Dead End (15 page)

“Who wasn’t she supposed to have seen?”

“I don’t know.
She
didn’t even know who it was. All I know is that after she wrote the report, someone contacted her by phone and told her she was to forget that she had been there, forget who else she’d seen there, and to destroy any copies of her notes. He left a bag with a lot of cash—a
whole
lot of cash—on her doorstep and suggested she resign from the Bureau and take the first train out of Dodge.”

“Or . . . ?”

“Or he’d kill her.”

“Why didn’t she go to someone at the Bureau?”

“Who would do what, Annie? Protect her from someone she couldn’t even identify? Someone who obviously
works
for the Bureau?” He got up and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Believe me, we went through all of this. Whoever was threatening her works for the Bureau. He’s supposed to be one of the good guys. He could have been anyone. How do you even begin to figure out who you can trust?”

“Well, what about the job she’d been on, start with that. Look at the people who were there, figure out—” She stopped short, staring at him. “Grady . . .”

“Annie, please don’t even ask.”

“Tell me it wasn’t the job where Dylan was killed.”

He was agitated and drunk. He swayed when he stood, then sat slowly back down.

“And that’s why Melissa’s report was missing, because someone took it deliberately and made sure she wouldn’t replicate it?”

“Yes.”

Annie digested the information.

“I’m sorry, Annie. I’m really sorry.”

She waved away his apology, past that now. “Why,” she asked, “didn’t he just kill her?”

“I don’t know.” He took a long swallow of wine, this one straight from the bottle. “I’ve asked myself that same question a dozen times. Why didn’t he just kill her.”

He wiped tears from his face with the hem of his shirt.

“I guess the question really is, why did he kill her now?”

“I have a call in to the sheriff in Montana. As soon as I’ve heard about cause of death, I’ll let you know.”

He cleared his throat. “Appreciate it.”

“In the meantime, why not put the wine away? Take a shower, get something to eat. Get some sleep.”

“Merlot was the only thing she ever drank.” He held up the bottle and studied the label as if it held some weighty truth.

“Grady, I am so sorry about Melissa. I don’t know what to say.” She swallowed hard. “I’m more sorry than I can say, if my looking for her, for her report, was the catalyst—”

“Don’t, Annie. There’s no point . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“Still . . .”

“Just . . . don’t, okay?” He looked away.

“I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

“Okay.”

She wanted to go to him and put her arms around him, but she knew that nothing would comfort him. Instead, she walked to the door to let herself out. She opened the door to leave, then turned and asked, “Did anyone know that you and Melissa were married?”

“Only my brothers.”

“You didn’t tell your sister?”

“Nah.” He smiled weakly. “You know Mia, she talks to everyone. But my brothers, well . . . you know how they are. They’re both so closemouthed, you never know what’s going on with either of them.”

18

Evan took a sip of coffee and grimaced to find it had gone cold during the course of his telephone conversation with john number twenty-seven on the list of seventy-four he’d gotten from the D.A.’s files when he arrived at the courthouse at 5:30 that morning. To say the guard at the front door had been surprised to see anyone at that hour—least of all on a Saturday—would have been an understatement.

“Early day, Detective?” The man had yawned as he unlocked the front door.

“Yeah.” Evan shifted the cardboard carrier holding the three large cups of coffee he’d picked up at the local convenience store. As he passed through the metal detector, he handed one Styrofoam cup to the guard. “Thought you could use a wake-up this morning, too.”

“Thank you, Detective Crosby. Nice of you to think of me.”

“Nice of you to let me in.” Evan smiled and walked the dimly lit hall to the stairwell, and took the steps down to the basement, where the county detectives and some of the assistant district attorneys were housed.

The hallway was darker here, and it had taken him several tries before he managed to open the main office door. He locked it behind him and walked through the common area, lit only by an “Exit” sign on either side, and went directly to his small office at the end of the hall. He’d placed the coffee on one side of the desk and turned on his computer. He searched the files until he found what he was looking for, opened one of the coffees, and sipped at it while he scanned the screen, occasionally making notes on a yellow legal pad he’d pulled from the bottom drawer. By the time his list was complete, the sun had come up and enough of the morning had passed that he could begin making his calls without risk of having anyone complain that it was too early.

By noon, he’d called almost one third of the names on his list and had spoken with twelve. The others had either not answered or were no longer at the number he had on record. Out of the twelve, only five were willing to speak with him about their prior arrests. He’d left telephone messages for several others but was not optimistic that many—if any—of his calls would be returned.

Of the five he’d spoken with, none of them admitted to knowing anything about any young Hispanic girls working in an area house in which they might be held against their will.

“I wouldn’t go for none of that, man, none of that young stuff,” one of the johns had told him. “That’s disgusting, man . . .”

“There are a couple of Hispanic chicks working the corner at Seventh and Warwick,” another had offered when pressed, “but they ain’t no kids.”

“I don’t usually ask to see ID, you know what I mean?” another had snorted.

Evan rubbed his eyes and stood to stretch. His legs felt cramped and his shoulders stiff, and he thought a walk outside, even just around the courthouse, might be refreshing. He opened his door and noticed lights on in several of the other offices. He’d been so engrossed in his research that he hadn’t heard anyone else come in.

He stopped at Cal Henry’s door to chat for a moment, but left when Cal’s girlfriend called. Their verbal feuds were legendary, and Evan had witnessed more than enough of them in the past. He waved to Cal and continued on his way outside.

“You take care, Detective,” the guard at the door called to him, barely looking up.

“I’m just running out for a minute. I’ll be back.”

Evan stepped into the sun and shielded his eyes from the glare. He took a deep breath, and deciding he was as much in need of food as of exercise, he walked two blocks to Main Street, where he picked up lunch from the deli on the corner. He returned to the courthouse and took a seat on one of the benches on the front lawn and proceeded to eat his ham and cheese on rye while mentally replaying the conversations he’d had that morning, hoping to find some inadvertent comment that might lead him to something concrete.

Reluctantly, he had to admit he hadn’t missed anything the first time around. There’d been no slip of the tongue, nothing he could use as an excuse to call any of the men back to confirm. He rolled up his lunch trash in the bag it had come in and started toward the trash can when he heard someone calling his name.

“Hey, Joe,” he called back to his former partner, who was walking up the sidewalk with a large brown file folder under his arm.

“Evan. Good to see you.” Joe Sullivan met Evan in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What brings you in on a Saturday?”

Joe held up the file.

“I just got a call at home from Shelley Stern telling me this case is going to trial on Monday and she needed whatever materials I had that she didn’t have.” He shook his head. “How am I supposed to know what she has?”

“I’m going back in, want me to drop it off for you?”

“Nah, I’m going to need to talk to her anyway.”

Evan tossed his trash in the direction of the open can and missed.

“I see moving up to county detective hasn’t done anything to improve your aim,” Sullivan noted.

“It’ll take more than a new job to do that. What’s new in Lyndon?”

“Not much. Things have quieted down a lot since the slayer was brought in. Nice job Jackie did with that case, wasn’t it?”

“Nice job that
Jackie
did?” Evan scoffed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Jackie had a lot of help from the FBI.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

Evan shook his head in disgust and waved to the guard, who was already on his way to unlock the door.

The two men went through the procedure to enter the building, then walked together down to the D.A.’s office. Joe stopped off at Shelley Stern’s office—the third door on the left—and Evan continued on to his office. Fifteen minutes later, he looked up to find Joe in the doorway.

“So you working all day or what?”

“Most of it. I’d hoped to finish up early enough to make a trip down to Annie’s for the rest of the weekend, but I guess that’s not going to happen.”

“What are you working on?” Joe asked. “That the other killer case?”

“What other killer case?” Evan looked up from the file.

“Word around is that the Slayer didn’t pop those last three girls, the Hispanic ones.” Joe came in and plopped himself in the seat near the door.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Just around. Don’t remember where, exactly.”

“Good thing it wasn’t supposed to have been kept under wraps or anything,” Evan muttered.

“So if you’re not going to see the old lady, want to meet up later for a few beers and a burger down at Taps? I’m meeting a couple of the guys at six.”

“Rosemary is letting you out alone on a Saturday night?”

“She’s off with her sister this weekend. She and Joey. They’ll be gone through tomorrow afternoon.”

“How’s he doing, your son?”

“He had a better year in school this year.” Joe nodded. “He had a rough time for a while. You know, he’s small for his age, isn’t real good at sports. It’s tough for a boy like that. We finally did find something he liked doing, though, so he’s doing better.”

Evan was about to ask what that thing was when his cell phone rang. He checked the number and found it to be one of the men for whom he’d previously left a message.

“Sorry, Joe, I’ve got to take this.”

“Hey, no problem. Stop down at Taps later, if you can. We’ll all be there. It would be great if you could join us. Like old times. If not, we’ll get together sometime soon.”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks.”

Joe waved and left the office as Evan answered his call.

“Yeah, Manny, thanks for calling me back. I appreciate it. Listen, about that incident a few years back . . . yeah, that one. Hey, I hate to bring that up, but there’s a rumor going around the D.A.’s office that they’re thinking about bringing back that three-strikes-and-jail-time thing again, and I just wanted to see if you were keeping clean . . .”

It was almost eight by the time Evan finished the last of his calls. He was starving and for a moment considered Joe’s offer. Then he looked at the pages of notes he’d made, all the information he wanted to enter into the computer before Monday came around, and decided he’d do takeout on the way home instead. He’d enjoy a night out with his old friends and coworkers, he acknowledged as he packed up a few files to take home. They had a good bunch of guys down there in the Lyndon Police Department, and there were times when he missed working with them, missed the companionship and the familiarity of having the same partner every day.

Well, maybe he’d have time for a beer or two. He turned off the overhead light on his way out of the office and dialed Joe’s cell phone as he walked up the steps. When there was no answer after six rings, Evan disconnected the call without leaving voice mail. Tonight he was tired and had a lot of reading to do, none of it light, he told himself as he waved good night to the guard, so it was just as well he hadn’t been able to hook up with Joe. He’d catch up with the guys later in the week.

Maybe by then, Joe would have remembered where he’d heard about the second killer. The one whose existence wasn’t supposed to have been discussed outside the D.A.’s office.

He wondered who’d been talking, and how the information had made its way to the Lyndon PD.

He stopped for pizza on the way home and ate standing up at the kitchen counter while he listened to his voice mail. Then he locked up the house and took his files to his second-floor office, where he read until he passed out. Sunday morning he showered, shaved, and started all over again, making calls and taking notes, crossing names off one list and adding them to another.

At four in the afternoon, he looked out the back window at the dirt patch that was Annie’s garden and hoped that by this time next week, they’d be together, working on it. He put the thought aside and went back to his phone calls. He worked until midnight, then closed up shop and went to bed.

At four o’clock Monday morning, the phone rang, and he answered it groggily.

“Crosby? Sargeant Crocker, Broeder police department. Got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

There was a soft rustle as the phone was passed from one person to another.

“Hey, Detective, Perry Jelinik, remember me?”

“Sure.” Evan pulled himself up onto one elbow and tried to stifle a yawn. “I busted you for possession two years ago.”

“And four years before that.”

“You get picked up more recently by someone else, Jelinik?”

“Yeah, actually, I was.” There was a pause. “I was wondering if you could help me out with that. Talk to the arresting officer or the D.A. for me or something.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, I hear you’re looking for an address . . .”

19

After two solid days of reviewing police reports to prepare a profile for a D.A. in Florida, Annie was almost happy to be going back into the office again. She felt as if she’d been in solitary confinement since she arrived home on Saturday morning. She was trying to recall when she had ever welcomed a Monday quite as much when she heard her fax beeping to signal that something was being sent to her machine.

She went into her office and leaned over the desk to pull the sheet of paper from the incoming tray and was surprised to see a copy of Melissa Lowery’s autopsy report.

Annie scanned it quickly, skipping over the sections she deemed inconsequential to cause of death (“. . . the liver has been removed and upon examination is found to weigh . . .”) and going straight to the chase.

Cause of death: Exsanguination due to gunshot wound to the chest.

Melissa had been shot and left to bleed to death.

Not something Annie was looking forward to sharing with Grady.

She was still wondering how to handle that when the phone rang.

“Dr. McCall?”

“Yes.”

“Sheriff Brody.”

“Oh, Sheriff. I was just about to call you to thank you for faxing the autopsy report on Melissa Lowery.”

“Told you I would do so. Glad I caught you on your home phone. Your cell phone wasn’t picking up.”

She searched her purse and found the cell at the bottom. She’d turned it off the night before after she spoke with Evan because the battery was running down, the charger was in the car, and she hadn’t felt like going out in the rain to get it.

“So now that we know for certain she did not die a natural death,” he was saying, “you have any thoughts on that?”

“Not just yet.”

“I was just wondering if maybe your reason for coming all the way out here to see her might have something to do with her being murdered.”

“Sheriff, with all due respect, at this time I cannot discuss the reason for my visit.” Annie bit her bottom lip, wishing she’d been able to talk to John before she had to have this conversation with Sheriff Brody. “I’m not trying to be evasive, and I apologize if it sounds as if I am, but my visit had to do with an FBI investigation, and I really can’t discuss that with anyone at this time. Please keep in mind that my position with the Bureau is primarily as a profiler. I try to stay out of the bureaucratic aspects. I can give you the name of the special agent in charge to whom I report, if you’d like to give him a call.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Brody didn’t sound at all surprised to hear that he wouldn’t be getting information from Annie.

She gave him John Mancini’s office number, knowing John would be out of the office for another few days. Having called John on Saturday to bring him up to date on Grady Shields’ involvement with Melissa, and Melissa’s involvement in Dylan’s case, Annie knew John would want to avoid Sheriff Brody for as long as possible.

“Just a few other questions for you, Dr. McCall.”

“I’ll answer what I can, Sheriff.”

“Any thoughts on why an unemployed former FBI agent might have a few hundred thousand dollars stashed away?” Before she could respond, he added, “Ms. Lowery had a savings account with a little over six hundred thousand dollars in it.”

“Wow.”

“That was pretty much my reaction. Lot of money just sitting there, can’t help but wonder where it came from. And this is after some substantial outlays of cash. Seems Ms. Lowery paid cash for that spread she was living on, only eleven acres, not much out here, but still . . .” He cleared his throat. “Paid cash for that new SUV, cash for a bunch of new furniture. Any idea how she could have done all that?”

“No. None.” Annie hated lying, but now wasn’t the time to tell Brody about the nameless someone who had given Melissa what Grady had described as a lot of cash in exchange for her resignation from the Bureau and her disappearance. “Maybe she had some family money.”

“Her father was a bus driver and her mother retired with a twenty-five-year pin from the local school district. They have no idea where the money came from.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I just can’t help you.”

“You wouldn’t have any thoughts on who this gentleman friend might have been?”

“No, sorry. Did you ask her parents if they knew who she was involved with?”

“They said they thought she had someone special in her life, but she didn’t talk about it. You think that’s strange, not to talk to your mother about your boyfriend?”

“Since my mother died before I was old enough to have boyfriends, I wouldn’t know.”

“Sorry about that, Dr. McCall.”

“And a lot of women just don’t discuss their personal lives, especially if it’s not a serious relationship, you know?”

“Maybe.” He sighed heavily. Annie could tell he was frustrated, that he knew she had information that could help him, but he’d apparently dealt with the Bureau in the past. He didn’t push, and that made her feel that perhaps he’d pushed before and gotten nowhere.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “I spoke with the locksmith in town. He said Mariana Gray had come in one day about seven months ago and asked for all new locks, doors and windows. He thought it was unusual at the time—nobody out here locks up like that, there just has never been a cause for it in the past. That could change, in light of this murder. Anyway, the locksmith said he went out to her house, and she had him double-dead-bolt all the doors and put locks on every one of the windows. Said he never saw anyone so worried about her house being broken into.”

“Well, she did live around D.C. for several years. We have our share of crime out east, you know. Maybe her place here was broken into, maybe she’d been the victim of a crime in the past and it made her skittish.”

“Or maybe she was afraid of someone.” He cleared his throat again. “Guess she was right about that, eh?”

“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” she replied, momentarily distracted by the call-waiting signal. She walked to the phone base to check the caller ID. It was an overseas number she didn’t recognize. Connor?

“Well, I guess I’ll give your agent Mancini a call, see if he’ll throw me a bone or two and give me a few leads.”

“If he has any, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy—”

“Please, Dr. McCall. I’ve been down this road with the FBI before. We both know that you know what’s at the bottom of this. I just hope that if you find Melissa Lowery’s killer, you’ll at the very least let me know so that we can stop wasting our time looking for him—or her—out here.”

“Sheriff Brody, you have my word. If we find the killer, you will be the first to know.”

“ ’Preciate that, Dr. McCall. Hope it’s soon. We’ve got some nervous people out here.” He hung up without waiting for any further comment.

Annie immediately placed a call to John, but had to leave voice mail detailing her conversation with Brody. She was relieved that he was away for a few more days. At least he had a legitimate excuse for ducking the sheriff.

Annie started to return the phone to the cradle when she remembered the call that had been coming through while she was speaking with Sheriff Brody. She sat on the end of her desk and listened to the message.

“Hey, Annie, it’s Connor. Sorry I missed you, but I wanted to get back to you about Santa Estela. When you get into the office, ask John to give you clearance to look over a report that would have been written, oh, I guess around the end of 2002, maybe early 2003. It concerns our successful efforts to shut down some traffic. I tried to get in touch with one of the agents involved, but I haven’t heard back. I’m guessing he’s in the field or undercover somewhere and hasn’t gotten the message. I don’t know who was in charge of this at a supervisory level, or who else was involved, but it must have been a fairly big op. If you see the report, you’ll know who the agent is, and you can probably get the green light to talk to him directly. But until you’re cleared, I can’t give you any other information. All I can say at this point is that there is a report, and it should contain names and places. Read the report—you’ll know where to go from there. Sorry I missed you. Get back to me if you have any other questions. See ya.”

Annie listened to the message two or three times before hanging up the phone.

There was a report. The Bureau had a report. Names, places . . . contacts. Maybe they’d even be able to locate the families of the girls who’d been killed. She practically danced into her room to finish getting dressed. She couldn’t wait to tell Evan, couldn’t wait to see the report.

She put in another call to John, but there was no answer. She pulled on a pair of linen pants and slipped her feet into flat shoes, searched her dresser for earrings, a bracelet, all the while thinking of how wonderful it would be if she could find the evidence that could lead to the resolution of these killings.

She went back into her office, picked up the autopsy report on Melissa Lowery, and tucked it into her briefcase. She tried both John and Evan one more time, but wasn’t able to reach either one of them. No matter, she told herself. She’ll get through to both of them before the day was over.

Buoyed by the turn of events, she turned off the light and headed off to work.