Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden....
12
The next morning, JT loaded our computers and go bags into his car and headed out. My car was being left in the lot. With the windows open. Even though it had rained all night. And we were expecting more rain today.
Although I’d made my best attempt at cleaning up the mess in the backseat before I left this morning, the rancid odor hadn’t cleared. I wondered if it might take at least a month. Maybe two.
After holding a quick powwow with the chief, we’d decided we needed to return to the first three crime scenes to inspect every bedroom window. Before leaving the PBAU, we called and scheduled appointments with each husband. The first one was in forty-five minutes, which left us plenty of time for a quick pit stop. I convinced JT we needed to stop at my fave bagel shop on the way out.
Recently, JT was clobbered over the head at this place. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t so much as driven past the place since. He looked a little uneasy when we pulled into the parking lot.
“Nobody’s going to knock you over the head and toss you in the Dumpster,” I reassured him. “No need to worry.”
He cut off the engine and fisted the keys. His eyes flicked to the side of the building. “I know. It’s just ... bad memories, you know?”
“Sure. Would you rather stay in the car?” I opened my door and swung a leg out. I stepped smack-dab in a deep puddle left over from this morning’s downpour. Just my luck.
“No, I’ll go in with you.” He patted his belly. “I could use a little something to eat too.”
My shoes squeaked as we walked inside. I ordered the usual. He ordered a bagel breakfast sandwich, a donut, and a milk.
A
little
something?
When we hauled our take outside, we were stopped short by the sight of JT’s car in flames.
JT’s face went white. “That’s it. I’m never coming back to this goddamn place again.” He shoved his bag and milk into my hands and pulled out his phone. Dialing 911, he gave me a look, as if I’d known his car would burst into flames just because we stopped for bagels.
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence,” I mumbled as my mother’s voice echoed in my head.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
Figuring JT would be held up for a while, I called the chief to see what she wanted us to do. She told me she’d send Gabe over to pick us up as soon as possible; then she cut off the call.
JT said absolutely nothing while we waited for the fire department to put out the fire. He fumed. He gritted his teeth. He even did a little stomping. But he said absolutely nothing to me. I sat inside by myself and ate my bagel. Then I ate his donut. I couldn’t help myself. And, because milk only lasted so long before it spoiled, I drank that too.
As I was strolling outside a half hour or so later, I heard JT asking one of the firemen if they could tell where the fire had started.
“Under the hood. Definitely,” the fireman said. The hood was open. They’d popped it to hose down all the hot parts. Everything was hissing and smoldering. And the unpleasant odor of burned rubber and plastic hung heavy in the air. The fireman pointed at a charred bit. “I’ve seen this before. We just had a heavy rain. Sometimes the wires get wet, causing a short. Computers overheat... .”
JT’s expression went blank. “Well, hell.”
“See, JT? It wasn’t arson. Just an electrical short.” I tried to give JT what remained of his food. He waved it away.
“I’m going to be tied up here for a while. You might as well go with Wagner. I’m sure the two of you can handle the interviews on your own.”
“Of course we can. Fischer will probably be with him, anyway.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Just look at it this way,” I told him. “It’s better that we weren’t in the car when it caught fire.”
Wagner rolled into the parking lot just as JT was sending me a not-very-friendly look.
I took my mostly empty coffee and JT’s mostly full bag and climbed into Gabe’s car.
“What the hell happened?” Gabe asked, gaping at what was left of JT’s car.
“Electrical short caused by the rain.”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Yeah. JT lost his car and his go bag. My computer’s crispy and my clothes are ash. Of course, my go bag was in the backseat. If we have to take off anywhere, I’m in trouble.”
Gabe shifted his car into gear, and off we zoomed. “Eh, I don’t see that happening.”
“Sure, but wouldn’t it be my luck that something comes up in say ... California, and we have to fly out in thirty?”
“Not going to happen.”
“Let’s hope so. At least I’d taken my handbag into the coffee shop, or I’d have lost my license, my ID, my credit cards, everything.”
“Yeah, good thing. Now,” Gabe said, stomping on the brakes at the end of the driveway, “where are we headed first?”
“The Sprouses’ house first.” As we turned onto the street, I stared at the charred skeleton of JT’s car. “Rain. Causing all that. Who would’ve thought?”
A couple of hours later, I had learned something useful. There were small holes in at least one screen in every bedroom window of our victims’. In one case, Sprouse’s, the damage wasn’t isolated to just one bedroom. I wondered if it was because she hadn’t always slept with her husband in their bed. I was able to take out the whole frame in a couple of the houses, with permission, of course. Now we were on our way back to the PBAU with our loot in tow, hoping a look under the microscope might give us something.
Just as we pulled through the Quantico security checkpoint—our unit was located in the FBI’s academy in Quantico, Virginia—my cell rang. The caller was JT.
“Hey,” I said as I scrambled out of Gabe’s car.
“Where are you?” he asked, sounding a smidge snappy, not that I could blame him.
“We’re on base.” I grabbed the metal frames from the backseat. “I have a couple of things for the lab.”
“Good. We’re flying to Cleveland in twenty.”
“Seriously?” My gaze slid to Gabe, who was standing next to me.
“Yes. There’s been a murder up there. Last night. Same MO.”
Gabe mouthed, “What?”
“Are they thinking it’s the same killer?” I asked JT.
“Maybe.”
“Ohio? Do we know where Pietrzak was last night?”
“I’ve already put in a call to McGrane.”
To Gabe, I said, “I’m flying to Cleveland.” To JT, “Where are you?”
“Heading to the airstrip. Just meet me there.”
“Okay.” I ended the call, and then I gave Gabe a rundown. I wrapped it all up with a heavy sigh. “Just my luck. Called out of town, and I have no time to run home for essentials.”
We got back in his car. Turning toward the airstrip, he gave me a grin. “I’d loan you my bag, but I doubt you’d accept.”
“You know me so well. Thanks, anyway. But I wouldn’t mind borrowing your laptop, if you don’t mind lending it to me.”
“Not a problem.”
“Thank you.” When he pulled up to the parking area, I said, “Call me if you get anything on the screens.”
“Will do.”
I opened the door, got roughly halfway out, when he grabbed my wrist.
“Sloan, you’re doing a damn good job on this case.”
“I’m trying. I hate this fucking case. Pregnant women. Missing babies.”
“We’ll get her.”
“We have to.”
Gabe nodded.
I walked down the drive toward the waiting plane.
JT was inside already, laptop open. His computer hadn’t been in his car, like mine was. At least in that respect, he’d been lucky. He gave me a weary smile as I made my way to a seat.
“Sorry about your car,” I said as I buckled myself in. The pilots still had their preflight routine to get through, so we wouldn’t be leaving for a little while yet. But I still felt better buckled in.
“No reason to apologize,” he said, sounding as tired and wilted as his smile had looked. “It was insured. I’ll have a replacement in a few days.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, it’s just a temporary inconvenience.”
“Still, I’ve been there. It’s not a minor inconvenience.”
“I’m working with my insurance agent on getting a rental until I get my new car.”
“In that case, you’ll probably be on the road again by the time we get back from Cleveland.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“So ...” I studied his face, his body language. “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you look so defeated?”
“It has nothing to do with the car. It’s ... personal.”
“Ah. Okay.” I didn’t push. After all, I was trying to keep JT at arm’s length. Prodding into his personal business wasn’t the way to accomplish that.
I poked around on the Web with Gabe’s laptop while the pilot went through his safety check. I Googled the phrases “missing infant” and “suspicious death of pregnant woman.” Headlines popped up, most of them familiar. Another in Cleveland, published in this morning’s
Cleveland Daily
newspaper. And one more from several years ago in Michigan.
“JT, you know how we’re thinking this perp’s been at this a while?”
“Yeah.” He lifted his gaze to me.
“I think I found something. An old case. In Michigan.”
“Looks like this trip might be longer than we thought.”
Cleveland, Ohio, as I had already come to find out, was not the cultural or industrial Mecca I had envisioned. It was ... tired, for lack of a better word. Neglected. Having probably been at its best back when manufacturing was the biggest segment of the United States’ economy, it was now struggling to find its new identity in the twenty-first century. That’s not to say it didn’t have its charm. There were a handful of museums in the waterfront area, including the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the Cleveland Museum of Art. But for the most part, the city looked sad and forgotten.
Particularly Strathmore Avenue, with its poorly maintained early-twentieth-century homes parked on narrow, weedy lots. The house was a blue-sided Colonial, with a tiny garage huddled behind it. Stepping inside, I had the feeling of looking at the photograph of a woman who’d once been a rare beauty. Hints of her former glory remained, such as the beautiful staircase banister and handrail. But the years of neglect and disrepair had taken its toll.
At the door, we met Detective Fultz. As was standard, introductions followed. Standing at the foot of the staircase, Fultz gave us a brief rundown of what his people had found so far—or rather, what they hadn’t. Then he welcomed us to take a look, now that the crime scene techs had finished up.
“We appreciate the chance to take a look around,” JT said, testing the railing.
“No problem. I could use all the help I can get on this one. Our guys have gone over the scene with a microscope and they’ve found nothing. No fibers. No prints.”
“Just like our cases,” I whispered. I asked Fultz, “To verify, the victim, Renee Bibens, was pregnant, correct?”
“Yes, she was.”
“The baby?” I asked, already knowing in my gut what I was about to hear.
“There’s no heartbeat,” Fultz said. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
JT and I exchanged a look, then headed up to the bedroom.
“Are we dealing with the same unsub here?” My gaze swept around the room. The bed sat centered against one cracked plaster wall. The sloping maple floor was littered with clutter, books, magazines, clothes. Opposite the bed was an old fireplace with what had probably once been a gorgeous marble surround and mantel. The surround was now stained. The mantel hidden under a coat of ugly blue paint. Not wasting time, I went straight to the window, on the far wall. There was only one window in the room, and it felt like it was nailed shut. Dozens of layers of paint was inhibiting the sashes from moving easily. I wondered how long it had been since the owners opened it.
“I don’t know,” JT said.
“It’s so distant from the others,” I pointed out.
“If everything else matches, I say we assume it’s the same killer. At least for now.”
“Okay.” I curled my fingers around the handle and pulled. I strained. I silently cursed. Then I gave up. “I don’t think the unsub got in this way,” I told JT, who was inspecting the bedding.
“Hmm,” he said. It was a weighted “hmm.”
“Did you find something?” I abandoned my battle with the window, assuming it hadn’t been open last night.