”
“And Megan may get something from her witnesses. I just— There’s something eluding me, and I can’t quite figure it out.” He picked up the phone. “I know exactly what we need.”
“What?”
“A fresh pair of eyes. Or rather ears. Your brother.”
“Dillon?” Jack wouldn’t have thought about contacting his brother, the forensic psychiatrist, but Dillon did have an uncanny way of getting to the heart of the matter, and psychopaths were his specialty.
Hans dialed the number from memory. “I hope we can track him down tonight.”
Ned Stenberg was Megan’s height with a comb-over and kind brown eyes behind wire-rim glasses. She wasn’t surprised when he told her he was a medical lab technician at the local university—he looked the part. His wife, Jennifer, was an elementary school teacher, plump and pretty. As soon as Megan and Officer Dodge arrived, Jennifer sent their three kids upstairs.
“When Detective Holden said he was sending an officer over,” Ned Stenberg began, “I didn’t expect the FBI as well.”
“Can I get you water? Coffee?” Jennifer asked.
Megan shook her head. “We can’t stay long. We get a lot of tips when we send out a media story, but yours sounded valid. A personal visit is sometimes the best way to get information without distractions that can occur over the phone.”
Jennifer led them to the living room, which was off the main entry, a tidy room obviously unused by the family.
“Would you mind repeating your story?” Megan asked the Stenbergs.
“Not at all,” Ned said. “I planned on calling the police right after the incident, but—”
Jennifer said, “It didn’t seem as important once they left.”
“From the beginning,” Megan said. “Please.”
Ned began. “We were driving back from Phoenix where my brother lives. It’s my spring break and we go there nearly every year for Easter and a few days. We left early Thursday morning and about an hour or so into the drive, this maniac in a truck almost kills us.”
“Kills you? How? Did he exhibit road rage? Have a gun?”
“Almost ran us off the road. Had to be going a hundred twenty.”
“Scared all of us,” Jennifer concurred.
“Did you get his license plate?”
“Not then,” Ned said. “He was going way too fast. We continued, but were all a little stressed. We usually eat brunch when we hit the Los Angeles area, but decided to stop earlier for a while and have breakfast instead. I pulled into the diner and saw the truck.”
Jennifer said, “We told the kids to stay in the van and keep the doors locked.”
“I was so angry,” Ned said. “That was my family he almost ran off the road.”
“I told him to let it go,” Jennifer said.
“But I couldn’t do that. Instead, I went in just as the driver was leaving.”
“How did you recognize him if he went by so fast?” Megan asked.
Ned frowned. “I’m not really sure. It was more an impression. He was really tall and looked tall driving. Had dark hair. And after I said something, it was obviously him. He didn’t say hardly anything, but he knew.”
“And what type of truck was he driving?”
“A black or maybe a very dark charcoal gray Ford pickup.”
“Make?”
“I’m not sure. A 150 or 250, I think. I’m not great with cars,” Ned confessed.
“Immediately his wife came over,” Jennifer interjected.
“Wife?” This was new information.
“She said his name was John and called him her husband.”
“And?”
“She apologized profusely for his behavior and bad driving. Said they’d driven through the night from Houston on the way to see her mother who’d had a heart attack.” Jennifer slowly shook her head.
“You don’t seem sympathetic,” Megan said.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but if my mother had a heart attack, I wouldn’t be dying my hair to go to her bedside.”
“How do you know she dyed her hair?”
Jennifer ran a finger high on her forehead. “She didn’t rub all the dye off her scalp. I could see it.”
“What color hair? Or rather dye?”
“Blond. She had the skin tone to be a blond, but this was very light—almost like yours, but it looked unnatural. The giveaway was the dye on her forehead. You know.”
Megan shook her head. “I’ve never dyed my hair.”
“You haven’t? Oh. Well, sometimes the dye gets on your scalp and you need to rub it off. But it usually comes off after a shower or two. And then the smell, it’s very strong even after a washing. She’d probably done it the night before or first thing in the morning. But it just seemed odd to me because of her mother’s heart attack.”
“Did either of them say anything about his dangerous driving?”
“No, just an apology from her. I don’t think he said more than a word. Ned?”
Ned shook his head. “He just stared, like he wasn’t right in the head.” He tapped his own scalp.
Megan took out a photo sheet Holden had given her with Rosemont’s photo and five other men. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
Both Jennifer and Ned tapped the same photo: Rosemont’s.
“Can you describe the woman in more detail?” Megan asked.
“Pretty,” Jennifer said. “And she was weepy. Probably because her husband was causing a scene.”
“Even though he wasn’t saying anything?” Officer Dodge interjected.
“He was just standing there looking … dazed.”
“And the wife?”
“Taller than me, but not by much. Dyed blond hair, as I said. Blue eyes. Her hair was just below her shoulders, and her smile was nice—straight white teeth. She was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt, a little big on her.”
Ned added, “She had small diamond earrings on. Like the ones I gave you for our anniversary, Jen.”
“But no ring,” Jennifer said, turning her own wedding band around on her finger. “I know some women don’t wear wedding rings, but it’s rare. She could have taken it off when she dyed her hair, I suppose …”
Megan got them back on track. “Would you be able to sit down with a sketch artist and describe the woman?”
“Maybe,” Ned said. “Why?”
“I don’t know how much the officer told you.”
“The news report just said that if we’d seen that man, Rosemont, to call in, so we did.”
“Mr. Rosemont is dead and the woman is being sought for questioning.”
Jennifer blanched. “No. I … oh my God.”
Ned put his arm around his wife. “What happened? Car accident?”
“No. Rosemont is our main suspect in multiple homicides.”
Officer Dodge cleared her throat. “I’ll contact the sheriff’s department and see if they can send over a sketch artist.”
“Thanks, Barbara,” Megan said. To the couple, “Do you remember anything else about these two people? Accent? Distinguishing marks?”
Ned shook his head, but Jennifer said, “Yes. The woman said they were going to San Francisco and the husband said he thought they were going to Santa Barbara. It was really odd.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Jack and Hans were waiting for a call back from Dillon when Detective Holden rushed in. “We got a match!”
Jack asked, “On what?”
“The bullets! An FBI agent from Orlando faxed over a ballistics report from a cold case down in Florida. He wrote that Agent Megan Elliott had requested it.”
“Russo,” Jack said. He couldn’t help but be proud at how quickly Megan had put together the case and expedited the information.
“Right. The gun that killed Russo also killed Rosemont and Hackett.”
“And,” Holden continued, “the Hoffmans. The Riverside County crime lab got a copy of the same report and contacted Dr. Clark.”
“What about the other victims?” Hans said. “Bartleton and Johnson and the other two men?”
Sudden Death Page 27