She clasped the necklace around her neck. Had Ferris kept it as some sort of sick notch in his bedpost? If so, that showed a psychology to him that confirmed he was a repeat offender. And if that was his mentality, prison wouldn’t have rehabilitated him, and that meant there were likely date-rape drugs here to prove it.
She stormed from the bedroom and toward the bathroom.
Beyond the point of caring anymore if she left her fingerprints behind, she emptied the contents of the medicine cabinet, and his toiletries now filled the sink.
Nothing.
She rushed back to his bedroom and tore it apart. The drugs were here somewhere. A man like Ferris wouldn’t stop raping…
Several minutes passed as she searched, and when she was finished, his bedroom looked like a tornado had struck. But still no pills.
Maybe she was being ridiculous, hoping to find something where there was nothing. And even if she found the drugs, what did she hope to accomplish? While possession of date-rape drugs was illegal, her means of getting them would make them inadmissible in any court. But she couldn’t stop. All she could see was her friend’s body in that casket—the way her face, even in death, showed her tortured existence.
She hurried downstairs to the kitchen. There was no way she was stopping now.
She searched each cupboard and drawer, pulling out items and rooting to the back. She had one place left to look, and as she opened it, she saw that it was a catchall drawer. Stuffed with anything and everything from a meat thermometer, to sandwich bags, to tin foil, to… She pulled out a sleeve of pills. She flipped them and read the stamp on the silver backing. Allergy pills.
She continued working through the contents of the drawer until she reached the last item. It was an Aleve bottle. That was an inconvenient place to keep a pain reliever… She opened it and looked inside. It was only the medication. She was still holding the bottle in her hand when she recalled the one on the counter. She exchanged one for the other, not about to give up. Just because the bottle was labeled one way… She twisted the lid.
Police sirens wailed somewhere nearby, and she paused. Her instinct told her to leave this alone and get out of his house immediately. But it was too late, the whooping sirens were on top of her now, and then the patio door slid open on the other side of the dining room. Two police officers entered the house, guns drawn.
“Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Department! Put your hands on your head!”
“What’s—” The strength drained from her legs, and her head spun. She was under arrest?
Oh God. That woman must have called the police.
“I said, put your hands on your head!” the same officer shouted.
Another officer went around behind her, stripped her of her gun, passed it off to the second officer, and proceeded to cuff her. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re ransacking the house of a dead man.”
A dead man?
“I’m an FBI agent. I can explain—”
“You can do that down at the station.”
-
Chapter 5
TUESDAY, AUGUST 25TH, 3:30 PM EASTERN TIME
SOMEWHERE OVER THE WESTERN UNITED STATES
JACK, ZACH, AND I WERE on one of the FBI’s private jets headed to California. I had already called Becky to let her know I would be out of state working a case. I didn’t tell her it involved Paige for a couple of reasons. One, she’d worry, and two, she’d worry—only they’d be for different reasons. She was aware of my former relationship with Paige and, for some reason, still thought I had feelings for her.
Zach and I were seated across a table from Jack as he began to brief us.
“I received a phone call from Detective Grafton of the Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “Ferris Hall was found murdered in a motel room at eight this morning. Time of death was placed between ten and midnight last night. His car was found in the lot.”
“How does Paige tie into that?” I asked, confused.
Jack clenched his jaw before continuing. “Paige was found in his home.”
“And who is Ferris Hall exactly?” I still didn’t understand the connection between Paige and this man.
“Hall was one of the men who raped her friend when they were on spring break in Cancun. She must have tracked him to California.”
“I didn’t think anyone could be held legally responsible for the rape,” I said, remembering that Paige had told me the rape hadn’t been reported to the police in Mexico. Without that measure, there was nothing that could legally be done. “You said that Paige was found in Hall’s home?” Maybe I was sounding like a parrot right now, but none of this was making sense.
Jack patted his shirt pocket—craving a cigarette, no doubt—but there was no smoking on the jet. “Local detectives believe Paige killed him.”
“Why?” Zach asked, eyes wide.
“Evidence found at the murder scene points to a female killer. And the last person seen with Hall was a woman with long curly hair fitting Paige’s age and appearance.”
I scoffed. “That’s his evidence?”
Zach slid me a glance. “I’m with Brandon on this. There has to be more. Where was this woman seen?”
“An employee at the motel where his body was found saw her. And before you ask, the place has no cameras.” There was a pulse tapping in Jack’s cheek. “Grafton, the detective in charge, isn’t saying much of anything, but I can only imagine that once they discover Paige’s history with Hall and the fact she chose the same city he lived in for her vacation, it won’t look good for her. Add in the fact that she chose this week, the week he shows up dead, and it will seem too coincidental. That’s not even mentioning that she was in the middle of ransacking the place when she was found this morning.”
“She was…what?” I choked out, the words dry in my throat.
“If they think she killed Ferris, then why do they think she went to his house the next morning? That doesn’t make sense. Why not leave things alone?” Zach asked.
“More questions that need answers.” Jack was pissed if the look in his hardened eyes was any indication. “And I intend to find out those answers.”
I could hardly believe we were doing this—setting out across the country to defend Paige against murder charges. “What did you tell the director?” I asked, my curiosity ratcheting up my courage. FBI Director Myron Hamilton wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with. I couldn’t even imagine Jack risking getting on the man’s bad side.
“I told him the truth: one of our own is being accused of a murder she didn’t commit, and we’re going to investigate.”
I glanced at Zach, then back to Jack. “And he was all right with that? He authorized all of us to—”
“I also told him that I believe Ferris Hall’s murder was the work of a serial killer.”
“And he accepted that without proof?” I spat out, wondering how far Jack exaggerated things to warrant the director’s approval.
Jack glared at me. Right, Jack was above questioning…
He produced a curled folder from an inside jacket pocket. “Now, there’s not much here yet seeing as this investigation was just opened, but this is what we’ve got.” He opened it and pulled out some photographs, sliding them across the table to me and Zach.
I picked up the one closest to me. It was a close-up of Hall. He was naked and bloody, laid out on a bed. The shot captured from his thighs up to the wall by his head. His arms were spread as if fixed in the motion of making a snow angel, nothing binding his wrists. And on his chest was a… I looked closer.
“Is that a pill on his abdomen?” I asked, meeting Jack’s gaze.
He nodded. “Rohypnol.”
“A date-ra
pe drug,” I said, unnecessarily stating the obvious as I exchanged the photograph for another. Bile instantly rose in my throat. I swallowed roughly. “Is that what I think it is?”
“If you’re thinking that’s a severed penis, then yes,” Jack said. “The rest of Hall’s genitalia was also mutilated. And all this was done while he was alive.”
The way Jack had just laid it out there like that, one would think we came across this exact sort of depravation all the time. If Jack had presented these photos to the director, I understood why he could accept a possible serial killer at work.
“His—” Vomit reached my mouth now. Ick.
“The killer also urinated on Hall,” Jack said.
Apparently the killer wasn’t worried about leaving any trace…
“They can determine sex from that.” Hope filled my voice, but the look in Jack’s eyes stamped it out.
“And we’ll make sure they do.”
“What actual evidence do they have against Paige?” I asked.
“Yeah, Boss, evidence seems to be something they are short on,” Zach added.
“As I said,” Jack began, “This Grafton guy refused to part with much. We just have the eyewitness who saw the woman and there was a tube of lipstick at the scene—the same brand Paige uses.”
“You’re serious? That’s all. He’s got to be withholding. What about comparing DNA left on the lipstick to Paige? Fingerprints? Maybe it’s because she’s an FBI agent. He could be using her to build himself up.” I realized I might be jumping to a large conclusion here, but it was no secret that tension existed between the police and the FBI. “We can’t let him make a case against her.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at me. “That’s why we’re on a plane headed to California.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“What was the cause of death?” Zach asked.
“Exsanguination. I have Nadia looking for any murders in California that fit the MO,” Jack replied and then got up and headed to the bar fridge, where he grabbed a soda.
Nadia Webber was stationed at the FBI headquarters in Quantico and was our go-to person for everything from backgrounds to updates on forensic findings when we were on the road.
Zach had picked up the file and was reading the few pages we did have. Meanwhile, I must have appeared to be staring mindlessly into space, but I was actually deep in thought. Why would Paige go all the way to California to see the man who had raped her friend? There was no way I’d accept that she murdered the man. Paige was subject to a temper—a stereotypical, yet accurate, quality inherent with red hair as I, too, should know—but she’d never kill an innocent person.
But he wasn’t innocent.
I dismissed the doubts creeping in that would make me wonder if she was capable of meting out her own justice.
All I knew was that those photographs didn’t lie. Whoever had killed Hall was motivated by deep-seated rage. But until we had the proof that a serial killer had murdered him—or in the very least, presented a more viable suspect—Paige’s innocence remained in question.
-
Chapter 6
TUESDAY, AUGUST 25TH, 9:30 AM PACIFIC TIME
VALENCIA, CALIFORNIA
PAIGE WAS TAKEN BACK TO the Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Station and tossed into an interrogation room after being carted through the station like a prized trophy in cuffs. They had a murder suspect in custody, and she was a fed. No one was talking to her; they talked around her. Her question about what made her a murder suspect had so far gone unanswered. She’d be able to provide an alibi, but they obviously weren’t ready to hear it.
The buzz of the fluorescent light dangling overhead droned steadily. The white brick walls begged for a splash of color, and the table was a veneer top with silver metal legs. There was a plastic bucket chair on each side of the table. She pressed her fingers to the tabletop as she took a seat, and the table wobbled. Shifting her weight, she tried to find a comfortable position, but it was impossible. The seat bit into the back of her legs, cutting off her circulation.
But she refused to stand and let the detectives witness her discomfort. She guessed there were probably at least three sets of eyes on her from behind the one-way glass—the two detectives from Ferris’s house and their sergeant. They’d surely be discussing how she was found in a dead man’s home. But it wasn’t like Ferris’s body was in his house. All she was really guilty of was trespassing. If they’d just listened to her, she could put this sordid mess behind her.
She glanced at the walls for a clock but there wasn’t one. How long had she been in here? An hour? Or did it just feel like that?
She knew what they were doing, as she often played the same game in her career. Delaying an interrogation was a tried-and-true method. Toss the suspect into a dank room for long enough, and even the innocent would start to doubt their innocence. But these detectives were foolish if they thought they could manipulate her. She had nothing to hide.
The door opened, creaking on its hinges, and she tucked the necklace beneath her collar.
Two men entered the room. There was a stark age difference between them, and the lead detective was easy to identify. He was in his fifties with silver hair, while the rookie was in his late twenties—tops—and had a thick mop of dark hair and bushy eyebrows.
She should ask for representation, but something about doing so would make all this more real. Surely, she’d have an alibi to provide. She just needed to know Ferris’s time of death and location.
She swallowed, wishing away any motive she’d have for killing Ferris. Maybe the time she had spent sitting in here actually was playing with her mind.
The senior detective slapped a file folder on the table and made a show of opening it while keeping his greenish-gray eyes on her. His gaze was cold.
The rookie walked behind her and stood to her right. He emitted a cocky assuredness that seemed fueled by the need to prove himself, and he would use her flesh to advance his rank.
Rule one, don’t speak first. It would prove that their tactic had weakened her, and she needed to retain all the power she could.
“I’m Detective Grafton, and that there is Mendez,” said the older one. The fine lines around his eyes seemed more dominant as he narrowed his gaze on her, and his wrinkled brow indicated a rough life. The leathery appearance of his skin suggested either a health condition or an alcohol dependency.
Grafton sat in the chair across from her, leaning back casually and clasping his hands in his lap. His eyes locked on hers, assessing, trying to get a read on her. But while he analyzed her, she did the same to him. She recognized the lick of flame in his gaze. He was hungry for a conviction—and to stick it to a fed probably only made her more appetizing.
After letting the static build between them for about a minute, Grafton spoke. “According to your background you’re an FBI agent. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” He had asked a question he knew the answer to, as he’d stripped her of her ID and badge at Ferris’s house. This was a detour, and she wanted to get things moving and get out of here. “I can explain why I was—”
Grafton held up his hand and settled farther back in his chair. The shift in weight caused the cheap plastic to groan against its metal frame. “I’m sure this was all a misunderstanding. You were at Hall’s house because he was the suspect of a crime?”
It didn’t surprise her that Grafton would approach things this way. It was probably another reason the detectives had taken so long getting into the room—they were debating strategy.
“But that wouldn’t explain why he was found murdered this morning,” Grafton continued. He gave it a few seconds. “Do you have anything to say about that, Miss Dawson?”
“Where was Ferris found? It obviously wasn’t in his home,” she said, trying to rush the detective along.
“Oh, we’ll get to that.” He was scowling now. “You weren’t there for a case.”
An expertly laid-out accusation to tempt her to speak. Dirty cops really ruined it for the good ones who fell into question. Like criminals, law enforcement officers accused of a crime were also presumed guilty.
“I can always call your supervisor”—he tapped his hand on the file—“Jack Harper.”
The threat was to elicit a reaction from her, panic or guilt or anything, really. And it almost worked… Her mouth fell open, but she snapped it shut.
“Huh, nothing.” Grafton directed the comment to Mendez, who was still standing behind Paige.
Paige glanced back at him. His face was relaxed, his features stoic.
Grafton smacked the table. Paige didn’t even flinch.
“What were you doing in Ferris Hall’s house?” Grafton barked.
“If you had listened to me earlier, you’d know his back door was already open, and I was concerned about his safety.”
“Come now, Miss Dawson, one LEO to another… You must have had a good reason to be at Hall’s house. Your record is impeccable.” He referred to the file. “A total of seventeen years with the FBI. I wouldn’t even guess you were old enough.” Grafton gave it about twenty seconds and then went on. “A total of eleven years with the office in New York, then one year as a training instructor at the Academy, and for the last five you’ve been with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He peered up from the report and met her eyes. He had managed to soften his gaze, as if he’d found some empathy for her, but she knew better than to accept this display as genuine.
“When was time of death?” she asked.
“You really do like getting right to it.”
[Brandon Fisher FBI 05.0] Violated Page 4