“One minute.” She stuffed her bags into the dresser drawers and went to the door. She stood there, taking a few deep breaths. Everything will be fine, she chanted in her mind, and cracked the door. The midday sun blinded her, and the brightness drilled her headache farther into her skull. She pinched her eyes, looking at her callers through slits. There were two of them—a man and woman—both in uniform and staring back at her.
Neither of them said a word, and she felt every millisecond pass. She leaned against the doorframe, doing her best to appear relaxed and casual. “You said you had questions for me?”
“We understand you rented this room last night?” The male officer voiced it like a question and held on to a notepad, his pen pointing toward her.
“That’s right.” God, my head hurts! “What’s this about?”
“We just need to know if you heard anything unusual,” the female said, a note of impatience inflected in her tone.
“Ah, no.” The sniper tried to widen her eyes, but the sunlight was blinding and offensive. “Why would I have—”
“There was a double homicide in the room next to yours.”
Only then did she become aware of the flashing squad cars in the lot. Doors on a vehicle marked “Coroner” slammed shut, and a metal gurney clinked and rattled as it was pushed toward the room next door.
There was something skittering on the edge of her mind, but just outside of her grasp. And why the hell hadn’t she taken in her surroundings immediately upon opening the door? The damn whiskey had made her stupid—that’s why.
“Did you hear me?” The mark of irritation wrinkled the female officer’s brow, and she wondered if the woman was always this on edge. “There was a double homicide in the room next to yours,” she repeated.
There was something there on the edge of her mind, but it felt just out of grasp. She could bring snapshots to mind of driving to the Reids’ house again, early this morning, still drunk, and determined to return to the motel for sleep.
“Did you hear me, ma’am?” the female officer prompted.
“Yes, a double homi—” Then the memories flooded in.
The tissue-paper thin walls.
The grunting.
The banging headboard.
The wedding band.
The hooker.
Her legs buckled slightly as the memories assaulted her. A man and a woman. Shot point-blank. She’d technically killed three people in the past twenty-four hours. She hoped the cops hadn’t noticed her composure slip and laid her other hand over her chest to feign shock. “A double homicide?” She got out the full question this time.
“We appreciate this may come as a shock,” the female cop said. “But if you could tell us if you heard or saw anything suspicious, it would be a great help.”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” The whiskey churned topsy-turvy in her otherwise empty stomach. The blanket of nausea spread over her cheeks, and her mouth salivated. “I’m sorry… I…I drank a lot last night and pretty much passed right out.”
Both cops regarded her with trademark suspicion. Lips in a thin line, heads cocked, eyes full of judgment.
“We’ll still need your name and a number where we can reach you,” the lady cop said with an air of superiority.
“Ah, well…I…” Her eyes went to two people who were talking and standing next to a forensics vehicle.
“Name and number?” the male officer prompted, holding his pen braced over a page.
She brought her focus back on the cops and gave them a name. “That’s all I’ve got for you. Down on my luck right now. Cell phone company shut off my service, and I just got kicked out of my apartment.”
“Yeah, sure, okay, I get that. Here—” the male officer handed her a card “—if you think of anything, call me.”
She took that as her dismissal and started her retreat inside her room. On the way, she heard the lady cop mumble to her partner, “Why the fuck do people lie straight to our faces?”
Her comment sparked a raging wildfire, and the sniper balled her fists at her sides. If she’d told the lady cop the truth, she probably couldn’t handle it.
I killed them and felt nothing!
Likely the woman would stare at her in a daze, only breaking the spell by shouting at her to put her hands up and turn around. She’d be cuffed and off to prison. What a stupid question. Why do people lie? To cover their asses!
She clenched her stomach; she could barely handle it herself. And to think of the rotting corpses in the next room…she could have just messed everything up. But one thing was clear: she had to get the hell out of there, and it was probably time to ditch her car.
-
Thirty-Seven
The Lucky Pub, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Friday, October 25th, 1:05 PM Mountain Standard Time
Paige pushed her plate aside, finished with the Cobb salad. She looked across at Brandon, who had finished a while before her. For a split second, she wanted to broach the personal, but she was smarter than to actually do so. She’d seen this side of him before—the moody edge, the hair-trigger, redheaded temper—and she wasn’t eager to provoke him. Instead, she stuck to business and filled him in on what else Jack had told her when he called about the murdered maid. “There was a woman watching Reid and his mistress the night before his murder. Apparently, she was someone from his past.”
“There’s a glimmer of a break in the case.”
“Yeah. We very well could be looking at a woman sniper,” she concluded.
The waitress cleared their plates and returned a few minutes later with their check. Paige glanced at the total and put her expense credit card in the sleeve, then identified herself and Brandon as FBI.
“We need to speak with the manager,” she said.
Penelope frowned. “Robert Wise? Right? That’s who you want to talk about.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Well, given what happened to him…and you’re the FBI,” she stated soberly.
Paige nodded; the waitress’s deduction made sense. “Did you know him?”
“No, but I know what happened to him. I’ll go get the boss man.” She snatched the check holder off the table and left.
Not long later, a heavy man, wearing a half apron, was at their table. “I’ve told the cops everything I know.”
“We’re not the cops,” Paige retorted. “We’re federal agents.”
“As Penelope told me, but you’re really all the same.”
Paige chose to ignore that and went on with introductions. “I’m Special Agent Dawson, and this is Special Agent Fisher.”
“There’s nothing more I can tell you about Mr. Wise that I haven’t already said.” He wiped his hands on the apron.
“We told you our names. Yours would be…?”
“Drew Hart.”
“Well, Mr. Hart, do you recognize this person?” Paige picked up her phone and brought up one of the photographs sent to Wise’s widow, angling the screen so Drew could see it. This particular shot captured the woman’s face rather clearly, as she had her head tilted to the side, Wise’s face in her neck.
His gaze flicked up to Paige’s. “You’re showing me porn?”
“It’s not porn. Tell me, do you recognize her?”
He looked again. “Not sure.”
“But you think you’ve seen her before?” Paige pushed.
“Looks like a customer who came in here with Rob, but I haven’t seen her since he died.”
“Since he was murdered, you mean,” Paige said to stress the importance of this conversation. “We’re trying to find out who killed him, and this woman was…close to him.”
“Looks like.” Drew raised his brows at Brandon.
“Do you know her name?” Brandon asked.
“Sure. It’s
Josefina Alvarez.”
Paige looked at Drew with disbelief and drew his eye.
“You said that Josefina would come in with Mr. Wise?” Paige said.
“That’s right.” Drew put his hands on his sides, the mannerism emphasizing his potbelly.
“But she hasn’t been in since his death…” Paige could imagine returning to where her lover had been killed wouldn’t be at the top of Josefina’s to-do list. “Did you happen to notice anyone else hanging around, another woman, perhaps, who might have been watching Mr. Wise and Ms. Alvarez?”
His face paled. “There was a woman. She came in a few times.”
A pattern may be starting to emerge, but had the mystery woman from Spencer’s shown up to watch Reid and Powell more than once? It would make sense that she’d stalked all her victims to know when and where to strike.
Drew continued. “I try to notice new faces. Like I saw yours when you came in. Anyway, customer service is too underrated, as far as I’m concerned, so I like to know as much as I can about my customers.”
It was probably why Wise liked coming here. It was Cheers of New Mexico.
“What was memorable about her?” Brandon asked.
“She was always watching Mr. Wise, and she was here the night before he was shot.”
The skin on the back of Paige’s neck tightened. “Did you mention her to the police?”
“I did, but they didn’t seem to care.”
Given the fact there wasn’t any mention of a mystery woman in Bell’s notes, Paige would agree that the sergeant hadn’t cared. “Did you get this woman’s name?” Paige was hopeful—but doubtful.
“My waitress might have.”
Paige perked up.
“Now, whether she’d remember it is another thing. But when I train my servers, I stress that they get customers’ names. People like being called by their names.”
Penelope must have missed that part of the training as she hadn’t asked hers and Brandon’s. “Could we speak with the server who would have tended to this woman?” she asked. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to find out who—”
“It would be Barbie. She takes care of the patio. Mr. Wise always sat out there, and that woman I mentioned did the last time she came here. Believe it was table ten. Tell Barbie that, and it might help jog her memory.” Drew went on his way.
Paige leaned across the table, talking in hushed tones. “Our killer was here, Brandon, just like she was at Spencer’s back in Arlington.”
“She’s wanting the men to know their day of judgment has arrived.”
“I think you’re right about that.”
“Hi-ya.” A twentysomething blonde stood at the edge of the table. She wore her hair in a high ponytail and was smiling. “Drew said you wanted to talk to me about a customer.”
“We do.” Paige introduced herself and Brandon. “And your name is?”
“Barbie Pendleton.”
“Ms. Pendle—”
“Oh, Barbie is fine.” She smiled wider, flashing a mouth of white teeth.
“Barbie,” Paige said, hating herself for saying the name, “you served a woman who was sitting at table ten on the patio, around six months ago, and she was apparently interested in Mr. Wise.” Paige provided her with a date.
Her face darkened, and she laid a hand over her heart. “Was that the night the poor man was shot?”
“The night before,” Paige set her straight. “Is there anything you can tell us about her? What she looked like?”
“She was pretty.” Her brow concentrated in thought. “A blonde with green eyes, if I remember right.”
The mystery woman from Spencer’s had been a blonde, too. “You’re sure?”
Barbie’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested in her?”
“We can’t say,” Paige said. “Open investigation.”
Barbie slid her bottom lip through her teeth and nodded.
“Did you happen to get her name?” Hopefully, Barbie’s training had stuck more than Penelope’s had.
“Oh my. If she did, I can’t remember now, but I would have asked— Oh, her name should be on the receipt. But ya know, she was here more than just once.”
“Mr. Hart told us that. A few times?” Brandon asked, stealing Barbie’s gaze.
“That’s right.” She brushed a cheek against a shoulder. “I thought maybe she was an ex of Mr. Wise.”
“Why?”
“She seemed obsessed with him. She’d watch him from a distance, and then that night—the one you’re asking about—she called ahead and booked table ten. It’s in plain view of where Mr. Wise normally sat.”
Brandon put his elbows on the table. “When did you see her last?”
“That night…the night before…” Barbie didn’t need to finish.
“Maybe if you could get us that receipt now?” Paige prompted.
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” She walked away with the swagger of a runway model, with the long legs and lean body to match, but the stereotype that the beautiful were somehow less intelligent was busted when it came to this Barbie. She was sharp and had an incredible memory.
“The sniper knew Wise’s routine, where to strike and when,” Brandon said thoughtfully. “We need to talk to Wise’s mistress, this Josefina Alvarez.”
“Agree.”
Barbie paraded back to the table, her ponytail swaying wildly behind her, and she was smiling. “I have a name for you. Estella.”
Paige reminded herself it was too soon to get excited. Now, if her name could be verified, possibly by credit card… “How did she settle up?”
“Cash.”
So much for tracking her down by credit card. Then again, it could have been another stolen number.
“That doesn’t help?” Barbie winced and looked from Paige to Brandon.
“Actually, you’ve been a big help. Thank you,” Paige said, though disappointed they didn’t have a payment trail to follow.
“What about video surveillance? Is there any on the patio or even inside?” Brandon asked.
“I can go ask Drew. I know we have cameras, but I don’t know if recorded footage from six months ago is still kicking around. Let me go check.” She bounced off again.
“Thanks,” Brandon called after her, then said to Paige, “We need to update Jack on what we’ve found here.”
“For sure.”
A few minutes passed before Barbie returned.
“Drew said we have video. Want to follow me?”
“Absolutely,” Paige replied, and she and Brandon quickly rose to follow Barbie through the kitchen doors.
-
Thirty-Eight
Arlington, Virginia
Friday, October 25th, 4:15 PM Eastern Standard Time
Kelly continued to stare at Marsha’s lifeless body like she had been for a couple hours now. It didn’t matter how long she looked, she felt nothing emotionally, only a drive to find justice. She also had more questions than answers. The medical examiner had shown up and was being tight-lipped, and Nadia hadn’t called back with any new information. Jack’s impatience was tangible. He’d even been out for a couple of cigarettes, and his face was all sharp angles and concentration.
“The victim was definitely killed by a gunshot to the head,” the medical examiner said, “and considering the amount of stippling, it’s likely the gun was fired less than eighteen inches from the victim.”
So just as Kelly had thought: Doyle had opened the door and ate a bullet. But did their killer know that Doyle would be on the other side, or was she willing to kill whoever answered, knowing that the all-access hotel keycard was inside the apartment? It hadn’t turned up yet, so it seemed easy to conclude that the sniper had taken it to gain access to room 850.
“No one heard a gunshot,” Kelly reiterated, c
hewing on what canvassing officers had been finding thus far. The killer must have used a suppressor, and that means they planned ahead. But, even so, this murder has impulsive elements. Our sniper was brazen enough to shoot from the hall where anyone could have seen her. Would she have killed someone if they came up on her by happenstance?”
“Scary thought.” Herrera puffed out a deep breath.
“But all good deductions.” With Jack’s praise, she found herself standing just a bit taller. Jack added, “In the least, she’s feeling a sense of power, and it wouldn’t seem she’s worried about getting caught.”
“Maybe she wants to be stopped?” Herrera asked. “That’s what happens with some of these sickos, isn’t it?”
Jack frowned at the word sickos. “I don’t know if she wants to be stopped, but it’s almost as if she’s indifferent to the idea.”
“So…what? She’s going with the flow, so to speak?” Kelly asked.
“Yes and no. I’d say she’s following a plan,” Jack concluded.
Kelly gave consideration to Jack’s words, but how many victims did this killer’s plan include? Were more people being added to the list all the time, or would there be a natural end to the killing? After all, if the sniper was taking out people in revenge for a past wrongdoing, there could only be a limited number on her hit list. But if she had become addicted to killing along the way, that was another story, and the murders might not stop on their own. “I don’t know if she really wants to be caught, though she does leave little strings to pull. She still strikes me as methodical, locked into military mode. She sees her kills as a mission she’s taken on. She planned out the execution of her four male victims and was precise in carrying it out. Shooting Marsha Doyle wasn’t a whim, either. She tracked her to her apartment for a purpose: the keycard. There’s never been any unintended casualties otherwise, as far as we know.”
“If she does view those she kills as accomplishing a mission, it could explain the cold calculation. That would remove emotion from the equation.” Jack locked gazes with Kelly and didn’t need to remind her they’d recently thought the opposite way.
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