The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

by Mary Burton

  She slid her hands in her pockets. “You, too, Novak.”

  “What was the woman’s name, Novak?” Ken asked.

  “Rita Gallagher.” Novak’s gaze didn’t shift away from her.

  “I don’t remember Jim mentioning her,” Ken said. “But I have lots of old notes from my cases. I told Novak I can read through them.”

  She’d seen his office, a study in mile-high stacks of paper and chaos. A search for Rita Gallagher constituted a needle in a haystack. “Great idea.”

  “I found out she worked at Billy’s,” Novak said.

  “Billy’s,” Julia repeated. “My aunt’s bar?”

  Novak nodded. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

  She frowned, not liking the newest connection. “Small world.”

  Novak studied her a beat before saying, “I asked Ken what he remembered about the fall of 1992 when he and your father worked the Hangman case.”

  “Okay.” Novak was a good cop and didn’t ask random questions.

  Ken looked at Novak. “Julia wants to see if she can crack it.”

  “Why now?” Novak asked.

  “Time is running out, I suppose,” she said. “Witnesses are getting older. Evidence is degrading. If not now, then most likely never.”

  “And it’s no secret that my memory is also fading. I told Julia several times not solving that case always bothered me,” Ken said. “Catching the Hangman is top on my bucket list.”

  Julia had promised Ken she’d never patronize him. “Ken’s right. It’s now or never. Speaking of which, if we’re still going to Quantico, we’ll need to get going.”

  Novak studied her. “Quantico?”

  “We’re working with Shield Security over there. They’ll be helping us with data searches and DNA retesting,” Julia said.

  “Odd Rita Gallagher was found as you’re reopening the case,” Novak said.

  She’d wondered about the odd coincidence as well. Clearly, he didn’t believe in divine timing either.

  “Gallagher died within weeks of the last Hangman victim. She lived and worked in the same area as the victims. Maybe Shield can figure out if she’s connected to the Hangman.”

  “You’ll keep me posted.” Novak hadn’t tacked a question mark on the end of the sentence.

  “Sure. I didn’t think you cared about cold cases,” Julia said.

  “The killings happened in my jurisdiction. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Sure. I’ll keep you in the loop,” Julia said.

  Novak shook Ken’s hand. “I might come back and pick your brain some more.”

  “You’re welcome anytime,” Ken said. “Wendy, we’re leaving.”

  Wendy showed up with his coat in hand. “I heard you.” She handed him his coat.

  Novak walked them to her car, watching as Ken settled in the front seat beside her. Until now their relationship had centered on physical pleasure. He’d asked questions about her, but she’d been able to deflect them easily enough. Now, she sensed the next time they were alone, she wouldn’t be able to easily dismiss his questions.

  “I’ll never get used to not driving,” Ken said, clicking his seat belt. “I always drove when your dad and I were partners.”

  She started the car. “We’ll make better time with me behind the wheel.”

  “Still, it sucks.”

  She glanced in her rearview mirror. Novak was still watching them. “What did Novak have to say?”

  “Like he said, wanted to know about Rita Gallagher.”

  “And you don’t remember her?” She focused on the road and shoved Novak to the back of her mind.

  “No. But your dad didn’t tell me everything. He guarded his secrets.”

  “You haven’t talked much about the days you and Jim worked together.” She knew basic facts. They’d been partners for three years, working dozens of homicide cases in the city. The Hangman case had been their last.

  “Your dad was a tenacious son of a bitch. You remind me a lot of him.”

  “I heard that from my mom and aunt once or twice.”

  “Jim could never let a case go. He worked it until it cracked or the brass pulled him off.”

  After several conversations with him in the last couple of weeks, she knew it was best to let him talk. If she pushed for details, he could get confused or sidetracked. So she kept her gaze on the road and waited for precious details about her father’s career.

  “You know he came from vice,” Ken said. “He worked undercover. Had a hell of a knack for slipping into the skin of anyone.”

  The last undercover assignment had come when she was three or four, and she had vague memories of seeing Jim with long hair and a beard. Jim Vargas had been gone a year before he’d made his case. He’d dismantled a large heroin ring and received a promotion, but the work came with a personal price. A lesson she now understood all too well.

  “The narcotics department made a dozen arrests based on the evidence he gathered from that last undercover operation. And not low-level street punks. He snagged some big damn fish. Made a lot of enemies, but he didn’t care. Homicide must have been tame after that kind of work.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “He was always restless. He tried to settle into the new life, but it was never easy.”

  “It takes time adjusting to your real life again,” she said. “Hard to shut off the adrenaline.”

  “Is it that way for you, Julia?”

  She heard the concern behind the words. “No. I’m fine.” She tossed in a grin to sell it. “Really, don’t worry about me.”

  “You always say you’re fine.”

  “Because I am. Please don’t worry.”

  “How can I not?”

  She didn’t speak as she searched for words—or maybe it was courage—to ask what she’d been unable to ask until now. “Why do you think Jim killed himself?”

  Ken frowned. “I’ve spent countless sleepless nights replaying our last conversations. I never remembered one hint of trouble. I figured your dad would go on forever. He was indestructible. I never saw it coming. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

  “He never said he was upset?”

  “Not a word. I know it was rough for him after your mother moved out with you. He wanted the marriage to work, but he always wanted to close cases. It’s impossible to do both. Your mom was tired of the job always coming first.”

  “She loved him. She said it enough times before she died.”

  That’s why they’d been at the house that day. Her mother was moving back and willing to give their marriage another try. “It’s going to be good this time, Julia.” She met her mother’s watery gaze in the rearview mirror. “We’re going to be a real family this time. No more pretend.”

  And then she and her mother had discovered the blood and destruction waiting for them at the house.

  The medical examiner had put Jim Vargas’s death at about five in the evening. Later, when Julia became a cop, she’d accessed the police reports from that day. According to what her mother told the police, they’d arrived home shortly after five. They’d pushed through the front door of their house minutes after her father had shot himself.

  So close to seeing him alive. Maybe stopping him. Close, but no cigar.

  “Did you and Jim ever feel like you were close to catching the Hangman? You listed suspects in the files, and I read the interviews. Was there anyone who stuck with you more than any other?”

  “I didn’t like Gene Tanner. He was the husband of the first victim. We leaned on him hard. When the press got wind of it, they chased Tanner and dug into his personal life. But then the second body showed and he had a solid alibi, so we backed off.”

  “Did anyone know all three victims?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, as his gaze drifted to the strip malls giving way to woodlands as they drove north on I-95. “We spent countless hours going through the interviews. The evidence. But there was never one guy t
hat stuck out to us.” He shook his head, plucking a thread from his pant leg. “And after Jim died, well, I lost a good bit of the fire in my belly to solve the case. I had wanted this killer caught so badly. And then the killings stopped, and I wondered if maybe the rumors about Jim were true. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

  She shifted in her seat. He’d never told her any of this before. “You thought he might have been the Hangman?”

  “Working undercover can change a person, especially if they’re under for a long time. Jim and I went to the academy together. The job took its toll on us both, but especially him.”

  She was silent.

  “Jim could be short-tempered, and he wasn’t afraid to bend the law to catch a suspect. In the darkest parts of the night, I thought maybe he was the Hangman. That the job had transformed him.”

  Julia sat still, barely breathing.

  “It was a year after his death before I could get really motivated about much. Like I said, there were no more deaths, and the case was shoved to the back burner. Until you. And now Novak.” He stared out the window. “By the way, Novak asked about you today.”

  “Me?” Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “What about me?”

  “General stuff. Mainly why you care about the case.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “The party line. The last case your old man worked deserved to be solved.”

  “It’s not a party line. It’s the truth.”

  His gaze narrowed, like he smelled something was off. “Don’t bullshit me, Julia. You think solving that case will somehow explain Jim’s suicide, and maybe send a message to the friends who distanced themselves from you and your mother after his death.”

  “We did fine.”

  “It’s okay to say you’re suffering.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “Novak thinks you are.”

  “Really?”

  His gaze cut toward her. “What’s going on between you two?”

  She adjusted her sunglasses. “We had a case last night.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not so far gone that I don’t see the way he looks at you. What’s the deal with you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe nothing for you, kiddo, but I don’t think Novak received the memo.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday, October 30, 1:45 p.m.

  Julia took the Quantico exit and let the GPS guide her along side streets to the security station where a guard stood. Ken, who had been silent most of the trip, sat straighter.

  “Agent Julia Vargas,” she said to the guard, showing her badge. “And this is retired detective Ken Thompson. We’re meeting with Garrett Andrews.”

  The guard studied her identification before handing it back. “I need to see his identification.”

  Julia smiled. “Ken, where’s your driver’s license?”

  The hint of uncertainty in her voice clearly irritated him. Frowning, Ken reached in his breast pocket and produced his ID. He handed it to the guard.

  “You’re on the list,” the guard said. “Follow the road to the back.”

  “Got it,” Julia said.

  She followed the road and parked in a visitor spot by the front door. Out of the car, they made their way to the sleek five-story office building. The smoked-glass front was opaque, but she sensed every move they made was monitored by someone on the inside.

  “Ready to wow the committee?” she asked Ken.

  He tugged at the edges of his sports jacket as he stared at the building. “You’re doing most of the talking, right?”

  “That’s the plan, but they may ask you questions. Is that okay?”

  He jutted out his chin. “Of course it’s okay. I miss details from time to time, Julia, but I’m not an invalid.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really worried that they’ll turn us down.”

  The lines around his eyes softened. “No one says no to you.”

  “Sure they do.”

  A smile crunched the edge of his lips. “And the poor bastard lived to regret it, didn’t he?”

  “Maybe a little.” She straightened his tie.

  When they stepped into the lobby, a formidable man stood by the security desk. In his late thirties, he wore a well-tailored suit that hugged a trim waist. The shoes were polished. The red tie was straight, and the thick blond hair was cropped close. Scars on the back of his left hand suggested he’d been badly burned.

  “Agent Vargas,” the man said. The voice was deep with hints of rust on the edges.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Julia Vargas.” She moved toward him, her hand outstretched.

  He wrapped long fingers around her hand and squeezed. “I’m Garrett Andrews.”

  Matching his grip, she met his gaze. She’d read up on the company and its principal partners. Andrews was the firm’s computer expert, though some considered him a genius. He’d served with Special Forces in Iraq until an IED explosion had blown up his vehicle. He was the only survivor of the explosion. “Good to meet you, Mr. Andrews. This is Ken Thompson, my father’s former partner.”

  Andrews extended his hand to Ken. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve read the case files. You did some impressive work on the case, Detective Thompson.”

  Ken accepted his hand, no hint of worry in his lined face. “But I didn’t solve it. The killer is still free.”

  “You’re here to fix that.”

  “Damn right,” Ken said.

  She’d briefed Andrews on Ken’s medical condition and had worried he would patronize Ken. But Andrews’s demeanor didn’t suggest even a whiff of pity.

  “Excellent,” Andrews said.

  Ken nodded toward her. “Julia is the driving force behind this case now. I’ll help wherever I can.”

  “I bet you still have some moves,” Andrews said.

  Ken gave a slight nod.

  “Let me show you both to the conference room.” He crossed to the elevator with long confident strides and pressed the button. The door opened, and when they stepped inside, he swiped a key card and pressed “5” before the doors closed.

  The elevator doors opened to a reception area, and a pretty redhead sitting behind a polished desk smiled.

  “We’ll be in the conference room, Naomi,” Andrews said.

  “I’ve notified the rest of the committee,” Naomi said. “They’re on their way.”

  “Thank you.” He extended his hand toward the long hallway. “It’s right this way.”

  As Julia and Ken followed Andrews, her mind ticked through the key points she wanted to make to the committee.

  The west wall of the conference room consisted of a bank of windows offering a clear view of the woods and a lake. A dozen office chairs surrounded a long polished conference table. Under a flat-screen television, a matching credenza was filled with drinks, fruits, and doughnuts. Doughnuts. Cops and their doughnuts.

  “Can I offer you a drink or snack?” Andrews asked.

  “A coffee would be great,” Ken said. “Black, one sugar.”

  Andrews poured a cup and handed it to Ken. “Julia, what about you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She all but lived on caffeine, but right now she was too hyped to risk another cup. “Where would you like us to sit?” She heard the clip in her voice and tried to soften it with a smile.

  “At this end of the table,” Andrews said.

  She slid her purse from her shoulder and into the chair to the left of the head spot, which she’d give to Ken.

  “Sure I can’t get you a beverage?” he asked.

  A pack of cigarettes. A shot of tequila. Maybe bourbon. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Two men entered the room. Her homework had also told her the striking man with short black hair was Clay Bowman, the company’s new CEO. Bowman was dating a Virginia State Police trooper and had worked with Agent Sharp on a cold case last month. To his left was a fit man in his midsixties. That would be Joshua Shie
ld, founder of the company.

  Andrews made introductions. Hands were shaken.

  “Dakota Sharp speaks highly of you,” Bowman said.

  Julia held his direct gaze. “He’s one hell of a cop.”

  “Agreed.”

  Bowman and Shield sat opposite Julia and Ken.

  “Agent Vargas kindly sent me her presentation, and it’s now uploaded into our system,” Andrews said.

  “We’re ready whenever you are, Agent Vargas,” Bowman said.

  Andrews handed Julia the remote. The lights in the room dimmed, and the first image, a warehouse located in Richmond’s Shockoe Bottom, came up. “This area of Richmond is the old tobacco warehouse district of the city. Today, it’s been revitalized and is home to many young professionals.” She clicked through more images of the area. “In the midseventies and eighties the area was in decline, but by 1992 was beginning to see a significant uptick in traffic. The promise of the city’s new flood wall encouraged more businesses to relocate to the area. However, drugs and prostitution weren’t uncommon, and there were many old tobacco warehouses yet to be renovated.”

  Unable to sit, Julia rose when the slide changed to the twenty-five-year-old image of the now-defunct Shockoe Bottom bar Stella’s, owned by the first victim. “The Hangman was a serial killer who stalked Shockoe Bottom in the fall of 1992. As I said in my application, my father, Detective Jim Vargas, worked with Detective Ken Thompson to solve the murder of three women. All three victims were found within a three-block radius of Stella’s, located on the eastern fringe of Shockoe Bottom.”

  Julia stole a glance toward her audience and found them all paying close attention.

  A click and the screen image changed to the mug shot of a young woman with long brown hair and blue eyes. Mascara smudged under defiant eyes that stared at the camera. “This is the first victim. Her name was Rene Tanner. She worked at and co-owned Stella’s with her husband, Gene Tanner. According to her husband, she took the evening off to go out with friends. She never came home. Her body was found hanging in a nearby warehouse six days later. The investigators focused on Gene Tanner, who until the death of the second victim was their primary suspect. Tanner didn’t report his wife missing for three days, and when asked about the delay said his wife often took off.”