Kill and Run (A Thorny Rose Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

“I tried to talk to her,” Paige said. “But I’m afraid I didn’t become aware of her problem until it was too late.”

“Why do you think it was too late?” Jessica asked.

“Unfortunately, Maureen became paranoid,” Paige said. “She started imagining things.”

“What kind of things?” Jessica asked.

“Would you believe she started making up all kind of conspiracy theories?” Laughing, Paige placed her hand on her chest. “Why would the army be out to get her? She was just an army wife.”

“Someone did murder her,” Jessica said. “I think that kind of confirms that someone was out to get her.”

“Did she tell you what made her come to believe someone was out to get her?” Natalie asked.

“Not specifically,” Paige said. “My husband can be a very charming man. He’s attractive. You can’t be married to such a man—” With a laugh, she gestured at Jessica. “I’ve seen your husband, so you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You’ve seen Murphy?”

“Meet and greets and other functions around the Pentagon and Washington.” With a wicked grin, Paige said, “He’s hard to miss.” She turned serious. “The fact is, when you’re married to men as handsome and charming and charismatic as ours, there are disturbed women who will confuse fantasy with reality.”

Jessica suspected Paige Graham had heard about her husband’s strong reputation for cheating. Here she was rationalizing that he was the victim of his charm, rather than the perpetrator taking full advantage of it to chase every willing skirt. Fully aware of the social power of the general’s wife, Jessica was unsure of how much further to allow this conversation to go.

Does she even know that Murphy is the investigator of Maureen Clark’s murder? If she is, she has to know that I need to give this information about Maureen Clark being disturbed to Murphy.

Natalie saved Jessica the trouble. “Are you saying that Maureen Clark was involved with Sebastian?”

“No,” Paige said firmly. “She
thought
she was involved with Sebastian. Big difference. She misinterpreted some things he had said to her or a touch on her arm. She wanted to reciprocate and made a pass at him. When he rejected her advances, she was embarrassed and tried to cause trouble by lying about everything that happened.”

Holding up her hands, Jessica shook her head. “I think I need to make you aware that Murphy is investigating Maureen Clark’s murder. All this stuff you’re telling me, I would need to pass on to him to help him with his case.”

Paige Graham’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes grew big. She dropped her margarita glass down onto the bar. “Seriously? Why would a navy lieutenant be investigating the murder of an army officer’s wife?”

“One of the victims was a naval petty officer,” Jessica said. “Evidence indicated that she was targeted so the navy took the case.”

Blinking, Paige turned to Natalie. “Did you know this?”

Natalie shook her head.

“Where is Murphy in this investigation?” Paige asked.

“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “He doesn’t discuss his work with me.”

“Well, needless to say,” Paige said, “many of the wives in the club are very nervous about this. If there’s anything that you can tell us, or that Murphy can tell you that you could pass on for me to offer—”

“It’s an active investigation,” Jessica said.

“It can be off the record.”

“No, Murphy can’t tell me anything,” Jessica said in a firm tone. “I’m sure you understand. How much can Sebastian tell you about his work?”

Paige’s eyes grew dark.

Slipping her hand over to grasp Paige’s wrist, Natalie said, “Jessica just said that the naval petty officer was the target. Considering that Mrs. Clark was an army officer’s wife, I think it is safe to assume that there was no connection between these two women. You could tell the wives in the club that sadly, most likely, Mrs. Clark’s murder was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She offered a reassuring smile at both Jessica and Paige.

After a long silence, in which Jessica and Paige regarded each other, the older woman finally forced a smile on her face. “Sounds good to me.”

“Me too,” Jessica replied.

After slapping her cell phone down on the counter, Paige dug into her handbag for a business card.

Draining the last of her margarita, Natalie set down her glass. “How about if we go to the marina for lunch?”

“Oh my, I’m afraid I can’t join you ladies,” Paige announced while checking the screen of her cell phone. “I forgot all about a meeting with the literacy council. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a rain check.” After slipping off the bar stool, she slapped a business card on the counter. “Jessica, please be a dear and do keep me informed about your husband’s investigation—”

“But—” Jessica tried to argue.

“As a favor from one officer’s wife to another,” Paige said while rushing to the door. “We all have to stick together.” With a slam of the door, she was gone.

A long silence stretched between the two remaining women. With the arch of an eyebrow, Jessica cocked her head at the admiral’s wife.

“Paige Graham is an organizational whiz. Would you believe she chairs no less than five non-profit organizations?”

Shifting her weight to her other high-heel, Jessica arched the opposing eyebrow at her.

Shoving the empty margarita glass in her host’s direction, Natalie asked, “How about another round for the road?”

Chapter Twelve

Walter Reed Hospital: Morgue

Unlike the average person, Murphy Thornton was familiar with morgues and what happens during an autopsy. His second cousin, Dr. Tad MacMillan served as the medical exami`ner for Hancock County in his hometown of Chester, West Virginia. That being the case, Murphy had tagged along with his father to visit Tad at the morgue on more than one occasion.

In his fifties, Dr. Tad MacMillan was still a handsome, distinguished man who had an earned the reputation of being a ladies man—until he married in his late forties. Before settling down with a wife and baby, he rode motorcycles and lived simply in an apartment over a garage, even though he was the doctor to most of the citizens of his small town.

Therefore, when Boris introduced him to Dr. Walter Reed, the military’s medical examiner, Murphy’s shock was due to preconceived impressions left by his second cousin about what M.E.’s were like.

Connecting the name of the medical examiner to the hospital where they stood, Murphy looked down at the stooped over, gray-haired man who peered up at him from over his bifocals.

After a beat, the medical examiner replied to Murphy’s unspoken question, “No relation.”

“Huh?” Murphy uttered.

“To the Walter Reed this hospital is named after,” the old man said while peering up into Murphy’s face. “I’m no relation. Total coincidence. Though, it could be the higher up’s sense of humor that they gave me the job.”

When Dr. Walter Reed stood up on his toes to examine his face more closely, Murphy backed up a step.

“Did Hamilton say your name was Thornton?” Dr. Reed asked.

“Yes,” Murphy said, “Lieutenant Murphy Thornton.”

“Thornton?” Dr. Reed murmured while cocking his head to and fro. Magnified by the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, his eyes blinked repeatedly while he studied Murphy’s face.

Struck with a thought, Murphy opened his mouth at the same time Dr. Reed asked, “Was your father in the navy? JAG!”

“Joshua Thornton.” Murphy nodded his head with a grin. “Commander Joshua Thornton.”

With a crippled finger, Dr. Reed tapped Murphy on the chest. He smiled so broadly that his face wrinkled up into a maze of smile lines. “I knew your father. From West Virginia.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re the spittin’ image of him.” With a chuckle, he turned to Boris. “There’s no basis for denying paternity here. Jury would take one look and know which tree this nut fell from.”

Boris joined in the old man’s laughter while Murphy’s cheeks turned pink. Embarrassed wasn’t the word to describe his feelings. He was proud when compared to his father, whose reputation was long remembered in the navy.

“Brilliant man,” Dr. Reed said while nodding his head up and down. “Are you a chip off the old block?”

“I hope so.”

“We’ll see.” With a wave of his hand, he gestured for them to follow him out of his office into the morgue, where he had five gurneys filled with bodies covered with white sheets.

Several inches shorter than Murphy and Boris, Dr. Reed moved with the speed and grace of a giant turtle. His stooped back gave him the appearance of one standing upright on its hind legs.

Anxious to find out if the doctor had learned anything during the autopsies, Murphy had to rein in his impatience, while following the medical examiner to the first gurney. There he picked up a clipboard that hung from a hook on the side of the metal table.

“Donna Crenshaw,” the medical examiner read. “Shot five times. Forty-five caliber slugs. They broke up upon impact. No useful parts for ballistics comparisons, I’m sorry to say.”

“Were the bullets hollow-point?” Murphy asked.

“Not just hollow-point,” the doctor replied. “Hollow-cavity. From looking at the bits that I removed from Ms. Crenshaw, the hollow dominated the volume of the bullet to cause extreme expansion or fragmentation upon impact.”

“Not the average twenty-two that a lady would carry for protection against a carjacker,” Boris said.

“More like a pro looking to make sure his target didn’t survive,” Murphy said.

Dr. Reed tottered around to the next gurney. “Same type of bullets were used on Francine Baxter. None of the fragments were whole enough for a ballistic comparison, but the way the bullets broke up, in my professional opinion, they were the same type. Most likely the same weapon was used.”

Murphy moved around to the last three gurneys. “But the killer poisoned these three?”

“Sodium Monofluoroacetate,” Dr. Reed stated in a tone devoid of emotion. “Colorless, odorless and tasteless poison used to kill rats and coyotes. All three ingested enough to kill a grizzly bear.”

“There was a punch bowl at the scene,” Murphy said.

“Could have been in that,” Dr. Reed said. “The poison would have acted in less than an hour from ingesting it. The symptoms generally progress from fairly benign–abdominal pain, nausea, sweating, and confusion–to alarming–muscle twitches and seizures–to life-threatening–cardiac abnormalities.”

“In which case, in a somewhat social setting, they would not have realized they had been poisoned until it was too late,” Murphy said. “Each of them would have suffered nicely thinking she’d just come down with a slight bug—until she saw one of the other women collapse.”

“Why?” Boris asked. “Why not shoot them like—”

“Because it was only one killer,” Murphy said while slowly shaking a finger at each one of the three gurneys. “There were three of them.” He rushed over to the gurney containing Francine Baxter’s body. “Our killer got to Francine’s home early. Shot her. And then answered the door when the others arrived.”

“Wouldn’t they think something was up if someone other than Francine Baxter answered the door, especially if they were conspiring against someone capable of doing this?” Boris asked.

“Could have pretended to be Francine’s husband,” Dr. Reed said. “My wife is always running out to get ice cream or something or other right before the book club comes over. So there I am answering the door and entertaining the old hens until she gets back.”

“Francine Baxter was a widow,” Murphy said.

“But according to our information, none of these women knew each other,” Boris said. “So the killer could have used any cover to explain his being there. Brother. Friend. Neighbor.”

“Could have even claimed to be Francine herself,” Murphy said. “Killer could have been a woman. If she was pretending to be the hostess who was a partner in their cause, they would have trusted her enough to drink the punch packed full of poison—”

“They all drank it,” Boris said. “They died.”

“But Donna Crenshaw was running late,” Murphy said. “The killer intercepted her texted message. So he or she had to wait for Donna. When Donna arrived, she saw all the dead bodies and the killer had no option for quietly poisoning her. He or she had to shoot her.” His tone filled with sadness. “Leaving Izzy an orphan.”

“What’s an Izzy?” Dr. Reed asked.

“Donna Crenshaw’s daughter,” Murphy said.

There was a moment of silence before Dr. Reed asked, “Adopted, right?”

His eyebrows furrowing, Murphy turned to him. “No.”

Dr. Reed pointed at the body under the sheet. “This woman suffered from one of the most severe cases of endometriosis that I’ve ever seen. Untreated. Her ovaries were filled with cysts. She was totally infertile and I saw no evidence during my exam to indicate that her uterus had ever carried a child. This woman never gave birth.”

“She has a daughter,” Murphy insisted.

“Maybe she does,” Dr. Reed said with a shake of his head, “but that daughter didn’t come from this woman’s womb. I’d stake my medical license on it.”

“Maybe Izzy was adopted,” Boris suggested during their drive back to the Pentagon from Walter Reed Hospital.

Having taken his SUV, Murphy was at the wheel while Boris admired the leather upholstery and other features of the luxurious vehicle. Behind the wheel of the SUV, Murphy put on his dark driving glasses to block out the bright May afternoon sun.

Shaking his head, Murphy replied, “Why would Donna Crenshaw make up such a horrible lie about being raped and the rapist getting off for it?”

After a long hesitation, Boris said, “Maybe it wasn’t Donna Crenshaw who lied.”

Murphy cast a glance in his direction.

“Izzy’s a child,” Boris said. “No family and her single mother had to work hard to make ends meet. She probably got lonely—”

“Lying for attention?” Murphy shook his head. “Her mother was murdered. She’s getting plenty of attention. Izzy really believes her birth father was a rapist and that’s because Donna Crenshaw told her that.”

“Well, according to Dr. Reed, that’s not possible because Donna Crenshaw was sterile and had never carried a baby to term.”

“We need to talk to Izzy,” Murphy said.

“If Izzy is telling the truth as she knows it,” Boris said, “then talking to her isn’t going to do any good. For one, she’s been through enough. She just lost her only family. To tell her in the midst of all this that this woman she thought was her mother wasn’t—”

“You’re right,” Murphy agreed.

“We need to find out who her biological parents are,” Boris said. “For all we know, Izzy was stolen as a baby. Donna Crenshaw could be one of those crazy women who wanted to have a baby of her own. She was infertile, and so she stole Izzy.” He allowed himself to grin. “If that’s the case, there’s probably a couple of parents out there searching for her. It’s simple enough to do. Our crime scene investigators collected her DNA this morning to use as an exclusionary sample. We’ll simply run it through the system to see if she’s in the missing children’s database.”

“If she is, then something good can come from these murders.” Murphy’s cell phone rang. The screen on the vehicle console read: “Tristan.”

“I have to take this,” Murphy told Boris before pressing the hands-free answer button. After connecting the call to his brother-in-law, he asked, “What have you got for me?”

“Her name is Emily Dolan,” Tristan said. “She’s an assistant manager at Starbucks in Seven Corners, Virginia. That’s her day job. Actually, her night job …” He clarified, “Late day. She works the afternoon and evening shift.”

“Which leaves her plenty of time to tail me during the day,” Murphy noted.

“Tail?” Boris turned around in his seat to study the cars behind them out the rear window. “Are we being tailed?”

“Who’s that?” Tristan asked.

“Who are you and how do you know we’re being tailed?” Boris countered.

“Boris,” Murphy answered, “this is Tristan Faraday, my brother-in-law. Tristan, this is Boris, the deputy chief of the Naval Criminal investigation staff.”

“How does he know we’re being tailed and who’s tailing us?” Boris asked Murphy.

“
We’re
not being tailed,” Murphy said.
“I
was being tailed and I had been since yesterday, but I’m not being tailed now. Believe me, if I was, I’d know it. She followed me to work this morning, but she wasn’t there when we left.”

“That’s because she’s at work,” Tristan said. “We’ve all got to work for a living. You can find her at Starbucks … at least that’s where her cell phone is.”

“You’re tracking her cell phone?” Boris asked. “Do you have a warrant to do that?”

“Murphy made me!”

“Have you got anything else on Emily Dolan, Tristan?” Murphy interrupted to ask while easing onto the on ramp to cross the Fourteenth Street Bridge into Virginia.

“Plenty,” Tristan replied. “She graduated less than two years ago from George Mason University—”

“Did you say George Mason?” Boris tapped Murphy on the arm. “Francine Baxter taught at George Mason University.”

“I know,” Murphy replied.

“Double degree,” Tristan replied. “Bachelors of Science and Arts. Communications and business management. Minor in political science. But, this is where you have trouble, Murph … and probably you, too, Boris. … She’s a blogger who has acquired quite a following—a big hard left following—anti-law enforcement and
anti-military
. In other words, she’s not your friend.”

“What made her target me to follow?” Murphy asked while trying to concentrate on the heavy traffic swarming around him on the bridge. “Does this have anything to do with—”

“Maybe,” Tristan interrupted. “I checked out her blog and the last few days she has been talking up quite a buzz about breaking a huge news story about a giant conspiracy and cover-up involving the United States military. Kept telling her followers to stay tuned for her exclusive news-breaking story.”

“That must be why she was following me. She saw me at the scene of the murders and thinks I’m involved in the conspiracy and cover-up.” Murphy felt his throat tighten. “When is she planning to break the story?”

“Today,” Tristan said. “It hasn’t posted yet, though. I’m sending the link to her blog to your phone. It’s been getting a lot of traffic. She’s a pretty popular blogger. Her blog gets a hundred thousand hits a month.”

“That’s very helpful,” Murphy said. “Thanks, Tristan.”

“So Monique’s staying,” Tristan said rather than asked.

“Just keep her locked up.” Murphy disconnected the call.

With wide eyes, Boris asked, “Who’s Monique and why does she have to stay locked up?”

“She’s Tristan’s creepy friend.”

The two men held up their badges for the guards at the security gates to take them into the parking lot for the Pentagon.

“Emily Dolan,” Boris Hamilton repeated the name while typing in the name for the blog on his tablet. “What does she have to do with this case?”

While pulling into an empty parking space, Murphy said, “Francine Baxter taught business courses at the same university where Dolan graduated.” He turned off the SUV.

“Should be easy enough to confirm or deny that connection,” Boris said. “We just need a warrant to check the class rosters for the courses Baxter taught.”

After slipping out of the driver’s seat, Murphy put on his navy hat and made a quick check to make sure his uniform was smooth and straight. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a superior officer in the Pentagon corridor and dressed down for leaving his fly open. “Considering that all of these women are in some way connected to the army—”

“And this blogger is talking about a conspiracy involving the military.” Boris kept in step with Murphy while bringing up the website on his tablet. “Army is military.” Finding the site, he stopped walking in the middle of the parking lot and cursed. “She accuses our military of training men and women to be predatory serial killers.” He showed the screen of his tablet to Murphy. “Even if the motive of these murders has to do with the military, you certainly can’t believe the military had them killed?”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t posted that yet,” Murphy said. “If she had something, she’d have posted it by now and, if there was any evidence to back it up, it would be all over the news.” He resumed the trek across the parking lot to the building.

Shaking his head, Boris continued to explore the blog. “This woman hates police and military. Actually thinks that our country should do away with both of them.” After tucking his tablet under his arm, he took his cell phone out of the case on his belt. “Let’s bring her in.”

Murphy grabbed the deputy chief’s phone. “Not before we have something concrete to go on.”

“Sounds to me like we already have something concrete to go on,” Boris argued. “She’s been tailing you and dangling a big conspiracy story before her followers. Our victims were meeting to discuss putting a stop to someone. They were all connected to the military somehow. This Dolan woman has got to be involved in whatever it was they were planning.”

“She’s anti-military,” Murphy said. “That means she’s already got a chip on her shoulder. If we drag her in kicking and screaming, she’ll
give
us nothing, scream for her lawyer, and post a scathing article on the Internet about how the big, bad, military bullied her.” With a grin that broadly displayed his deep dimples, he held up a finger.
“But
… if we know something, we could bluff her into giving us what she does have. Give me time to get the army’s records about our victims and go through them.”

“In the meantime, we need to learn everything we can about Dolan and the connection between her and our murder victims,” Boris said. “If she was at the meeting, why wasn’t she killed?”

“Maybe she did committed the murders or helped the killer escape.” Stepping up onto the sidewalk leading to the entrance, Murphy stopped to turn to Boris. “Crenshaw was late due to the accident on the beltway. Maybe Dolan didn’t make it there at all for the same reason. She wasn’t killed because she couldn’t make it to the meeting.”

Beyond Boris, parked along the curb, Murphy saw a long, white stretch limousine. A huge man in a black suit and dark glasses waited next to it. Even behind the mirrored glasses, Murphy could see that he was staring straight at him.

“I’ll order Perry to get into Dolan’s phone records and emails,” Boris was saying. “Compare them with Francine Baxter’s to see if she was supposed to be there at the meeting.”

“If our victims were Dolan’s source for this big story that she’s planning to break on her blog,” Murphy said, “then the killer could be after her. He doesn’t seem to be one to take chances. That could make her a potential victim.”

“Have you changed your mind about bringing her in?” Boris asked.

“No, I don’t want to bring her in yet, but I do want to keep a pair of eyes on her. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch our killer red-handed.”

“I’ll send a couple of our agents to track her down and keep her under surveillance.” Seeing that Murphy was not making any move toward the entrance, Boris paused. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” Murphy said. “I need to check in with my CO.”

With a quick glance over his shoulder to see who Murphy was looking at, Boris hurried through the security check point.

“Don’t let Izzy have any more brownies,” Murphy called after him.

Once Boris was out of sight, Murphy sauntered down the sidewalk to where the huge chauffeur slash security guard waited. He stood as still as a statue. Murphy sensed that behind the sunglasses his eyes were bouncing around the parking lot in search of threats to his charge waiting in the back seat of the limousine. He recognized the unmistakable bulge of a weapon under his black jacket.

Even when Murphy walked up to him, he did not move. “Good afternoon, Bernie.”

“Afternoon, Lieutenant.” Bernie reached over to open the rear door of the limousine.

Taking off his hat, Murphy climbed into the back seat. Bernie closed the door.

Her long slender legs seemed to stretch the length of the rear compartment of the limousine. They appeared even longer in the red stilettos she was wearing. Her hair was pulled up into a twist that was covered by a red fedora, which matched her jacket and pencil skirt. Dark sunglasses concealed her eyes.

“You’ve been one busy boy, Lieutenant,” she said once Murphy was seated next to her. “You’ve been sending up red flags all over Washington.”

“What caused that?” Murphy heard the driver’s door shut in the front compartment and felt the limousine engine turn on.

“Your request for copies of files relating to several women attached to the United States Army,” she replied.

“They were all murdered,” Murphy said.

“They were army,” she replied. “You are navy. None of them were active duty army.”

“I thought we were all on the same side.”

“We’re one big family,” she replied. “Unfortunately, we’re a dysfunctional family. Sibling rivalry is not the least of our issues.”

“I’m investigating this case because a murderer waited in Francine Baxter’s home for over an hour to put five bullets into Donna Crenshaw, a navy petty officer. That makes her
a
—if not
the
, target.”

“I know all about that,” she said. “You explained it all on the phone to me yesterday. Your instincts said you needed to investigate this case. It is because I trust your instincts that I authorized you to take it on.”

“Do you still trust my instincts?” Murphy asked her.

“They haven’t been proven wrong yet,” she replied. “Do you think the other four victims were collateral damage with Donna Crenshaw being the intended target?”

“No,” Murphy said. “The only common denominator we can identify right now is that all of the victims were women and in one way or another connected to the United States Army.”

“Which is why General Graham has requested that the Joint Chiefs order army’s CID take the lead in this investigation,” she said. “He claims that the navy has no jurisdiction in this case and that you lack the experience to conduct a thorough and complete investigation.”

“Is that what the Joint Chiefs are going to do?”

“The case really belongs to the FBI,” she said. “I’m surprised they haven’t requested it and if they did, then we have no reason not to comply.”

In a low voice devoid of emotion, Murphy said, “With all due respect, ma’am, I think it would be best to allow me to stay on the case.”

“Why, Lieutenant?”

“Because I’m a Phantom.”

With her full body, she turned to him. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

“I have a feeling about this case … these murders,” Murphy said. “My gut is telling me that there is something very odd behind all this. None of these women knew each other. Did you hear me say that the only thing they had in common was a connection to the army? In some cases, it wasn’t even a direct connection.”

“Which is why this case belongs with the FBI,” she said. “Most likely the motive for the murders has nothing to do with the military.”

“With all due respect,” Murphy said, “I disagree. Otherwise, why is an anti-military blogger tailing me?”

“What have you gotten yourself into, Lieutenant?”