Instead, Grant had shown up at the victim's apartment.
Kate rubbed her temple to ease the headache that was beginning to set in. Between last night's shortfall of sleep and this morning's need for speed, the mystery of Grant would have to wait.
The doorman would be joining her at any moment.
But even after Kate resumed her search of the condo's spare bedroom and came up empty, he hadn't arrived.
A good forty-five minutes had passed. Had the buzzer from one early-rising tenant led to another? Or had the press already tracked down Jason Dunne's residence?
If so, they'd be on their way here en masse, if they weren't already crowding the lobby.
With nothing left to search for save electronic and human fingerprints, and DNA, it was time for her to leave.
Kate locked the condo's door and retrieved a crime scene warning sticker. Scrawling her signature below the department's phone number, she sealed the notice across the door and its jamb, then headed for the elevator.
A minute later, she stepped into the lobby in time to hear the doorman arguing into the phone over his refusal to make a statement, on or off the record.
Fisher severed the call and tossed his phone on the counter as she reached him. The stack of newspapers had grown shorter by at least the one now spread out across the lower shelf behind his station. To her disgust, a grainy shot of that second line of paper bags had made it into print just below the fold of the newspaper's front page.
It appeared to be the only surreptitious photo the trooper had managed to snap with his cellphone.
She hoped.
Kate laid a hand on the doorman's quietly quaking shoulder. "Are you okay?"
His reddened gaze met hers, growing redder as he shook his head. "It's not fair. Mr. Dunne was a soldier. He was willing to give his life for this country." Fisher's index finger stabbed the photo. "What kind of monster could do that to someone like him?"
She didn't answer. Fisher wouldn't have liked her reply anyway, because there was no real explanation. The shrinks would disagree, of course, but she'd slogged through too many death investigations to ignore the truth. Some people were just evil.
The doorman seemed unable to tear his stare from that riveting photo, but he nodded as if he'd heard her. Or, perhaps, he too could see the truth.
"Mr. Fisher? I know this isn't the best time, but I need to ask you something."
His gaze found hers. It was wet.
Lord, she hated this part. "It's about Mr. Dunne. I know you'd prefer to respect his memory, but I need to know. Was he having issues with his temper? That last girl you saw leaving? Did he...attack her?"
The doorman's sigh was riddled with guilt. "I should've reported it, shouldn't I?"
Yes. But there was no sense dragging this man through hell. Fisher had crawled halfway there on his own.
She set the condo key on the counter. "I doubt it had anything to do with his death." She hoped. "But I do need it confirmed. Information like this helps us piece together the bigger picture to get to what and who caused his death. Whatever you tell me won't make the papers. Not from me."
"Yeah, he was rough. I don't know if he did more, but I do know he hit the poor thing, at least. I could see the marks from his knuckles."
"Do you think it was the first time—and the first girl?"
"I do. It's just a feeling, though. I can't prove it."
Unfortunately, neither could the woman in Kabul. And, now, no one ever would. Kate sighed as that box packed with Benjamins nudged its way back into her brain as well. "About the condo. Do you know if it came furnished?"
"Yes. I showed the place when the rental agency couldn't make it. Almost everything in there belongs to Mr. Marlette. I assume that's why he ordered me to stay with you."
"Sir, as far as I'm concerned, you did."
A furnished unit explained the rich, but spartan vibe. And there was the timeframe. According to Seth's conversation with the victim's parents, Dunne had moved to Little Rock six months earlier. Not long enough to expand much beyond the basics if he was working a hectic schedule.
"You wouldn't happen to know how much he was paying in rent, would you?"
"For a corner unit? Three thousand, easy. More, since it was furnished."
Wow. A prime view of the Arkansas River commanded more than she'd assumed, and definitely more than she had. And when she tossed in that home gym and private Jacuzzi on the balcony? The place should've been far too plush for a VA admin employee as well.
Her suspicion must've shown, because the doorman shrugged. "I think his family comes from money."
"Did Mr. Dunne say something to that effect?"
"No. Just another feeling. That, and his car. It's not in his slot, but he drives—drove—a Stingray convertible."
Muscle man, muscle car, muscle apartment.
It wasn't a definitive connection, but it dovetailed into what she'd seen in Kusić's man cave. Especially if the doorman's feeling of family money turned out to be just that—a feeling.
Kate made a mental note to have Seth get the Stingray's registration information and put out an all-points bulletin to locate it, if he hadn't already. She'd also have Seth call Dunne's folks back and see if they were underwriting that car and the rest of Dunne's lifestyle.
Either way, had someone noticed that lifestyle? Was the killer a co-worker or a patient at Fort Leaves? Someone who'd become aware of Dunne's pursuit of material goods, along with the pursuits Kusić had worked harder to keep hidden? The killer could even have been an unequal participant in whatever had been funding said pursuits and had become resentful.
But her instincts voted no.
If the deaths had been simple murders, either scenario might've made sense. Kate stared at the grainy photo in the paper. Those bags were about something else. Something deeper.
But what, damn it?
The desk phone rang, flashing the call sign of a local TV station in its caller ID window.
The doorman ignored the phone as he retrieved a business card from his breast pocket. He laid the card on the counter and nudged it toward her. "You need anything else, Deputy, call. I'll pick up for you. So long as you promise you won't rest 'til you catch this bastard."
Kate nodded. While she couldn't guarantee that she'd catch the guy, she could promise that she would keep up the hunt for as long as she was able.
She traded Fisher's card with one of hers. Retrieving her phone, she swiped through her photo stream until she reached the one of Kusić in his Blues. "Sir, have you ever seen this man with Mr. Dunne?"
He studied the photo. "Is that the other victim?"
"Yes. His name's Ian Kusić."
"No. I've never seen him. Sorry."
"Not to worry. It was long shot." Kate started to turn toward the door, then stopped.
Speaking of long shots. She stepped up to the counter, waiting as the doorman refolded the paper and shoved it out of sight. "Mr. Fisher, when I was upstairs, I saw someone in the street. A doctor. Did he come inside? Ask for me?"
"Doc Parish? No. I was about to open the door for him but he stopped shy of the sidewalk to take a call. He was still talking when he turned around and left."
"I don't understand; you know Grant Parish?" He must, since by the doorman's own admission, Grant hadn't come in.
The doorman shook his head. "Just his name. He's been by since Mr. Dunne moved in. Usually once a week, sometimes more. Doc Parish is—was—a friend of his."
For the second time that morning, a niggle began deep in Kate's brain. This time, she tried to ignore it—unsuccessfully. It grew stronger as she bid the doorman goodbye and headed outside to climb into her SUV and start the engine.
Deep down, she'd known why Grant had ignored her call. Grant had known Jason Dunne, but for some reason, he hadn't wanted to risk her knowing that.
Why?
The question dogged Kate as she drove through Little Rock. It was still dogging her as she reached Fort Leaves and p
ulled into a sparsely populated parking lot. She was almost grateful for the emotional buffer the mystery provided as she made her way into the hospital.
The lobby was nearly empty.
But it wasn't quiet.
As she'd feared, the press was closing in. Fortunately, the hunt was still being conducted by phone. Unfortunately, fielding the calls involved the combined efforts of all three frazzled hospital employees behind the main desk.
Kate stopped several paces away to wait her turn.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we just can't give out—" The woman on the left skimmed Kate's jacket, palpable relief entering her eyes as she spotted the Braxton PD patch on Kate's sleeve. "—I'm sorry; I have to go." She hung up and waved Kate closer. "Oh, thank God. Please tell me you have news. Better yet, that this is all a truly horrible mistake."
Kate spotted the newspaper on the counter. She hadn't had a chance to read that article, but according to Lou, their loose-lipped trooper hadn't held anything back, including the victims' connection to this facility.
"I'm afraid not, ma'am." She retrieved her credentials and held them up. "Deputy Holland, Braxton PD. I have an appointment at noon to talk to one of your doctors about Ian Kusić. I know I'm terribly early, but in the interim I was hoping to speak with anyone else who knew Mr. Kusić or Mr. Dunne."
The woman's face fell. "I wish you'd called. I could've spared you the wait. No one working today knew Jason Dunne. Not even enough to say 'Hi'. He worked weeknights and he was just so new, you know? I can help you with Ian. He worked out of our lab. His girlfriend Abby works in the lab too, but she won't be in until later this afternoon. She has the swing shift."
Kate glanced at her watch. A round trip to Braxton took an hour on a good day. That would leave her forty minutes tops to check in at the station before she had to start back for her appointment with Dr. Manning.
"Do you know Abby's full name? Her address?"
"Carson—Abigail Carson. I can get her address. But if you're hoping to talk to her at her apartment, I should warn you. She's not home. She took the week off to visit her sister in Jonesboro. Abby became an aunt on Tuesday."
"And you're certain Ms. Carson's still coming in this evening? She's not remaining with family?"
The receptionist's blond curls bobbed as she nodded. "Yeah. I spoke to her myself. I told her the director said it was okay if she took some time after...what happened. But she was insistent that she wanted to work. Personally—" The receptionist's voice sank to a whisper as she leaned over the counter. "—I think she's in shock. She was in love with Ian, you know? But they broke up right before her vacation."
"Do you know why?"
The woman frowned as she straightened. "Abby wouldn't say. Can I offer you a place to wait for your meeting? There's an employee lounge in the back with muffins, tea and coffee."
"Thank you. I'll just find the cafeteria." She was still working off her own muffin from earlier that morning. Even a vending machine sandwich would better power her rapidly maturing day. Kate withdrew a business card and slid it across the counter. "If you or your co-workers think of anything you feel I should know, please don't hesitate to call, day or night."
The receptionist nodded as she took Kate's card. "I will. As for the cafeteria—" She used the card to point toward the main hall. "—just turn there and follow the signs."
Kate's phone vibrated as she crossed the lobby. She turned into the suggested corridor as she retrieved her phone to see who'd texted her—and collided with something hard and...vaguely familiar.
Surprised, Kate looked down into the exact pair of dark brown eyes she'd spotted in this very hospital the day before. Eyes that were now openly laughing at her—and himself.
"Well, well, officer. Looks like you're champing at the chance to take me up on that coffee date. It's these gorgeous toes of mine, right?" The man winked at her. Winked.
Unable to resist, she matched his smile. She wasn't sure which surprised her more: that wink or the gallows humor regarding his missing lower legs. "Good morning, Sergeant Fremont."
"Ah..." If anything, his grin deepened. "...and she was intrigued enough to seek out my name. This just gets better." He eased the edge of his wheelchair backward. As it cleared her bruised thighs, he tipped back on his wheels and spun the chair around until they were both heading down the hall from whence he'd come. "Shall we, officer?"
It was that lopsided smile. Amazingly, it took the sting out of the scar slashing through his own cheek. "Shall we...what?"
"Coffee and a chat. I believe you promised me both."
She had. Not only did she actually want to share them with this man, but given what Liz had revealed yesterday, it would be prudent in light of her growing investigation.
Her phone vibrated again.
Kate checked the incoming text. It was from Tonga, letting her know he'd received her request to expand both victims' tox screens to include steroids. With nothing left to impede coffee and an impromptu interview, she pocketed her phone.
"Caffeine it is, Sergeant. But it's not officer. Or even Deputy Holland. For a fellow former grunt, it's Kate."
"Kate, it is. And it's not sergeant anymore, either. It's just Steve."
Since he knew the layout of the hospital better than she did, Kate followed as Fremont led the way.
She glanced down as he paused for her to precede him into the cafeteria. "I am curious as to how you knew." He'd appeared so certain yesterday.
"That you were Army too?"
Kate nodded. With most former soldiers, there were clues. Hair still rigidly in regs, or defiantly no longer anywhere near them—like his. There was also the lingo they used and, of course, the innate perfect posture, even while at ease.
The sergeant hadn't spoken to her long enough for her vocabulary to have given her away. And she was a deputy. A profession that would account for her posture.
Fremont must've been in tune with her thoughts, because he shook his head as she accepted the chair he'd pulled out for her at a private bistro table for two. He swung his wheelchair around and pushed the second seat out of the way so they could sit across from each other. "It's your eyes."
"Excuse me?"
All trace of teasing had fled, and his were somber now. Dark. "It was the look in those baby greens of yours in that elevator on our way up yesterday afternoon. And again in that hall when you catapulted out of the shrink's office."
Peachy.
The worst of it was, he was spot on. She had catapulted. But earlier, in that elevator? "Was it that obvious?"
"To civilians? Probably not. But to those of us who've been there and don't really care to talk about it—ever?" His nod was slow, resigned. "We've all seen that look in our own eyes often enough. Why do you think we avoid the mirror?"
Kate sighed. "I know why I do."
He didn't respond for several moments. Then he shrugged. "Okay, I'll bite. Why?"
Confusion struck at his genuine curiosity. "Isn't it obvious?"
Her confusion deepened as the man leaned across the tiny table to trail a finger down her most prominent scar.
"Because of this?" He shook his head as he straightened. "Those are sleep wrinkles, Kate. They don't do a damned thing to dim beauty like yours—unless you're a blind bastard to begin with." That incorrigible grin of his dipped back in. "Which, of course, I'm not. Though it could be the uniform. I confess, I always did have a thing for them...especially on women."
That earned him a laugh. "Really? Then why go Special Forces? I don't think I need to tell you, there still aren't too many women in and around that specialty, especially in country."
"True." That crooked smile was downright contagious. "But the cute ones seek you out in droves when you're off the clock. At least until I misplaced the lower half of these." He leaned back in his wheelchair to slap his thighs. As with most amputees Kate had seen, what was left appeared out of proportion with those sculpted shoulders and arms. He shrugged. "But enough about me. It's your tur
n. What's a gorgeous cop like you doing in a moldering place like this, two days in a row?"
The smile faded from his face as the somber tide returned. "Or do I already know the answer?"
Unfortunately, he did. And so did she.
"You read the newspaper."
The sergeant nodded. "They're hard to miss when you actively seek 'em out at night to use for cover and concealment, especially when it's cold. But in this case, the horror of it was still tumbling through the hospital grapevine when I arrived."
"Unfortunately, it's all true. I'm attempting to track the victims' movements. Piece together their last days. See what pops."
"Got anything yet?"
"Not really. What little I have uncovered leads to you."
Her earlier confusion had passed to him. She could see it furrowing through the space between his brows. "Sorry, I don't— ahhh... Ian Kusić. You heard about the argument."
"From what I understand, it was hard to miss."
His smile made a brief reappearance. This incarnation was grim. "I should hope so. I was trying to make a point."
"And that being...?"
Hesitation replaced the confusion.
"Sergeant?" She'd used his rank deliberately, hoping a subtle backslide to CID agent/enlisted interviewee footing would work in her favor. It might've, if the man across from her hadn't spent years in the field, honing his own particular set of skills. Damned Special Forces.
He shook his head. "Steve. Thought we'd agreed...Kate."
"My apologies."
He shrugged. "It's your job."
"Does that mean you're going to help me do it?"
The hesitation returned.
Just when she was certain he'd refuse, she felt him waver. Sigh. "What the hell. I caught him stealing."
Not what she'd expected. But perhaps she should've. The first time she'd collided with Fremont's wheelchair had been outside the shrink's office.
The Garbage Man Page 10