by Cat Connor
“That drawer doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It made sense before when I thought this was a house she lived in, but it doesn’t now.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he replied, closing the drawer again and running his fingers down folded pink towels on a shelf. “You need to look harder at Phoebe, Ellie.”
“Kitchen,” I said heading for the door. The house changed as I moved through it, each step took me further into the graphic novel that was Phoebe’s life. I opened the refrigerator door. A carton of milk. A container of yogurt.
Chance opened the pantry. I peered inside. Empty bar a few cans of fruit and a loaf of bread.
The dishwasher was empty and dry, not a drop of water to be seen. Probably not used. The cutlery drawer contained a knife, fork, dessert spoon and teaspoon. The coffee maker on the counter. Used. I could still smell the coffee grinds. I spun around and opened all the cabinets.
“No coffee.”
Chance nodded. “Yet the coffee maker had been used. That’s how the drugs got into her right?”
“We don’t know for sure but that’s a possibility. Ground sedatives in the coffee sounds plausible but I haven’t checked if that’s possible, yet.”
Garbage. I opened the back door, a garbage bin stood a few feet away. Empty.
A voice broke in. The pages disintegrated. Ink ran, pooling on the carpet and soaking through the remnants of paper. The same voice spoke again. Louder this time.
“Conway!” My head jerked around, eyes settling on Kurt’s face. “Welcome back.”
“Back?”
I turned my head again as Chance made a call sign with his right hand then walked away from me. I wanted to call out or run after him but the look in Kurt’s eyes stopped me cold.
“Back, Conway. You’ve been frozen on the spot for about five minutes.”
I gave a dismissive shrug. Chance wanted me to call him? That’s not what he meant. Phoebe’s phone.
“Did anyone find Phoebe’s cell phone?”
Kurt shook his head. “Not yet. Lee and Sam are still searching the house.”
I jumped as a car door slammed.
Thoughts tumbled around. One finally broke free and stopped moving. Phoebe’s phone is in her car. Her car is in the garage.
“Garage,” I said. Chance poked his head round the door at the end of the hall and winked. “Garage. Let’s go.”
“Why?”
“Because her phone is in her car and her car is in the garage,” I replied, pulling the door to the garage open and running my hand down the wall inside the door looking for a light switch. My fingers connected with hard plastic and light flooded the spacious garage, illuminating the red Ford Focus I knew to be Phoebe’s mode of transportation. I walked around the car and checked it for stickers — none apart from a Government parking sticker on the windshield. Even though coded, it wouldn’t be hard to Google it and find out where she parked during work hours. I peered through the driver’s window and saw her pocketbook lying in the passenger footwell.
Who goes inside without their purse? Someone who isn’t intending to stay long? So what was she even doing in a house she clearly wasn’t living in and why have a shower?
“Conway?” Kurt stood in the doorway watching me. “Talk to me.”
“Phoebe wasn’t living here,” I said, opening the car door and taking her handbag. I opened it and found her phone. “Mitch and I were invited to her house-warming party this weekend but she wasn’t living here.”
“What?”
“Follow me, I’ll show you. I just want to look at recent messages on her phone first.” I woke up her phone. Plenty of charge left. “Her last conversations were with a woman.” I scrolled through the message thread. “She met her here.”
“Name?”
“Mallory Stevens.”
Lee called out from within the house. “Yo, got something!”
“Us too,” I hollered back.
We joined Lee and Sam in the living room. Sam held a smoke detector in his hand. He handed it to me.
“Audio,” I said, inspecting the tiny chip that shouldn’t be inside.
“Yep. Audio in every smoke detector,” Lee replied. “Found cameras too. One in the bathroom and one in the kitchen.”
“Jeez.”
“What’d you find?” Lee asked.
“Follow me.” I led the way to Phoebe’s bedroom and turned back the quilt. I then opened the empty drawers. “She wasn’t living here.”
Kurt cleared his throat. “You and I went into the garage, we never came in here. How did you know?”
“Chance.” Silence dropped like a fire blanket over the room. You’d think they’d be used to my special ways by now. “Phoebe met a woman named Mallory Stevens here before she died.”
“What do you know about the Stevens woman?” Sam asked.
“From the conversations on Phoebe’s phone, I’d say they were lovers,” I replied.
Sam summarized, “She wasn’t living here, this Stevens woman was the last person to see her alive, and there is surveillance equipment strategically placed throughout the house.”
Kurt’s phone rang. He walked away to answer it.
I closed the drawer and fixed the bed.
Why wasn’t she living here? Did she ever intend to? Where was she living? But the party was planned for here.
“You all right?” Lee said as I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yes. Just thinking. This is the house she purchased … why wasn’t she living here? Why did she want people to think she was living here?”
Phoebe had secrets.
Everyone has secrets.
I needed to unravel hers to understand how she died in the shower of a house where she didn’t live. Her phone was still in my hand. Photos seemed like a good place to start. I opened her photo stream. At the bottom of the screen, I saw the shared folder icon. It bore a little number one. I opened the folder. A photo of Phoebe. Naked. In the shower. Mallory Stevens’ name was next to the caption: You’re stunning. Don’t ever forget it.
And everything twisted into a ball of threads so tight, I couldn’t find the end.
I glanced at the watch on my wrist. Saturday morning was fast approaching.
“Can we trace the signal of those bugs?” I asked. “Would a better question be ‒ are they still sending information?”
Lee grinned and made a phone call. A minute later he handed me his phone. “Cyber want a word.”
I gave my authorization code and asked that they attempt to get receiver location information from any signal originating from Phoebe’s address. The possibility of the bugs still being active was slim but it was worth a shot.
We were done for the moment. Our phones were all back on. My screen lit up with messages from the team running RF detection on the other crime scenes.
Every scene contained audio and video surveillance. All the audio was found in smoke detectors, the cameras were found in each kitchen and bathroom. Made sense. Someone monitored the feeds and knew exactly when to enter the houses.
One part of the puzzle: I still needed to know how they chose the victims and who installed the equipment. I’d found nothing to suggest they all used the same security company or fire security company or that Charles Locke had anything to do with all the women.
Fire. The word flamed in my head.
We trailed through the corridors of the Hoover Building. Tiredness and our individual thoughts made for a quiet group.
“Go home,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the team as I wrapped my hand around my office door handle.
“You too,” Kurt replied.
“Yeah, I will.”
Sam, Kurt, and Lee chorused goodbyes moments after I settled into my chair. I wanted to make a few notes in the case file before I left.
I tipped back in my chair, put my feet on my desk and closed my eyes. Five minutes shut-eye wouldn’t hurt.
Twenty-Two
Lay Your Hands On Me
The smell
of freshly brewed coffee woke me before Mitch bent down and kissed me.
“You sleep in your chair?” He placed a take-out coffee cup on my desk along with a glass of water.
“For a little bit,” I replied, checking the time. Six-thirty. “Thank you.”
His smile reflected back at me. “Eight days,” Mitch said.
Which meant it was Saturday and I was running out of time.
From his pocket he produced a tube of Berocca and dropped one of the effervescent tablets into the water. I watched it fizz as it dissolved.
“That was really thoughtful,” I said, picking up the glass and downing the still fizzing liquid.
“Figured you’d need a bit of a pick-me-up.”
“You’re pretty awesome, you know that?”
Mitch laughed. “Yep.”
“Walk with me?”
“Sure, where we going?”
I picked up my cup and stood up. “Just need to stretch my legs ‒ round the block?”
“Sounds good.”
We walked down the corridor, I gave Mitch my coffee and disappeared into the bathroom before we continued. Halfway down the stairs, my mouth started to water in an unfortunate way. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. My hand grabbed the rail as everything swam out of focus. Before I could react, a less than delicious combination of Berocca and coffee splashed freely across the concrete steps.
“Wow,” Mitch said, holding my hair out of the way as the retching continued. “That’s a lot of orange. Berocca not a good choice then?”
“It would seem not.” I wiped my hands across my mouth and straightened up.
Mitch let my hair go. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I think so.” I looked at the steps, thankful it was only liquid.
Yuck.
My jeans and boots had escaped untouched, a miracle and a blessing. I looked at Mitch. He was both concerned and amused. Good combination. “Sorry.”
“You want to keep walking?”
“Yes.” Fresh air. I had to call the janitor too. The steps. Just yuck. I fished out my phone and called the janitorial number for the building. However tempted I was to say, ‘Clean up in aisle five,’ I didn’t. Amazing.
Once out of the building, fresh air hit like a freight train. Cold, clean, exactly what I needed. I sat on a bollard for a moment. Needed to make sure it was just what I needed.
Mitch sat next to me. “Do you absolutely have to be here today?” His fingers closed around mine.
We both laughed. He knew the answer.
“You know I do.”
He nodded. “Are you feeling better?”
Not really.
“Sure.”
“Going to finish your coffee?”
Nope.
I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
“You should eat.”
The thought of food stumbled around until it settled on a single word later.
“Later. Let’s walk.”
Much later. Not feeling great was inconvenient. I spent most of the walk convincing myself I was fine.
Say it enough and it’ll be true?
Mitch didn’t speak for almost ten minutes. It might’ve been a new record. “I’ll be in my office all day. I have a few late meetings. I’ll have my phone with me. Call if you need me.”
“Thank you. I’m calling a perfumer soon. Found someone who might help.”
“Great.” He stopped walking and turned to face me. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Now is not the time to go there.
“Not that I’m not telling you.” I paused, the right wording was important. “It’s that I don’t want you to carry this case around.”
His eyes searched mine. “Unblock me. This isn’t good. I can cope, El.”
“It’s horrible, Mitch.”
“I’ve seen a lot through your eyes.”
“It doesn’t make it right.”
“Is this that bad, really?”
As crime scenes go, no, they’re not. They’re clean, tidy, all the mess was flushed down the drains.
Why was I blocking him? Because of a conversation I didn’t want to have until we’d closed the case and we could talk properly. Mitch had a lot on. I was busy. The conversation we needed to have required us both to be present and focused on each other. That the conversation might have to wait until our honeymoon didn’t please me much.
“El? All right?”
“Uh huh.”
Consciously I opened a door in my mind. Light flooded out. Mitch blinked. I knew he felt it. Exhaling I relaxed my shoulders. Mitch wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close.
“And we’re back,” he said in my ear. “This is how it should be.”
He was right. More right than he knew. A thought popped into my head. Saltines.
“Saltines?” Mitch said aloud. “You’re really not feeling well, are you?”
“Just a bit of an upset tummy. Could just be a lack of food and the Berocca fizziness.”
“And you’re first food thought is Saltines?”
“Can’t think of anything else I want to eat right now.”
“Fair enough.” He looked up the street. “I think there is a convenience store up the street. Let’s get you some crackers, water, toothpaste, toothbrush, and hand sanitizer.”
Contagion sprang to mind. Good choice of scary movies. I shuddered. Mitch’s arms tightened around me.
“I’m okay, M.”
“I really don’t think you are.”
Not exactly convinced myself but I have to be okay.
Lives depended on me stopping these Unsubs. Funny that I didn’t consider he was finished. Six victims is a lot but it felt as if he was just warming up.
“Maybe not. But I have a case. There’s nothing to worry about.”
My phone alert chimed. A text from Sean with more bad news regarding Noel Gerrard. He hadn’t touched his bank accounts in six weeks and prior to that he pulled five thousand dollars out of his daily account.
I replied: Can you view the bank CCTV footage of Gerrard withdrawing money?
Sean: I can as long this doesn’t interfere with a case.
Me: It’s not a case. It’s friendly curiosity. Unless you find something.
Sean: I’ll get back to you.
Twenty-Three
Lifestyle Of Bleeding
I kicked my office door shut and checked the time. Seven-thirty and no call about a fresh crime scene. That didn’t mean much except that maybe no one had found the next body yet. Pushing those thoughts aside I concentrated on things I could do.
The first of several calls was to Sasha Petrovovich. The only way to tell if Sasha Petrovovich worked on a Saturday morning and took calls was to make the call.
I punched his phone number into my desk phone instead of my cell phone. My desk phone routed through the FBI phone system and would show up on caller ID as FBI.
He answered on the sixth ring just as I was ready to hang up.
“Sasha Petrovovich.”
“Good morning, Mr. Petrovovich. I am FBI Special Agent Ellie Conway.”
“Yes?”
“We have a case that requires a knowledge of perfumes. I’m hoping you can help.”
“I’m a busy man.” His voice sharpened. “How much help do you require, Agent?”
“Do you think you could determine which perfume is missing from a collection by looking at photographs of the remaining perfumes?”
He sighed. This was not going as well as I’d hoped.
“Send them to me. I’ll have a look.” Reluctance reverberated. “Do you have my email address?”
I’m FBI. I have everything even when I pretend I don’t.
“Yes, I do. Thank you.” I paused. “There’s something else.”
“Go ahead.”
I couldn’t place his accent ‒unusual ‒ and also unusual that I couldn’t place it.
“Some items may be missing from some of the crime scenes.” Maybe. I couldn’t
prove they were missing or even existed.
“Like?”
I heard papers being moved, his attention elsewhere.
“Possibly body wash, shampoo, perfume … so far.”
“And you want?”
“To know if they’re related in any way.”
“I would need to know more about the connections between the missing items, and maybe the victim’s preferences when it comes to scents. I am presuming there are victims of whatever crime this is?”
“Yes, there are victims. Can we bring you in to consult on this case?”
“Are you sure there is a link to scent or perfume?”
“Yes. I am.”
Can I prove it? No.
But I hoped Petrovovich could help me do just that or give me something more substantial than a gut feeling.
The Unsub likes a certain scent or combination of scents and that has something to do with some of the murders. Or maybe it didn’t. Not a feature of every scene, as far as we knew. More than one trigger? My attention snapped back to the phone call.
“I can make myself available.” He paused. Pages turned. “Tomorrow, Agent. I can spare six hours on Sunday.”
“Could we make it today and could you extend that time frame? I’m in D.C. We need to fly you in.” Pushing it, I knew. But the sooner we got some idea of what to look for, the better.
Silence.
Pages turned, paper shuffled, computer keys clicked. An intercom buzzed and a muffled unintelligible voice followed. Moments seemed like hours. I took note of the time and used the silence to check the availability of the Delta jet.
“I can rearrange my schedule somewhat.”
“Thank you. I’ll send our jet.” I typed a quick memo to the pilot. “We will fly you out of JFK at nine this morning. Do you have a helipad on the KS building?”
“Yes.”
“I can have you helicoptered to the waiting jet at JKF.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He gave me his cell phone number. I scrawled it on my notepad and finished up the required details.
“I’ve booked pilots and flights. An FBI helicopter will pick you up from your helipad in two hours. The Delta jet will be standing by at JFK.”