“He recently wiped histories and deleted a bunch of files, but it’s a surface job. I can put it all back together at the office. It’ll take me thirty minutes to label, log, and box everything up.”
Suzanne hoped the computer yielded hard evidence because there was no way any more serious charges would stick to Barnett just because he’d lied about knowing the victims. DNA or finding the victims’ shoes would be ideal. Even if she could prove that he was at all four parties and knew all four victims, she wouldn’t be able to get the U.S. Attorney to bite unless there was physical evidence tying him to at least one of the murders.
One of Andie’s people stepped into the office. “We found this letter in the nightstand drawer of the main bedroom,” he said to Suzanne and Andie. The letter had been sealed in a plastic bag and tagged.
The tech continued. “There was a stack of writing paper. We also bagged it because of impressions on the bottom sheets. We might be able to get something from those. This was at the bottom of the pile, and folded.”
“Thanks.” Suzanne took the undated letter. It had an angled crease and was only partially written. Suzanne often did that when she was writing to her eighty-nine-year-old grandmother, who refused to get a computer, if she misspelled a word or decided not to tell her something. She’d written Gram her first year of college and received the letter back, her grammar and misspellings corrected, a week later.
Dear Alanna,
I’m a jerk. My brother says I don’t know a good thing when I have it, and he’s right. You were my good thing and I blew it. I miss you.
I’d love to promise I won’t screw up again, but I know I will. And you don’t deserve that. I’d say I can’t help myself, but we both know it’s not true. I’m too selfish to make a commitment.
But it hurts when I see you, and so I’m trying to avoid
The last incomplete sentence was scribbled out, but Suzanne could easily read it.
“Who writes letters anymore?” Andie asked.
Suzanne didn’t want to admit that she thought it was sweet—not the apology for the fact that Barnett obviously did something unforgivable to Alanna—before he killed her—but that in this day and age, a handwritten letter seemed more sincere than sending an email or text message.
Another tech looked through the doorway. “Suzanne, there’s a guy here says he’s Barnett’s brother.”
“I’ll talk to him,” she said and walked out.
The young man—hardly older than a teenager—stood just inside the door biting his thumbnail. His hair was too long in the front, partly covering his eyes, but overall he was a clean-cut kid.
“Mr. Barnett?” Suzanne said as she approached.
He looked startled, almost mousy, then nodded. “Dennis Barnett.”
“Nice to meet you, Dennis. Do you live here with your brother?”
He shook his head. “I live in Staten Island with my mother. But sometimes I stay with my brother. My other brother, Charlie.”
“Charlie? Is that CJ Barnett?”
Dennis nodded. “He says CJ is his business name, but I still call him Charlie.” Dennis was mildly retarded, Suzanne realized as she spoke to him, but didn’t seem to be impaired. “Is Wade in trouble?”
“Yes, he is. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.” She showed him her badge and ID. “My name is Suzanne Madeaux. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
He looked around. “Where’s Wade?”
“I’m sorry, Dennis, but he’s in jail right now.”
Dennis’s eyes widened. “W-why?”
“Well, it’s a bit complicated.” Suzanne didn’t want to upset the kid; she felt sorry for him. She opted to start with the sanitized version. “He lied to me, and it’s a crime to lie to a federal law enforcement agent. Did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“I asked Wade if he knew some young women. I showed him their pictures. He told me he didn’t, but then I found out that he knew them really well.”
“Wade knows a lot of girls.”
“Does he date a lot?”
“Oh, yes. He likes to have sex.”
“With the same woman or different women?”
“Different. Sometimes he has a girlfriend, but he always screws it up.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“No. Charlie says that. Because Wade can’t be man-ag-a-mis.”
“Do you mean monogamous? Meaning, staying faithful to one person?”
Dennis smiled. “Yes. Monogamous.”
“Do you know any of his girlfriends?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
“Like Alanna?”
He smiled. “I liked Alanna.”
“She was nice?”
He said in a low voice, “Some of Wade’s girlfriends were mean to me. I know I’m not too smart. My mom says it’s the way God made me and I’m perfect the way I am, but moms got to say that. But I don’t think as fast as normal people. Wade didn’t like it when his girlfriends said mean things, like I was too stupid to understand.”
“But Alanna didn’t do that.”
“No, never! She even got mad at Wade once when I accidentally knocked over a statue he had over there”—he pointed to the credenza in the dining room—“and it broke into a million pieces and then he yelled at me. I cried, I was really sorry, and Alanna helped me pick up every single piece. And Wade said he was sorry. He never says sorry unless he really means it, so I know he meant it.”
Suzanne was having a hard time putting Wade Barnett as his younger brother described him into the role of a killer. But most killers weren’t pure evil S.O.B.s. Maybe Wade put himself in the investigation spotlight because he wanted to be stopped. Maybe killing his ex-girlfriend was an accident, and he killed the others … why? Or maybe she was off about the whole motive and the guy was just a psycho who was nice to his little brother.
“Why did Wade and Alanna break up?”
Dennis rolled his eyes. “Because he’s a big jerk.”
Suzanne’s ears pricked up. “Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s what Wade said. He said he was a big jerk and Alanna wouldn’t forgive him.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“I thought it was ’cause he slept with another girl, but I don’t know for sure.”
Suzanne needed a long conversation with her suspect.
“If I showed you some pictures, could you tell me if you recognize any of them?”
He nodded, then he stopped. “Why?”
“I’m trying to—” she almost said help his brother, but she couldn’t do it to this kid. He’d believe her, and when he found out she’d lied to prove his brother was a killer, he’d be devastated. She decided to go for the straightforward approach.
“Dennis, you’re an adult, so I’m going to be honest with you, okay?”
He nodded.
“Four young women your brother knew are dead. That’s what he lied to us about. He told me he didn’t know the girls, but we learned that he did. That’s part of my job, finding out when people are lying. People lie so they don’t get in trouble. I think your brother might have lied because he hurt those girls.”
Dennis’s bottom lip was trembling. “Wade wouldn’t.”
“You know, I was walking around here thinking that Wade seems like a good guy. He likes the Yankees. I like baseball, too.”
“He loves the Yankees.”
Suzanne smiled. “And he has these awards for preserving historic property; he obviously cares a lot about the city. I can see why you like him a lot. You probably admire him, too.”
Dennis gave a half-shrug, half-nod.
“Is he a good brother?”
“Yeah. He didn’t like how Mom made him watch me all the time, even when I got bigger. He said I was a dork. But he didn’t like it if someone else ever called me a dork.”
Having brothers and sisters herself, Suzanne understood.
Suzanne switched the line of questioning. “Hav
e you been to any of the underground parties your brother likes to go to?”
“I don’t like them.”
“But you’ve gone.”
“I went once. Much too loud. It hurt my ears and I hated it. I stay in the car now.”
Suzanne’s instincts vibrated in her gut. “Why do you go?”
“Wade lost his license for drunk driving. I have to drive him.”
“So you were at the party in Brooklyn last Saturday?”
“I—” He stopped talking and frowned. He started biting his thumbnail again and didn’t look at her. “You’re making me confused.”
“It’s an easy question,” she said. “You’re a smart kid; I think you know why I’m asking.”
“No. No.” He wouldn’t look at her.
Suzanne couldn’t figure out if this was an act or self-preservation. Dennis didn’t want to think about his brother being a cold-blooded killer, so he just shut down when he figured out where she was going with the questioning.
Either way, she was onto something, and she’d get Dennis to tell the truth. It was just a matter of time and patience.
She had all the time in the world.
Until James Thorpe walked into the apartment a minute later and put an end to her questioning of Dennis Barnett.
TWENTY-ONE
Ryan lived in a nondescript, run-down, brown, eight-story apartment building with at least one hundred units in the Fifties near Third. Whereas the Upper West Side near Columbia was a mix of quaint old and new, this section had a mix of office buildings circa the 1950s and a hodgepodge of apartment housing.
Sean appreciated New York, he liked visiting, but seeing so many people packed together reminded him that he was a bit homesick for California and the elbow room he’d enjoyed.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Sean told Trey when he buzzed Ryan’s apartment.
“But—”
Sean shot him a stern look and Trey scowled, but didn’t talk back.
“Yup,” a voice said in the speaker.
“You called about a phone.”
“Come on up.”
The door buzzed and Sean led the way to the third-floor apartment. The hallways were so narrow he and Trey had to walk single file. The entire building smelled of stale food from poor ventilation, but it wasn’t a tenement.
When Ryan opened the door, he seemed apprehensive at the sight of Sean and Trey. Ryan was of average height, gaunt but clean-cut enough that he might still be considered attractive to the opposite sex.
Sean handed him his card. “The phone you found belongs to a runaway. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re a private eye?” Ryan asked, skeptical.
“I was hired by her parents to find her. I know she was supposed to be at a party in Sunset Park. Can we come in?”
Sean took Ryan’s moment of hesitation to enter the apartment. Trey was right behind him.
The place looked like a typical, sloppy college student’s studio apartment. Bed in the corner that doubled as a couch; large-screen television that dwarfed the room; a couple of chairs; desk with computer, books, and papers; and a small lopsided table. Dirty clothes were heaped in one corner. Two posters were tacked to the beige walls—one showing a sleek red Lamborghini with a naked blonde on the hood, the other commemorating the Pittsburgh Steelers’ Super Bowl XLIII victory.
“I just found the phone.” Ryan stood next to the open door as if he would bolt at the first sign of trouble.
Sean spotted Kirsten’s smart phone next to the computer. He picked it up. It had a crack on the front of the screen, but he didn’t know whether the damage was old or new. It was on, with only one battery bar.
“You just now found the phone? I couldn’t get a GPS lock on it, but it has one bar.”
“I mean, I found it Saturday night, but I forgot. I was pretty wasted, didn’t know I had it in my pocket. I was doing laundry this morning and found it. It was totally dead, but I had an old charger that fit and, um, I liked the girl who dropped it, thought we could go out if I gave her the phone.”
Trey stepped forward and opened his mouth to talk, but Sean cut him off. He showed Ryan Kirsten’s photo.
“Is this the girl who dropped the phone?”
Ryan grinned. “Yeah. Ashleigh. She’s hot.” Then he looked nervous and said to Trey, “You’re not her brother, are you?”
“Boyfriend,” Trey said.
“I doubt that,” Ryan snorted.
Sean said, “Trey, do you need to step out?”
“No,” he grumbled.
To Ryan: “Tell me what happened Saturday night.”
“Is she really missing?”
“Yes.”
“It was a rave. Seven hundred people, maybe more. I lost track of her.”
“When did you find the phone? I know she used it late Saturday night.”
“Um, no. I was, um, dancing with her. We had a little action, she said she had to meet a friend but would be back. She took off, then I saw her phone on the floor.”
Sean kept his face neutral, but he knew what Ryan meant with his euphemisms. He wanted to pound sense into the jerk, but that wouldn’t get them any closer to finding Kirsten.
“How did you know it was hers?”
“Saw her with it. She said she was coming back. But she didn’t, and I pocketed her phone, got another drink. Forgot all about it until I found it this morning and remembered how she—” He cut himself off with a glance at Trey.
Trey burst out, “And you didn’t go look for her? You weren’t worried that something might have happened?”
“Hey! It was a big party. I figured she hooked up with someone else. She was dressed for it.”
Trey stepped forward aggressively, and Sean had to put his hand on his chest to physically hold him back. Ryan backed up, obviously not wanting a confrontation. He was definitely not the stand-up-and-defend-your-girl kind of guy. Trey, however, was, and Sean needed to defuse the situation.
Sean showed Ryan Wade Barnett’s photograph. “Know him?”
“Sure. Wade.”
“Was he at the party?”
“Oh, yeah. He knows how to have fun.”
“Do you remember what time he arrived? When he left?”
Ryan shook his head and leaned against the door-jamb. “Have no idea when he showed up, but he made a stink as the party was winding down that his ride had left.”
“Did he call a car service? Do you know how he got home?”
“He left with some girl, but he didn’t look too happy about it.”
“Can I take your charger? You said it was an old one.”
“Well—”
Sean put a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and picked up the charger. “Thanks for your help.” He walked out, Trey on his heels.
Before Ryan had even closed the door, Trey said, “Do you believe that guy? Kirsten would never go out with a loser like that.”
“At least he tried to get her phone back to her. This is going to help.”
“He didn’t even know her name!” Trey said, shaking his head.
“And you have to let it drop. He’s a witness; don’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know, got it?” Sean was already scrolling through the text messages on Kirsten’s phone. He skipped the messages that had been sent Sunday and Monday before the phone died—they were from her mother, Trey, and a few friends at her school—and looked at the messages during the time frame of the party.
At 1:13 a.m., a message from “Jessie” came in:
Don’t be such a slut and meet me outside. Now, Ash.
Twenty-three minutes before that last message from Jessie, she had sent another:
Plz, K, need 2 talk 2 u. I’m freezing.
And eight minutes before that, at 12:42 a.m., Jessie had texted:
i see u with that guy. we need 2 talk now. im getting worried. outside 10 min.
Sean frowned. There were other messages between Jessie and Kirsten, but the battery was flashing low.
He saw that there were nineteen voice mail messages, but didn’t know if the phone would last until he could retrieve them all. He pocketed the phone. He’d go back to the hotel, charge the phone, and download everything. He’d listen to the voice mail while Lucy put together the text message threads chronologically.
“What did it say?” Trey asked.
“I’m trying to create a time line before she lost her phone. I need to download the text messages and retrieve her voice mails. Go home, Trey.”
“No.”
Sean stopped walking. “I appreciate you calling me. You did the right thing, and I have information that may lead me to where she’s hiding out. But it’s going to take all my time and concentration, and I can’t worry about you getting into trouble.”
“I’m not!”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about going back to talk to that guy.”
“No,” he said, averting his eyes.
“Trey, you’re eighteen, you can do what you want, but I’m telling you to stay out of it.”
Trey glared at him.
“You’re not going to listen to me, are you? What are your plans? How are you going to find her? You don’t know anything about her life as Ashleigh, and you damn well better not go back to Ryan’s apartment.”
“I have to do something!”
Sean sympathized with the love-struck teen. If it were him, he would have gotten into far more trouble if he were looking for his missing ex-girlfriend.
“Do you have a picture of Kirsten?”
“The same one you have, but wallet size.”
“Good. Get a list of all the hospitals and clinics in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Show her picture to several staff members; see if anyone has seen her.”
“The police sent out a notice to all hospitals,” he said.
“Yes, and so did I. But some of these places get busy; they might not have made the connection. And in her message, she said she couldn’t walk. She might have broken her leg or sprained her ankle, which means she may have gone to a clinic to get it looked at.”
“There have to be hundreds of those places—it would take all week to go to all of them.”
“Start in Brooklyn closest to Sunset Park. That’s where the party was. Work your way out from there.”
Kiss Me, Kill Me Page 19