Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  “Yes, the victim. But you’ll see. You can’t get a license plate—it’s covered with dirt. And you never see the man’s face. But if they can tighten it and clean it up some... I don’t know. We’ll be at headquarters when you get there.”

  “Thanks,” Keenan said. “I’ll call the medical examiner’s office on my way in. For details on the victim from the basement.”

  “Fingerprints and dental impressions will have been taken by now. Even DNA, though I don’t know how long that might take, and unless she’s in the system—”

  “I know. There will probably be nothing. I still think we’ll get an ID. This guy chose one of the most notorious madams in history—he wasn’t trying to find victims with identities we’d never discover.”

  A woman was handing Keenan a tray with their order; he ended the call, telling Fred that they’d see him soon. As he took the tray, he looked to the door. He was hoping that the young blonde woman hadn’t changed her mind.

  Keenan went to the table, setting down the food and filling Stacey in on the phone conversation he’d had with Fred.

  She didn’t ask what sandwiches he’d chosen; she just took the one closest to her and ate while she listened.

  Then she cleared her throat, indicating the door.

  The nervous blonde was coming. She walked to the counter and Keenan rose to meet her, asking her in an easy tone what he could get her. She laughed and said, “Decaf. I’m already a wreck.”

  “Stacey is over there. You can join her. Do you want anything else? Food?”

  She shook her head and glanced at the door, as if making sure that she hadn’t been followed. Then she noticed Stacey behind the pillar at the little table. She smiled at him, appreciating the chosen site, and hurried over to join Stacey.

  He went back to the counter for decaf.

  When he reached the table, she was already talking earnestly with Stacey. The blonde had evidently introduced herself, and Stacey seemed to have already eased her somewhat into conversation.

  “The thing is—I don’t think that he...Congressman Smith killed Billie Bingham. But he’s lying when he says he doesn’t know her or didn’t see her. I know because I was coming into his office one day when he didn’t know I was there and he kept talking. He was telling someone that Billie was a...a bitch and that something had to be done about her.”

  Stacey looked over at Keenan. “Keenan, this is Peggy Bronsen. She’s an assistant with Congressman Smith’s office.”

  “Peggy, thank you for speaking with us,” Keenan said. “I know that you’re nervous. Do you have any idea who he might have been speaking with?”

  She shook her head, biting her lip before she spoke again. “I backed out of the room. I didn’t think that... Well, of course, it was before she was found...even before the body in Lafayette had been found. But I didn’t want him to know that I was there because... I don’t know. There was something in the way he was speaking. I mean, he’s the kind of politician who wants to be known for being forthright and upright and honest and all. But those of us who are on his staff... I wanted to quit.” She hesitated again. “He’s a narcissist. Yes, he wants to be liked, and he wants to project the image that he’s sweet and charming and firm but thoughtful, but...he barks at everyone. And the way he is with women is unnerving. Some girls just fall for him, and if things go wrong, he calls them liars. He’s always touching people as if he’s sampling them. Creepy! Every day, I’ve been afraid that he might see something in me. And now, the way all those women have been killed...”

  “We understand,” Stacey said. “If you’re worried about your safety, can you send in your resignation?”

  “He could find me!” Peggy said tearfully. “I’m not rich. I’m just an assistant. I was a graphic-design major, and I can come up with ads and slogans and create art for his different campaigns. I don’t have a savings account to fall back on. I have to survive, and with what’s been going on...”

  “Okay. We’ll figure something out,” Keenan assured her. “There is witness protection. And if this thing can be solved, it might only be temporary.”

  “Would I have to go to court?”

  “At this moment, we still haven’t proven anything,” Stacey said. “But...” she added, looking at Keenan, hoping he would finish her statement.

  He smiled at her. “We can get you protected. We need to find out who he was talking to.”

  “I know he’s seen her before, too,” Peggy said, “and I know his wife knows that he saw Billie, too. But it wasn’t his wife he was talking to about Billie that day.”

  Keenan pulled out his phone, looking at her. “Do you have to go back to the office for any of your personal belongings?”

  “I...uh,” she said and then paused, looking at him a bit in wonder. “No. I have my personal laptop in my bag. There are works in progress, but...no. Nothing of mine is there. But you don’t understand. They have my address. They can find me. I can’t afford—”

  “I’m calling my superior,” Keenan explained. “We’re going to put you in a safe house.”

  “Have I—have I given you enough to warrant that kind of protection?” Peggy asked. “I may be an idiot, I may not be in any kind of danger, but if he suspected that I heard—that I’m talking to you... Well, he said that Billie was a bitch and needed to be taken care of, and now she’s dead. I’m really scared.”

  Keenan excused himself and left the table. He put a call through to Jackson and quickly explained the situation.

  “I’m not sure how many times we can go this round. The police haven’t the kind of funding to watch every frightened woman in the DC area. You feel that Colin Smith is somehow involved?” Jackson asked him.

  “It seems likely.”

  “And yet you think that the killer is considering Stacey as his Mary Kelly, too?”

  “She received the kidney. He obviously knows that she’s on the case—and he knows where she lives. But, Jackson, this woman, Peggy Bronsen, is terrified.”

  “We’re also watching Cindy Hardy, Tania Holt—Billie Bingham’s assistant—and six terrified sex workers. Not to mention the two maids, but they’re doing fine, loving protective custody. I guess Billie wasn’t that great an employer. And despite the crime-scene investigators’ best efforts, we have nothing from Billie’s house... I suppose I shouldn’t say that. We have hundreds of prints, enough to keep CSIs working for days to come. And fluids. In fact, we’re awash in evidence that needs to be sorted through and may mean nothing at all. But so far nothing at all in the basement that would lead to the murderer. We’re doing our best to stay low-profile with the media, of course, since whoever is doing this wants to generate the hysteria of a madman imitating Jack the Ripper.” He paused and his sigh could be heard over the phone. “Thank God for Adam Harrison that we’re well funded, because overtime on this case is going to be killer. Ahem. Bad choice of words.”

  “Jackson, if this is a case of organs being stolen, then a doctor has to be in on this. Doing the killing? Possibly. Although, as in the old case, it must be someone with a knowledge of anatomy. Surgeon?”

  “Angela has been searching for local doctors who are involved in organ transplants.”

  “What about databases on people who need organs? If someone has suddenly come off a list, they might have been the recipient of an illegally acquired organ.”

  “True, and yes, we’ve started a search. If they’re getting these organs out of the country, though, it’s not going to be so easy. Anyway, as to now. Can you bring Peggy Bronsen to headquarters with you now? Detectives Crandall and Channing are here. Maybe it’s time to look at the case from Jean’s side, review everything that they have on the first murder.”

  “Right. Have you seen the video yet?”

  “They just got here, and we’re getting set up. Fred and Jean have gone over it. But we have better equipment. Bring Ms. Brons
en, and come on in.”

  “Will do,” Keenan promised, and hung up.

  He watched Stacey talking at the table with Peggy.

  Stacey had a talent that many a seasoned agent still lacked: an ability with people. She honestly liked others and cared about them. It came through, and they responded to her.

  “I was wrong, Jackson,” he murmured aloud. And he smiled, thinking of his partner’s appeal and the way she had stumbled over his words when the questions she had asked had become personal. “I was wrong about her!” That time, he just thought the words.

  He knew that Jackson had partnered him with the best possible person on this case, with or without her extraordinary ability to dream the future.

  He walked over to the table and took a seat, smiling. “Ms. Bronsen,” he said, “would you mind coming with us right now? We’re going to see to it that you’re kept safe.”

  “Y-you want me to go back to the office and resign?” she asked, her hands shaking as she picked up her cup.

  “No, no. We’ll have you call in to work, just say that you’re leaving immediately because of a family emergency and you’ll send in any pertinent work. Don’t get involved with explanations. Make it short and sweet.”

  “Now?” Peggy asked nervously. “You think that I should call now?”

  “We can wait until we get in the car,” Stacey said. She indicated the room and people around them, suggesting it might be better if all else was said in private.

  But he asked her, “Do you think that there’s someone else from the office in here now? Or anyone from the building who might mention they saw you here?”

  She looked around and shook her head. “But they could pop in at any second. Especially that sourpuss of his!”

  “Sourpuss? I’m guessing you mean his secretary?” Stacey asked.

  “Agnes Merkle. She could have been a drill instructor. She comes here. I wouldn’t want her to see me.”

  He leaned across the table, making unflinching eye contact.

  “She’s not going to hurt you or do anything to you—ever again. You will walk out of here between two federal agents. You don’t need to worry about her, now or ever.”

  She smiled, still shaking, but maybe a little less.

  “Shall we go?” Stacey asked.

  “We’re ready, right?” he said to Peggy.

  She looked at the two of them and gave a tremulous smile. “Ready!” she said.

  They stood up and walked out.

  And while Keenan halfway expected the sourpuss drill-sergeant Agnes Merkle to come after them waving a letter opener, they left without incident.

  “Do you see anyone out here that you know?” Keenan asked her as he opened the back door of his car.

  She looked around quickly, then ducked into the car.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she told him.

  He didn’t know everyone in her office, but he’d recognize Agnes Merkle if he saw her.

  No. She was not on the street.

  But he did want to see her again, at another time.

  Eventually, he wanted to get some hooks into the woman and find out just what secrets she might be hiding as well.

  Nine

  The night had been dark when Jess Marlborough had last been seen alive.

  But Brian, a whiz from Tech with an amazing ability to clean up and sharpen any video, film or still photo was incredibly adept. He was a lean fellow with wild red hair and a great deal of enthusiasm, and probably a year or two younger than Stacey’s age—young but talented. He managed to brighten up the image of the street.

  “Let’s run the whole video right now,” Jean Channing suggested. She looked over at Stacey and Keenan and explained, “Your call, but I haven’t seen it all yet, either.”

  “Let’s run it,” Keenan agreed.

  He was point man on the case, though Stacey knew that Jackson had intended on being in here while they viewed the surveillance video. But he and Angela had taken Peggy into Jackson’s office. They were working with her, trying to go through her memory, hoping for anything else she might be able to give them.

  Brian ran the video.

  A large black vehicle drove up and parked outside the apartment building. It sat, nothing happening, for a few minutes. Waiting? Then, a man got out of the car.

  Next to Keenan, Stacey let out a little gasp.

  The shadows allowed them to see nothing of his face.

  He seemed irritable as he met up with Jess Marlborough, just outside the windows to the little apartment the women shared. His movements were sharp, tense. He all but grabbed her arm to lead her to the car.

  She had probably been late. A minute or two late. And that had kept this man waiting in an area where he didn’t want to be seen.

  But the irritation seemed to ease—was it forced? His hold released. He opened the passenger door for Jess.

  She had been a pretty young woman. A little worn and jaded by what she had learned from life, but still brightened by a little ray of hope.

  The man kept his head down the entire time. He was wearing a suit and a brimmed hat, looking like any banker or businessman might on his way from work.

  “I can give you his approximate height and weight,” Brian told them.

  “That will be terrific,” Keenan said. “I think I can tell you right now. You’re going to find out that he’s about five-ten in height and stocky. He was slim and athletic once, but he’s quit his rounds of exercise and giving way to excess.”

  “You think it’s Smith, right?” Stacey asked him.

  “I do,” Keenan said.

  “But you couldn’t prove it in a court of law,” Stacey said. She gave him a grim smile. “We might know that it’s him, but from this video—unless Brian miraculously comes up with something a little more—this only proves that a dark-haired man of approximately Smith’s height was in that car on that street with Jess.”

  He smiled at her. “We know that. But Smith will have no idea just exactly what we got off the video. I think that, when we finish here, we’ll pay him a visit at his DC home. We might have enough to bring him in, but I don’t want to have him weaseling out on any technicalities or lack of evidence until we do have more.”

  They watched the video several more times.

  “When the car drives in,” Fred Crandall said, pointing at the screen, “you see the front of the vehicle, but I can’t tell what kind. Looks like there is mud over everything. On purpose, I imagine.”

  “Give me a little time. I’ll name the make and model,” Brian told them. “There are all kinds of comparisons we can make with manufacturers’ models online. Won’t take me too, too long. But I should be able to make a match.”

  “When you do match it, we’ll still be legally taking a shot in the dark,” Fred muttered, shaking his head. “Think of all the black SUVs in Washington, Virginia and Maryland. Hey, there are plenty in the FBI and among detectives throughout the surrounding counties. High-quality SUVs from every manufacturer out there—all black.”

  “That’s true,” Keenan agreed. “And Smith—or whoever Jess’s client was that night—made sure that he kept his face down the whole time.”

  “As if he knew there just might be a camera somewhere,” Jean said.

  “He was angry that he had to get out of the car. I don’t think he had planned to get out,” Stacey theorized, echoing Keenan’s own thoughts. “She was late; he was growing apprehensive. He stepped out but remembered he didn’t want his face to be seen. He yelled at her—Candy heard him—probably because he was just as angry at himself for having stepped out. Then he must have remembered he was playing the part of a gentleman, and he opened the car door for her.”

  “I think that sounds about right,” Keenan agreed. “So, we’ve got possible links for Congressman Colin Smith to two of the murders. Can we
connect him to the victim in Alexandria in any way?” He looked at Detective Channing.

  “On our Alexandria victim, we still have just about nothing,” Jean said. “I’ve walked the neighborhood in jeans and a T-shirt, tried to engage the street girls in the area. One girl took a look at the picture I was showing of the victim and went racing down the street so fast I couldn’t catch her.” Jean made a face. “And I run marathons! And other than that... I couldn’t get close to anyone. No one was talking. I’ve gone over the medical examiner’s notes, and all I know is that her organs were removed—completely—and that she was killed elsewhere and dumped where she lay. We’ve asked police at her last-known address to find out anything they could about her. We’ve been through government records. Her parents are deceased. She was an only child. We’re just nowhere.”

  “A forgotten person,” Keenan said. “As the others might have been. Except for Billie Bingham.”

  “It’s sad but true,” Fred put in. “We all know that cases can grow cold. We’ve got a big caseload. And sometimes, we’re spurred into action because of a persistent loved one. And that usually means people not afraid of the police. Sex workers, even frightened ones, have a tendency to run from police and law enforcement, not to them.”

  “What if Billie was a wild card?” Stacey asked. They all looked at her. “An unintentional wild card, or someone who didn’t quite fit the bill, but worked? The plan was to kill street people. Make it look like a deranged Jack the Ripper wannabe was on the prowl. Finish it up and slide into history and mystery like the real Ripper. But maybe Billie got in the way. Or maybe she was involved and became so irritating she had to be stopped. Despite her occupation and slightly older age, she was in excellent shape. From what I understand, she was pure business, in control all the time. She didn’t abuse alcohol or drugs that might be dangerous to vital organs. That would make her a viable victim if they are taking the organs.”