Scorched

by Laura Griffin

  Or where she assumed he’d died. Crime-scene investigators had found no sign that the victim had been killed elsewhere and transported. And yet Derek’s words kept going through her head.

  You guys got something wrong.

  Elizabeth crouched beside the dried puddle of blood and examined the stained grout. She stood up and glanced around. She looked at the front door and once again saw no sign of forced entry. She looked around the living room. Her gaze fell on the evidence tags sitting on the coffee table, marking the spots where a beer bottle and a computer had been removed. Those two critical pieces of evidence had shaped the working theory of the case: Blake had been at home Monday night, working on his computer, when someone knocked on his door—without leaving fingerprints. Blake had gone to the door and likely recognized the person—Gage Brewer—whom he’d met two summers ago during a terrorist incident in West Texas.

  Maybe Blake had been surprised to see him, maybe not. Gage had come in for a beer and maybe a little talk about the woman they both knew, which was of course when things escalated. The conversation moved to the foyer, possibly as Blake tried to get Gage to leave. The SEAL grabbed him from behind, broke his neck with a quick twist, then whipped out his combat knife and stabbed him through the kidney.

  Derek’s words echoed through her mind again: Why’d he kill him twice?

  She couldn’t get past that point because he was right—it didn’t make sense. It also didn’t make sense to her that someone who had clearly premeditated the crime by coming all the way from California and showing up armed with a silent weapon would be careless enough to leave fingerprints on a beer bottle.

  Then again, violent people did dumb things all the time—particularly in the heat of the moment. Maybe he’d been overcome by emotion. He’d certainly been emotional enough when Elizabeth first met him on the naval base.

  Elizabeth thought of Kelsey. The woman was the key to all of this, she felt certain.

  What had spooked her into running away? Had she known what Gage had planned? Had she helped plan it? Had she witnessed something, and now she was running for her life?

  Derek had said that Gage was protecting her. Protecting, not threatening.

  Elizabeth firmly believed Kelsey had been in this apartment on the night of Blake’s murder, although she had no physical evidence to back up that theory. What she had was a lack of evidence in key areas.

  She moved down the hallway now and into the bathroom, where, strangely, no fingerprints had been recovered. CSIs had dusted the doorknob, the faucet, the toilet, the cabinets. No prints had turned up, not even the maid’s. How was that possible? According to her original interview, the maid who found Blake’s body came every Tuesday and cleaned the condo top to bottom. If she was the last person to wipe down this room, that meant Blake hadn’t used the bathroom closest to his living area in a week. So every evening, he’d gone all the way downstairs to use the restroom?

  The lack of fingerprints had puzzled the entire team at first, but after tossing the topic around awhile, everyone had dismissed its importance. Maybe Blake didn’t use his living room much and preferred to spend time in the master suite downstairs, which had a larger TV. Or maybe he was just quirky about his bathroom habits.

  But Elizabeth didn’t believe either of those explanations. She felt almost certain someone else had been in this bathroom on the night of the murder and carefully wiped away all the prints.

  Elizabeth glanced in the mirror and was startled by what she saw. She looked tired. Disheveled. More than anything, she looked overwhelmed. She felt overwhelmed, even though she shouldn’t because she’d been kicked off the case and sent home with her tail between her legs. She was back to her regular duties, back to tasks she could handle. But instead of handling them, she was secretly still working on the very case that had almost cost her her job.

  She couldn’t let go of it.

  She didn’t know why, but this crime scene kept pulling at her. Maybe because it was her first real murder scene, or maybe because she’d known the victim. Whatever the reason, Elizabeth hadn’t been able to stay away.

  She made a trip down to the master suite to complete her walk-through. She stood in the doorway and gazed at the bare mattress. She glanced down the hallway. The light near the stairs shone into the utility room, illuminating another pair of evidence markers where CSIs had collected a T-shirt and running shorts, which were presumed to be Blake’s. The clothes were currently being tested for DNA.

  Elizabeth looked at the dryer and tried to imagine Blake doing his own laundry. Or did his maid do it? She pictured him dumping a load of clothes in the machine—probably mixing all the colors and whites together—before going to bed. She stared at the laundry room for a moment and then walked down the hall to examine the doorway.

  No door.

  No barrier to close off the loudest room in the home from the master bedroom. She flipped on the light and looked at the marks in the wood where hinges had once been. She noted a scuff on the baseboard. She crouched down and ran her gloved finger over the slight indention in the wood where a door stopper had made its mark over the years.

  Elizabeth’s pulse sped up. She took the stairs two at a time and returned to the upstairs hallway. The bedroom door got stuck on the carpet and she had to use her shoulder to open it, just as Gordon had done when they’d first toured this scene. Elizabeth examined the wood. She dropped to her knees and checked out the rubber doorstop. On the wall nearby was a corresponding scuff mark. Elizabeth pushed the door back.

  The marks didn’t line up.

  Someone had changed out this door. But when? And why? Explanations poured into her head. Maybe it had been damaged during a confrontation. Maybe it had evidence on it—blood, prints, possibly DNA from someone’s fist.

  She stared at the doorknob and tried to imagine it. She got on her hands and knees and searched the carpet for splinters, blood, anything the CSIs might have missed. Slowly, she crawled around, examining the beige fibers. As she reached the bare mattress, her finger brushed over a depression in the carpet.

  “No way,” she murmured.

  She reached for the lamp on the bedside table and turned it on. She pulled it to the floor and dragged it close to the spot. Metal glinted.

  An embedded slug.

  Elizabeth sat back on her heels and held her hand to her chest. Her heart pounded. Her breathing was shallow. An armed confrontation involving someone—presumably Kelsey—had occurred right in this room. And someone—presumably Kelsey—had managed to get away. The CSIs had missed this, but she had the evidence right here.

  Elizabeth’s mind reeled. She thought about combat knives and alibis and a beer bottle that never should have been left on that coffee table.

  She pulled the phone from her pocket and made a call.

  “Moore,” came the brisk answer.

  “Sir, it’s Elizabeth LeBlanc.”

  Silence.

  “I’m calling from San Antonio. I’m at the crime scene, actually.”

  “You’re no longer on this case, LeBlanc.” His voice was laced with irritation.

  “Yes, I know, but I was free today, so I decided to follow up on a few questions. I’m glad I did, because I’ve found some critical evidence that was apparently overlooked by the CSIs.” She cleared her throat, which suddenly felt dry as sandpaper. “Sir, I think this crime scene was staged.”

  No response. Elizabeth knelt on the floor in the silent bedroom, holding her breath and waiting.

  “Let me make myself clear, LeBlanc. As of noon yesterday, you are no longer associated with this investigation. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “You are to go home, right now. Do not stop by your office. Do not make any phone calls. Do not, under any circumstances, repeat a word of what you just told me to anyone. I’ll call you later. Are we clear?”

  Elizabeth tried to speak, but her voice wouldn’t work.

  “Are we clear, LeBlanc?”

 
; “We’re clear, sir.”

  • • •

  Kelsey spent most of her time at Delphi in what she thought of as the catacombs, while Mia inhabited the top. As the Delphi Center’s crown jewel, the DNA laboratory occupied the sixth-floor penthouse.

  Kelsey led Gage down the glass hallway leading to Mia’s office. The windows on one side offered views of the Texas Hill Country while the other gave a glimpse into the center’s cyber-crimes lab.

  “Impressive,” Gage said, looking around.

  Kelsey felt a surge of pride. He’d never been to the lab before, and it was impressive. Just being here gave her a sense of comfort. It wasn’t just the familiar surroundings that made her feel that way, but her confidence in what they did here. Investigators from all over the world turned to Delphi for help with their toughest cases.

  “This floor is our showcase,” she told Gage. “The DNA research is really the guts of what we do, and it generates most of the private funding, so this is where they take all the VIPs.”

  “No one visits you in the bone basement?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m not there that much, anyway. When the weather’s not too terrible, I prefer to be outdoors with students or out on a recovery.”

  Kelsey stopped in front of Mia’s office. The door was open and Mia stood at a tall worktable, tapping away on her computer.

  “Hi there.”

  Mia glanced up. “Hi! When did you get here? I was getting worried.” She crossed the room and pulled Kelsey into a hug.

  Gage stepped through the doorway, and his enormous size made Mia’s office seem even smaller than it actually was.

  “Mia.” He nodded at her.

  “Gage.”

  Her cool tone told Kelsey exactly where she stood on the Gage question. In an effort to cut the tension, Kelsey walked between them and placed her evidence on the counter. It consisted of a glass vial and a sealed paper bag.

  “Thanks for meeting us on a Sunday,” she told Mia. “I’ve got several things for you.”

  Mia switched on an overhead lamp that was bright enough for a dentist’s office. She adjusted the metal arm and held up the vial to the light.

  “Dirt sample?”

  “Mixed with blood,” Kelsey said. “We’re working on the premise that the victim is someone Blake knew. We believe his name is Charles Weber, but that’s about all we know about him.”

  “Victim?” Mia looked at her.

  “It looked like he died from a shotgun blast to the head, but we haven’t confirmed that.”

  Mia put the vial on the counter and regarded it skeptically.

  “What? Didn’t I get enough?”

  “No, that’s plenty here to run tests,” Mia said. “I can use PCR to amplify the sample.”

  “PCR?”

  Mia glanced at Gage. Kelsey wasn’t sure whether he really cared about the process or was simply trying to draw Mia out of her shell.

  “A polymerase chain reaction. It’s a technique we use to get what’s essentially a Xerox copy of the DNA we need from a very small sample. It even works on old or degraded samples, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” She turned to Kelsey. “But what makes you think he’ll be in a database? You said he was a victim. Does he have a criminal record?”

  “We’d like to find out.”

  “What’s this?” Mia donned a pair of latex gloves and used an X-ACTO knife to unseal the bag. She pulled out an aluminum beer can. It had been crushed by someone into a nice portable size, which was one reason Kelsey had snatched it up and stuffed it in her pocket on her way through the kitchen.

  “This was recovered from the crime scene,” she told Mia. “It seemed like the killer was staying there, so you might be able to get some DNA from the can.”

  “Or prints,” Gage added.

  “I’ll swab the can here first, then run it down to Ident to see if they can get anything. I’ve got to be honest, your chances with them are better.”

  “You don’t think you’ll get DNA?” Kelsey asked.

  “No, I will. But AFIS includes far more records than CODIS—about seventy million.”

  “When you’re dropping off the can, give them this, too,” Gage said, pulling out the business card he’d wanted from Aaron. He held it by the edges. “We’re interested to see if any prints from the can match the ones on this business card.”

  Mia read the name and lifted an eyebrow. “Special Agent Lohman.” She gave Kelsey a pointed look. “He was here last week.”

  Kelsey’s phone rang again and she pulled it out to check the number.

  “Hey, Aaron, what’s up?”

  “Thought you’d want to know,” he said, “I just left the lab, and as I drove through the gate, the feds were pulling in.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Gage watched from behind a storage shed as the gray Taurus circled the Delphi Center’s employee parking lot.

  “What are they doing?” Kelsey asked.

  “Probably looking for the SUV. Maybe they talked to the guard.”

  The Taurus made another slow loop. Because it was Sunday, the lot wasn’t full. Many of the cars looked to be unmarked police vehicles, probably belonging to detectives who were dropping off evidence. At last the Taurus pulled into a space.

  Gage gripped his SIG in his hand as he waited to see who would emerge. If Trent Lohman got out, he was going to have a tough time resisting the urge to take him out right now.

  The driver’s-side door opened, and an FBI agent got out.

  “That’s not Trent,” Kelsey said.

  “Supervisory Special Agent Gordon Moore.”

  She turned to look at him. “You know him?”

  “He interviewed me back at base. Where’s your phone?”

  “Right here.”

  “Call Mia,” Gage said. “Ask her to intercept him in the lobby and get his cell number. She can tell him anything she wants—she’s expecting to hear from you, she’ll let him know when you call—whatever she needs to say to get his number.”

  “Why do we want his number?”

  Gage watched as the agent walked up the white marble steps to the Delphi Center’s front entrance. He hoped to hell he hadn’t misread this guy.

  He turned to Kelsey. “Because it’s time for Plan B.”

  • • •

  Kelsey fidgeted with the Mace inside her pocket. It was pretty useless, considering who she was up against, but Gage had insisted that she have it ready, just in case the plan went sideways.

  A child squealed, and she glanced over her shoulder. A little boy of about five or six stood on tiptoes, peering over the outer wall of the elephant habitat where a mother elephant was giving her baby a bath. Kelsey glanced over her other shoulder. More children, more parents, a cotton candy vendor. Her nerves jangled as she thought of the many things that could go wrong.

  And then she spotted him. He’d traded the suit and tie for khakis and a navy blazer—which made him only slightly less conspicuous in the late-morning heat. The agent’s gaze zeroed in on Kelsey, and she made an effort to appear calm as he strode toward her.

  He glanced around, then stopped in front of her and gave a crisp nod. “Dr. Quinn.”

  She waited a beat, then offered a handshake. “Agent Moore. Greg, is it?” She held on to his hand and leaned forward to hear the answer.

  “It’s Gordon.”

  Gage appeared behind him and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Gordon. Nice to see you again.” Gage snaked his hand inside his blazer and relieved him of his pistol. It happened so fast that Kelsey would have missed it if she hadn’t been standing there, gripping the agent’s hand.

  “No offense,” Gage said, “but we’d like to keep this friendly.”

  “None taken,” he said tightly.

  Kelsey settled back against the low stone wall beside Gage. Moore watched them, clearly seething.

  She smiled. “Did you come alone?”

  “He did,” Gage confirmed.

  Moore looked at Kelsey, then at Gag
e, then at the Saharan backdrop they’d chosen as a site for their meeting.

  “I’m sure you’re busy investigating, so we’ll keep this brief,” Gage said. “Kelsey wants to set the record straight on a few things.”

  The agent’s attention shifted to Kelsey, but she could tell he still considered Gage very much a threat.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Over the last six days,” she said, “it’s become painfully obvious that your investigation has taken a wrong turn.”

  She took him through what she’d seen on the night of Blake’s murder, then followed up with the shooting incident in Piney Creek. Moore listened without interrupting.

  “The next time I saw Trent Lohman,” Kelsey told him, “was in Briggs, Utah. I understand you’ve had agents up there recently.”

  He nodded.

  “Trent was at the home of Charles Weber. He was with an accomplice. I believe one or both of them killed Weber before setting fire to the crime scene.”

  Moore gave them a long, hard look. “How can you be sure who killed him?”

  “We can’t,” Gage said.

  “We’re not even certain it was Charles Weber we saw in that barn,” Kelsey said. “I collected some evidence from the crime scene that’s now destroyed, and I’m hoping to get something through DNA. But you’re right, we don’t know for sure. What we do know for sure is that Trent Lohman is directly involved in one murder, and directly involved in the cover-up of another. Whether the victim was Charles Weber or not—”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Kelsey stared at him. “It wasn’t?”

  The agent looked at Gage, then back at Kelsey. He gazed out at the elephants again and seemed to be struggling with a decision.

  “Charles Weber is an alias. The remains you found in the barn belong to Dr. Robert Spurlock, who started his career at the University of Cincinnati. Fifteen years ago he went to work for the government.”

  A cold ball of dread formed in Kelsey’s stomach. “Doctor of what?” she asked.

  Moore gave her a grim look. The dread expanded.

  “Microbiology,” he said. “He’s one of the country’s foremost experts in Bacillus anthracis.”