by Ronica Black
Even so, Kennedy considered the possibility that Olga could’ve been the one to pull the trigger. But would she have been so careless? To be the one in the house with her? The one who found her? Someone who could’ve easily planted the suicide note? And what would’ve been her motive? She didn’t seem to have any issues with Sloan, so that left an outside motive. Could she somehow be involved in all of this?
Allen joined her on the front stoop and knocked on the door. As he did so, two other agents emerged.
“What’d ya get, guys?” Kennedy asked as they closed the door behind them.
“Not much.” He sounded tired, worn out. She didn’t know him but she knew the other man. His name was Hunter. Very appropriate. They’d teased him about it.
“House is clean, no weapons of any sort. Have at it.” Hunter nodded her way. “Kennedy.”
“How are you, Hunter?”
“Not bad. I hear you’re doing well. Got suckered into this Ryan thing.” He looked to his partner, who made a face.
“Just trying to help,” she said.
“I don’t know about you,” Hunter said. “But she’s driving us crazy. We’re definitely going to celebrate when this whole mess is over.”
“Drinks on me,” the other agent said. They laughed. Hunter waved as they walked away.
Kennedy looked to Allen. “She really that bad?” She was referring to Veronica.
“Oh yeah.”
“Wow. Guess I got lucky. Shawn isn’t any trouble at all.”
Allen smiled. “Wanna trade?”
She laughed. “No thanks.”
The screen door creaked as she opened it and knocked again.
Someone called out for them to enter.
“Hello?” She stepped inside. The smell of the stew was very strong and the house was stifling. Her gaze immediately fell upon a small middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes. She was sitting on a dark green couch, perched on the edge, tissue in hand.
Another agent rose to greet them. Gale Nickelson. She was slight and well dressed with immaculate skin that always seemed to glow. Kennedy liked her. She was polite and professional. She was also fluent in five languages.
“Kennedy, how are you?” She shook her hand. “Allen?”
“Good to see you, Gale,” Kennedy said.
“Kennedy Scott, this is Mrs. Olga Valasek. Mrs. Valasek, this is Kennedy Scott, former FBI agent, and this is Special Agent Allen Douglas.”
They both shook her hand. Olga seemed meek and completely overwhelmed.
Gale was there to translate. She’d been kind enough to wait for their arrival.
Olga motioned with her hand. “Please. You can sit.”
Kennedy sat on the couch and angled herself toward Olga. Allen chose a recliner. Gale returned to her position on the remaining recliner.
Kennedy spoke. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”
Immediately Olga began to sob. She cried into her tissue. They waited. When she calmed down, her breath hitched in her throat as she spoke. “I sorry. It is bad.”
Kennedy touched her shoulder. “I know. And we’re sorry for all that you’ve been through. We appreciate you talking with us.”
Allen flipped through his notes.
“You arrived at the Savage house at eleven o’clock a.m.?”
Gale translated the question. Olga answered in English.
“Eleven, yes.”
“Can you tell us about it? What was the first thing you did? Did you notice anything odd when you arrived? Like a suspicious car or person?”
“I go and knock on door. I see no one.”
“So no one answered the door?”
“No.”
“How did you get in?”
“I open door.”
“With a key?”
She shook her head and said something in Ukrainian.
“It wasn’t locked,” Gale said.
“Did you see anyone when you went inside?”
“No.”
Kennedy thought for a moment. “You clean that big house by yourself? How often do you go?” If she was only there once a month she might not notice as much as she would have if she was there once a week.
“No.”
Olga turned to Gale. The conversation was lengthy and excitable.
Gale spoke. “She said she doesn’t clean the house alone. Not usually. But the other woman wasn’t there.”
Kennedy perked up. “Other woman?”
“This is news,” Gale said.
Allen wrote quickly in his notebook.
“Do you know her name?” Kennedy asked.
She shook her head. Allen stood, his phone to his ear. He ordered a call to the cleaning agency to find out the other woman’s name.
Kennedy continued with the questions. “Mrs. Valasek, did you see anything unusual in the house?”
“Kitchen.” She met Kennedy’s gaze. “Was clean.”
“And it wasn’t normally clean?”
Gale spoke. “She means it was clean like professionally clean. She said the sink was shining and smelled like bleach.”
“Like someone had been there cleaning before you?”
“Yes.”
“When did you find the body?”
Olga stared down at her clasped hands. It took her a while before she could answer.
“I clean downstairs and I go upstairs.” Her breath shook. “I clean big bath first. To—” She looked to Gale and asked about a word. “To soak. Soak tub and shower.”
Kennedy nodded. “And you saw the body.”
“I see red water. Then white.” She shuddered. “White skin.”
“And you called nine-one-one right away?”
“Yes.”
Allen snapped his phone shut. “The Bureau’s already contacted the agency. There was no one else assigned to Sloan’s house.”
“Ever?” Kennedy asked.
“Ever.”
“Damn.” Kennedy looked to Olga.
“Mrs. Valasek? I’m going to send someone over here to help you identify the other cleaning woman. All you have to do is tell him what she looks like, okay?” She touched her shoulder once again.
Olga wiped her eyes. “I so sorry. Ms. Savage…” She choked up again. “Was nice lady.”
“We’ve got to find this mysterious cleaning lady,” Kennedy said to Allen.
He flipped open his phone once again. “Call every cleaning agency in town. I bet she’s worked for at least one. I want lists of employees along with photos of all of them. Bring them to Mrs. Valasek.”
“This could be our big break,” Kennedy whispered, heading out of the house. She stopped on the front stoop and slid on her sunglasses. The boys still stood on the corner, lingering. “I’m going to call Shawn. I bet they used someone to clean their house.”
“You think this is it?” he asked.
“Could be.”
He slapped her shoulder. “Let’s hope so. For God’s sake, let’s hope so.”
“In the meantime, let’s go see Veronica. Maybe she can shed some light.”
*
Hudson Valley, New York
Veronica Ryan sat very still in her large hotel suite listening to Agent Starling and Special Agent What’s-his-name. They were irritating her. The entire Bureau was. They’d been up her butt since the second they found out about Sloan’s death, insisting that she stay there instead of her trailer on the set. This meant that she had to be shuttled back and forth, constantly.
“So you think it’s someone who was out to get Sloan?” She wiped her cheeks, wishing there were tears, but she couldn’t muster any. She was confused by their theory, only paying half attention.
“No.” Kennedy sat across from her. “We think it’s someone after you. They still are. We still think you’re in grave danger.”
“Why would you think that?” She didn’t like Kennedy Scott very much and she knew it showed in her tone. But she was beginning not to care. Her know-it-all attitude, always speaking so ca
lm and collected. As if she were the most enlightened and intelligent human being to ever live. She really was beginning to hate her.
“I thought Sloan killed herself?” Why were they here? Wasn’t this mess taken care of now? Sloan blew her brains out. Confessed to hurting Shawn. No more problem. And thankfully, no more embarrassing tabloids.
“We think someone else shot Sloan,” Agent What’s-his-name said.
“What? That’s not what I’ve been told.” Jesus, they were drawing this out. It was like they didn’t want it to be over. Like they had nothing better to do.
“That’s what we think,” Kennedy said.
Veronica fought off scoffing. Starling. Agent fucking Starling. Kissing ass. Knowing it all. Needing to be perfect. Kennedy had it down pat. She could’ve beat out Jodie Foster for the part.
“But it’s someone after me? That doesn’t make sense.”
“We think the UNSUB killed Sloan because of you. To get to you.”
“But why?”
“Because you and Sloan were lovers.”
“Please.”
“It makes sense. Those tabloid stories had just run. About you and Sloan. If someone was jealous, controlling, stalking you, it would be enough to send them over. Especially if they think that you are theirs. These people are delusional.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“We have tests to run, which we hope will help prove our theory. But they may take a while.”
“What kind of tests?”
“Tests for gunshot residue, ballistics, DNA we collected from her bedsheets. We also found shoeprints in the bathroom.”
“Wait a minute. I thought she was found in the bathtub?”
“She was.”
“Wouldn’t water wash away the gunshot stuff?” She watched Cold Case Files every once in a while when she was to play a detective. She knew her stuff. More than these idiots.
“Maybe, maybe not. The gun was still in her grip and obviously she didn’t scrub her hand. If she fired the gun, there may be some chemicals left. We’ve also collected the bath water. If anything was washed off of her, it will hopefully be in the water.”
“What about the bullet thing? The ballistics?”
“We’re testing the gun to see if it matches the bullet fired at Shawn.”
“And if it is, then you have your man, right? Sloan did it all.”
“Not necessarily. We can’t even prove that Sloan owned a gun. The one found with her had its identification number removed.”
“God.” She grabbed her head. “You people. So basically, Agent Starling, you’re telling me that Sloan may not have killed herself, may not have been the one to shoot at Shawn, but that you still don’t have anything to conclusively prove that?”
Kennedy didn’t say anything. Of course not. Because she was an idiot in a smart disguise.
“And in the meantime, I’m supposed to still be on the lookout for someone who may or may not be out to get me? Some mysterious person who shoots Shawn, then breaks into Sloan’s house and kills her, planting a suicide note?” She scoffed and stood from the plush couch. “Please. I’m not going to waste any more of my time believing in your ghost stories.”
“It’s not a ghost story,” Kennedy said, her tone showing some irritability.
“What Kennedy means,” Agent What’s-his-name said, jumping in to douse the rising flames, “is that we don’t know anything for certain yet, so you need to be careful.”
Veronica stared them down. “Didn’t you say you found a letter with Sloan? One that stated she was responsible for all these acts?”
“That’s what the letter said, but—” Kennedy started.
“No buts, Agent Starling. I’m tired. I’ve had just about enough. My life has been torn and shaken, my marriage destroyed, all because of the charades of a jilted lover. And now you want me to continue to be paranoid while you find your answers? No way. I’m through.”
“Ms. Ryan,” Kennedy started again.
“No, no more. I’m tired and I’m fed up and when I’m done shooting, I’m going home. I’m going home to be with my family. As far as I’m concerned, the shooter just killed herself.”
“You could still be in danger,” Kennedy said. “Shawn and the girls could still be in danger.”
“I think we’ll be fine. We will no longer need your services.”
Kennedy stood, fists balled at her sides. Veronica had struck a nerve. It pleased her. “You can’t do that…Shawn and the girls…Shawn won’t allow it…the divorce…it’s no longer up to you.”
Agent What’s-his-name tried to calm her down. She’d hit where it counted and she bit back.
“You’re supposed to be personally protecting them, but instead you’re running around chasing ghosts! You must not be too worried about them—”
Kennedy clenched her jaw. “It’s because I’m worried that I’m here.”
“Well, worry no more. We’ll be fine without you.”
Veronica sat in silence and sipped her hot tea casually, her temper gone as quickly as it had surfaced. She sat still and looked off in silence as if she were completely unaffected by their conversation and their topic.
“I’m still searching for fan mail sent to you before this all started. It’s there. I know it’s there. Letters from the UNUSB.”
“So go find this mysterious letter writer. This make-believe person.” She waved off more tea as Flo brought in a tray. She was careful not to look at her long, even though her skirt was high and revealing, and instead tightened the belt on her thick robe.
“We are,” Kennedy said, waving off her own mug of tea. “But we need some more information from you first.”
Veronica let her continue, curious.
“We need to know about the other women.”
Veronica stared. Then felt the beginnings of a smile curl up on her lips. What are you up to, Agent Starling? “I don’t follow.”
Agent What’s-his-name cleared his throat, as if it would give him courage. “Cut the crap, Ms. Ryan. We already know about the others. I’m counting on you to cooperate fully here. Your life and their lives may depend on it.”
Veronica repositioned herself. The large hotel suite felt too hot all of a sudden. What were they up to? What was this?
“How do you know?” They couldn’t know. Not all of them. Some of them had been years ago. They were bluffing.
“We’re the FBI, Ms. Ryan. It wasn’t difficult,” What’s-his-name replied.
She looked to Kennedy. She knew she was loving this. Sitting there all high and mighty.
“What about Shawn?” Kennedy had probably told her. And had loved every minute of it.
“What about her?”
“Does she already know?”
What’s-his-name linked his fingers together. “She asked, yes. And she knows.”
They’d told her. They’d done this. Ruined her life. She stood. She was livid. “You had no right! No right!” She pointed her finger at Kennedy. “Fuck you, Starling. Seriously, fuck you! Coming into my life and telling my wife my personal business?” She swiped her hand across the tea tray, shoving its contents to the ground. Glass broke. Then she threw the tray across the room. How could they do this? This was her life! No wonder Shawn wanted a divorce. God damn these people.
“I was the one who told her,” the man said. The sneaky little FBI man. He probably had a secret hate for gays, loved ruining their lives. He probably went home to his wife at night and laughed about it. “And she asked for the information. She wanted to know. If I didn’t give it to her, she was planning on hiring someone who could.”
He looked smug. She wanted to smack him.
She looked to Kennedy. Glared. Stuck-up bitch.
“I bet you love this, Starling. I bet you love the fact that I’ve cheated on Shawn so you can move right in on my family.”
Kennedy stood. Red tinged her cheeks. Veronica hoped she would take a step forward. She dared her.
“You’re wrong.
”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You see, unlike you, I put Shawn’s feelings before my own. And I would hate to see her hurt any more than she is right now. So even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t do anything to cause her any more stress. She’s barely holding on as it is. No thanks to you.”
“You just think you’re so goddamned perfect, don’t you?”
“No. But I am considerate. Which is more than I can say for you.” With one last heated look, she excused herself and walked from the room. Veronica wanted to run after her, tackle her, punch her in the face until she begged for mercy. She trembled, keeping her rage harbored.
Agent What’s-his-name stood. He placed his card on the coffee table.
“If you can think of anything important in regard to your previous lovers, please call. In the meantime, we are going to be in contact with them. So don’t be alarmed if they start calling you with questions.”
“Just one more way to ruin my life, eh, Detective?”
“That’s Special Agent Douglas. And no. You’re doing that all on your own.”
*
Kennedy was still upset when she met Allen in the hall where he was waiting for the elevator.
“Can you believe her?” she asked. “She almost had our UNSUB beat as far as narcissism.”
Allen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “She’s something, all right. Don’t let her get to you.”
“Why is she getting to me?” She was incredulous. “Dozens of hardcore criminals have tried, but I’ve never even blinked an eye. I’ve never lost my cool. And now in walks Veronica Ryan and I’m ready to tear my hair out.”
“You know the answer, Kennedy,” he said softly. “You know the reason.”
She met his gaze. Yes, she knew. And she knew he did too. She was different around Shawn Ryan. Softer. Open. Protective.
“Does Shawn know?”
She pushed again on the down button.
“You know you can talk to me,” he said.