Kill and Run (A Thorny Rose Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

“This blogger has been creating a lot of buzz about being on the verge of breaking news about a military conspiracy and cover up.”

“What kind of conspiracy and cover-up?”

“I don’t know,” Murphy said. “But if the Joint Chiefs of Staff assign this case to the army to investigate themselves—even if they are not behind the murders—the appearance of a cover-up will still be there. An independent party needs to investigate this case.”

“The FBI is an independent party.”

“But they’re not Phantoms,” Murphy argued. “If they uncover a conspiracy inside the military what will they do? Yes, if those behind it are lower ranked, they’ll put a stop to it. What if those behind it are higher ups—with enough juice to put pressure on the agents investigating to intimidate them into looking the other way? Isn’t that why the Joint Chiefs put the Phantoms together in the first place—to give our country an untouchable team of soldiers willing and able to fight for what is right—no matter who the bad guys are?”

“Do you think this is one of those cases, Lieutenant?”

“My gut is telling me that it is.” Murphy nodded his head. “But I will follow the Joint Chiefs’ orders.”

She sucked in a deep breath. He saw by the firm set of her jaw that she was torn and disgusted which became clear when she asked, “How did you end up with this case in the first place? You’re supposed to be the liaison, the connection between the civilian staff of NCIS and the navy. We put you there and told you to keep your eyes and ears open—not work their cases for them. What were you doing at that crime scene in the first place?”

“Staff Chief Hillary Koch sent me.”

“She’s not your CO,” she replied. “I am.”

“But she is my direct supervisor,” Murphy said.

“Koch is also a moron.”

“If you say so, ma’am.” He saw the hint of a smile come to her lips. “Ma’am, I have no interest in tarnishing the army’s name or reputation. All I want is to solve these murders. All the army has to do is cooperate and turn over those records that I have requested—”

“Where does General George Davis’ death fit into all this?” she asked. “The chair of the Joint Chiefs, General Raleigh, was not happy when she got word about that request.”

“I’m sorry if my request made her unhappy—”

“CID is claiming that your request for those records proves that you’re grasping at straws and possibly on a wild goose chase,” she said. “Complaints have been flying up the chain of command. Do you have any evidence or reason to believe that Davis’ helicopter crash, which killed six good men, could be connected to the murders of those women?”

“I’m not certain that it does,” Murphy replied.

He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head.

“General Davis is the army connection to Colleen Davis,” he plunged on. “Every woman in that townhouse was connected to the United States Army. You take General Davis and possibly his death out of the equation, then you lose Colleen Davis’ connection. I can’t do a complete investigation without at least looking at the case file.”

Her voice was steady when she asked, “Do you feel that the United States Army is involved in some sort of conspiracy and cover up, Lieutenant?”

“What I feel or believe about a conspiracy and cover up in the army is irrelevant,” Murphy said. “Five women are dead. Five families are grieving their loss. They deserve answers and justice. I promised Donna Crenshaw’s daughter that I would do everything in my power to find out who killed her mother and why. I intend to keep that promise, with or without the approval of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I’m a man of my word. If that doesn’t fit in with the Joint Chief’s agenda, then I sincerely apologize. But I can’t back away from this investigation … even if they do make the decision to send the case over to the army’s investigative unit or the FBI.”

There was a long silence while Murphy waited for her response. The limousine pulled up to the curb and came to a halt. Murphy saw through the tinted windows that they were at the same place where they had started. Bernie had simply driven them around the Pentagon’s parking lot.

Looking straight ahead, she finally replied, “You will get everything you believe you need to complete your investigation, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Bernie opened the rear door.

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant,” she said. “Keep me informed … about everything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” When he moved toward the open door, he felt her long slender hand grasp his. He turned to her.

“Take a long thorough look at the Davis file,” she whispered.

While her fingernails dug into his wrist, Murphy took a long look at her. Her dark glasses covered up her eyes, concealing the emotion behind her warning. “Thank you, ma’am, I will.”

She refused to release her grip on his wrist. “Lieutenant …”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Be careful,” she whispered. “Our country needs you.”

Chapter Thirteen

“So this is the infamous Irving.” Jessica peered through the door into the cat carrier resting on the queen sized bed in the loft guest room.

Seemingly unimpressed with the woman studying him, Irving narrowed his eyes into thin emerald slits. He looked like he was about to go to sleep.

“Infamous in Josh’s book.” Cameron dumped the bag of litter into Irving’s box, which she was setting up in the full bath off the guest room. She set the lid on top of the box. “I’m sorry, but I had to bring him.” She stepped into the doorway. “Josh threatened to send him to the taxidermist if I left him behind.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t serious.” Jessica was kneeling on the floor in front of the carrier. “Can I let him out now? I’m really curious. I can’t believe he looks exactly like a skunk.”

“Knock yourself out.” Cameron went to the bed to open her suitcase.

Jessica unlatched the door to the carrier. Instead of rushing out, Irving opened his eyes to observe her, as if to determine if she was worthy of him making her acquaintance.

“Okay, big guy,” Jessica urged him. “Come on out and strut your stuff.”

Irving stared at Jessica who looked back at him.

“Seriously?” she replied to his lack of motion. “You’re only going to stare at me?”

“Don’t be offended,” Cameron said. “I’m afraid Irving is a one-person cat.”

Jessica rose to her feet. “Be that way. I’ll show you who’s boss. I’ll introduce you to Spencer, who has yet to meet a cat up close and personal.”

With a laugh, Cameron answered her ringing phone. Bringing it to her ear, she stepped out of the bedroom into the sitting room. “Gates here.”

“Detective Gates, this is Agent Peter Sanders.”

“I remember.” In spite of her effort to keep a professional demeanor, she couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’m here in Washington. I’m ready to roll whenever Bertonelli is available for me to question him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective Gates,” the agent replied.

“Why?” Cameron turned around to see that Jessica had managed to extract Irving from the carrier. He actually tolerated her carrying him out into the sitting room. “What’s up?”

“Bertonelli is dead,” the agent replied. “He was found in his bed late this morning. M.E. says it appears to be a heart attack.”

“I don’t believe that,” Cameron said.

“Neither do we,” the agent said. “That’s why we’re ordering a full autopsy.”

“That doesn’t help me,” she said. “He’s the only one who would know why—”

“Last night, when we talked to him about you coming out to see him,” Agent Sanders said, “he said that he really couldn’t give us or you much information about the Gates hit, except for one thing.”

“What one thing?”

“The order for him to make the hit came from Adrian Kalashov.”

Cameron repeated the name over and over to commit to memory before saying, “I’ve heard the name Kalashov—”

“Ivan Kalashov is like the CEO of the Russian mob,” Agent Sanders said. “Started out with smuggling. He got on the ground floor when the communist regime fell. Then, he branched into human trafficking. Now, he’s into everything from illegal arms, to drugs, to pornography. His son Adrian is rumored to be taking over for him, but that’s only rumor. On the surface, he is supposed to be totally legit. American educated, law degree from Yale. As hard as the bureau has tried, we have yet to be able to pin anything on him and make it stick.”

“But Sal Bertonelli said Kalashov ordered him to take out Nick,” Cameron said.

“And now Bertonelli is dead,” Sanders said. “Based on what Bertonelli said, I don’t think we can make any connection between your late husband and Kalashov, unless you know of one.”

“I don’t. Did Bertonelli say anything else?”

“Kalashov did tell him that the hit was for a friend.”

“What friend” Cameron asked.

“Bertonelli claims Kalashov didn’t elaborate any further.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” Sanders said.

Blinking the tears out of her eyes, Cameron thanked Agent Sanders for his help and disconnected the call.

“Bad news?” Jessica asked while handing Irving over to her.

“The man who killed my husband is dead.” Cameron rubbed her face into Irving’s thick fur. The big cat rubbed his face against her jaw.

“That means you can’t interrogate him.” Jessica reached out to squeeze her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“He did tell the FBI that the hit was a favor for a friend of a big Russian crime boss,” Cameron said. “I don’t understand. Nick had no connection with organized crime.”

“Maybe that he knew of.”

“Maybe Jane …” Carrying Irving in her arms, Cameron rushed back into the bedroom. Dropping Irving onto the bed, she opened her laptop case and reached into the folder section to remove the case file.

“Jane who?” Jessica followed her into the room.

Hurrying out of the room, Irving came to a sudden halt when he came face to face with Spencer who had followed the new scent in her home.

Upon seeing the intruder, the young dog jumped up into the air and landed in the corner of the sitting room with a yelp.

Keeping his eyes on the possible threat with long blue fur, Irving puffed up with every strand of his long fur on point and hissed. Keeping his back arched upward, he bounced on all four feet to the top of the stairs.

Remembering that she was a dog, which put her above the feline in the animal kingdom, Spencer shifted gears to change her yelps to barks and gave chase.

“Spencer, no!” Jessica ran out of the bedroom. She dove for Spencer a moment too late.

The chase was on.

At the bottom of the stairs, Irving turned right and scurried as fast as his paws could carry him through the open doorway into the guest bedroom. In the middle of the room, he leapt to fly up onto the bed. With one bounce, he hit the nightstand, where he zigged around a photograph before returning to the bed. He ended up on the headboard.

To Irving’s surprise, Spencer, who was a fraction of Admiral’s weight and much younger, had no trouble taking flight. After Irving reached the headboard, he found his options minimalized and the young dog snapping at his tail from directly beneath him.

“Spencer! Bad dog!” Jessica scooped the pup up into her arms and carried her out of the room. “Cameron, I am so sorry.” She took the squirming sheltie down the hallway where she locked her inside the master bedroom.

“That’s okay,” Cameron replied. “I didn’t realize Irving would be such a problem.” She felt a broken picture frame crumble under her foot when she reached across the bed to retrieve Irving from the headboard. “Oh, man!” She cursed. Irving had broken someone’s picture. Kneeling down to the floor, she turned over the picture to observe the two women in army dress uniforms.

“We’ll keep Spencer in the bedroom until she settles down,” Jessica said upon coming back into the room. She stopped when she saw Cameron staring at the picture in her hand. “Are you okay?”

“This picture frame broke,” Cameron said in a low voice. “Who is this?”

“That’s Izzy’s mother and aunt,” Jessica said. “Izzy is the girl whose mother was killed day before yesterday. So sad.” She knelt down to the floor to pick up the broken glass.

“Her mother was murdered … the other day?”

“Yes.” Jessica stood up to take the broken picture frame from Cameron only to find her holding onto it.

Cameron asked, “Which one was her mother?”

Jessica pointed at the picture of the younger woman, Donna Crenshaw.

“Who is the other one?” Cameron asked. “The one with the curly hair.”

“Her aunt,” Jessica asked. “Why?”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t think I caught it.” Jessica corrected herself. “Cecelia. Why?”

Cameron held up the picture for Jessica to see. Pointing at the picture of Cecelia, she said, “This woman is Jane Doe. The woman who died in Nick’s arms—the one he was trying to identify when he was murdered.”

In his office, Murphy was having trouble concentrating on the words in the forensics reports from the crime scene investigators.

More often than not, Murphy would raise his eyes from the reports to watch Izzy where she was playing with her iPad at his conference table. It took all of his control not to interrogate her about her life with the woman who had raised her—who had lied about being her mother.

Boris was right. It would be simpler to run her DNA through the database to locate her parents or at least a member of her birth family.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the reports before him, Murphy continued reading through the witness statements of Francine Baxter’s neighbors.

No one saw or heard anything … or maybe someone had.

Each of the victim’s cars had been found parked around the cul-de-sac. Hannah Price’s black Porsche was parked in the townhouse driveway. She probably arrived first. Maureen Clark drove a white SUV, which was parked in front. Colleen Davis’ blue Mini Cooper was parked behind Maureen’s vehicle. Donna Crenshaw drove an eight year old black SUV, which was parked in front of the townhouse next door to the Baxter home.

At various points during the evening, one neighbor or another had seen one or more of the women arrive. One neighbor arriving home from work had even seen Colleen Davis and Maureen Clark arrive at the same time and walk up the steep steps to the front door together.

No one heard anything.

The last witness statement Murphy read caused him to catch his breath.

Eighty year old Eileen Jones, a retired school teacher, lived alone in the townhome directly across the cul-de-sac from Francine Baxter. Eileen had taken her Yorkie for a walk right before her bedtime—at ten-thirty in the evening. As she was leaving her home, she saw a green Volkswagen pull around the cul-de-sac and park along the curb almost directly in front of her house. Eileen and her dog were no more than twenty-feet from the maroon-haired young woman when she got out of her vehicle and practically ran directly across the road to knock on Francine Baxter’s door.

Later, when Eileen returned from walking her dog, she heard a door slam and saw the same woman running back to her car. She could see that the maroon-haired woman was sobbing when she got into her car and sped so fast out of the townhouse development that she actually drove her green Volkswagen up onto the curb.

“She was extremely upset,” Eileen said in her statement. “No doubt about that. I thought she was one of Dr. Baxter’s students and that she had flunked her—never occurred to me that she found all of those women massacred. Why didn’t she call the police?”

Good question.

Murphy took note of the time. Ten-thirty. Approximately two hours after Donna Crenshaw’s estimated time of death.

Emily Dolan actually went inside Francine Baxter’s home. She had to have found the bodies. According to Eileen’s statement, it takes her approximately ten minutes to walk her dog, which means Emily Dolan was in the townhouse longer than it took for her to discover the bodies.

What was she doing in the house for ten minutes? She would have instantly found the bodies. Why didn’t she call the police? Was it simply because she didn’t trust them?

Going to his laptop, Murphy did a search for Starbucks at Seven Corners Shopping Center in Falls Church, Virginia. The café closed at nine o’clock. The overturned tanker had stranded a lot of people that night. Most likely, Emily didn’t make the meeting because she had been called into work to cover for employees who couldn’t get through the traffic jam.

Not only did she miss the meeting, but she dodged a bullet, too—literally.

“Do you know who killed my mom yet?”

Murphy looked up from the statement to see Izzy’s big light brown eyes peering at him from over the top of her iPad.

“Not yet, but we’re making progress,” he answered. “I’m not doing this alone. Everyone you met today is working hard to find out what happened.”

“I know.” She returned to her iPad.

Murphy laid down the report in the center of his desk. “Are you bored?”

“Very.” Dropping her tablet on top of the table, she sat up, then paused when Perry knocked on the doorframe to Murphy’s office.

“Lieutenant, we’ve got a problem.”

In one day, Izzy had learned the drill. While Murphy followed Perry down the hallway to the conference room, she had to gather her things to go to the break room. As a visitor, she was unable to stay alone in his office.

As Murphy approached the conference room, he could hear the voices of those inside growing louder. Two he recognized as Special Agent Susan Archer and Boris Hamilton trying unsuccessfully to be the calm voice of reason.

“That answer is not acceptable!”

Murphy recognized by the booming tone that the center of the problem was either a marine or an army officer—someone who had been trained to lead based on the strength of his voice.

When Perry led him through the doorway, Murphy saw that he was right.

Standing at the head of the conference table, a tall, muscular man in the green uniform of the army—a silver eagle on both his left and right shoulders denoting his rank of colonel— was waving his hand at Boris Hamilton. A pen dangling between his fingers, he demanded, “I want to speak to the lead investigator in this case!”

Assuming an at-ease stance with his hands folded behind his back, Murphy announced, “That would be me, Colonel.”

The army officer whirled around on his heels and fired off a glare across the room. With the hand holding the pen, he rubbed his lips while measuring up the navy lieutenant.

“I’m Lieutenant Murphy Thornton, United States Navy, appointed by the Joint Chiefs of Staff to lead in this investigation of the murders at Francine Baxter’s home in Reston, Virginia. And you are …”

“Colonel Lincoln Clark, United States Army. Maureen Clark was my wife.” After stepping across the room to Murphy, he brought his face close to his. “I serve on the National Security Council Staff as director for Strategic Capabilities Policy and work very closely with General Sebastian Graham. I assume you know who he is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Maureen and I are personal friends of the general,” the colonel said. “We are regular visitors to his home. Her murder has been a horrible blow not just to me and our five year old son, but to the Grahams as well.”

“I am very sorry for your loss, Colonel,” Murphy said, “and—”

“If you’re so sorry,” Colonel Clark roared, “why are you not out there looking for her killer instead of invading my family’s privacy?”

“One of the most effective ways to identify a killer is to understand his victims,” Murphy said. “Unfortunately, the best way to do that is to ask probing—even embarrassing—questions.”

“I’ve answered enough of your staffs’ questions, now I want some answers of my own!” Colonel Clark yelled while waving the hand dangling a pen.

As volatile and loud as Colonel Clark was, Murphy was calm and soft spoken. “Certainly,” he replied, “what questions do you have?”

“How old are you?”

Murphy smirked at the colonel’s attempt to intimidate him. “How is my age relevant to your wife’s murder?”

“I’m willing to bet I have socks older than you,” Colonel Clark said with a sneer. “Have you ever investigated a murder before, boy?”

“Yes, I have.” The colonel didn’t need to know that Murphy’s previous experience had been unofficial.

“What suspects do you have?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t answer that.” When Colonel Clark scoffed, Murphy asked, “When you were in Iraq, during your three tours before returning state-side, did you publicize the information that your team collected about the enemy?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?” Murphy’s face was filled with childlike innocence.

Colonel Clark stuttered before answering, “You know damn well why not. Then the enemy would know what we knew about them and be able to anticipate our next move and how we would proceed.”

The corners of Murphy’s lips kicked up to reveal a hint of his dimples. “Just like you and your people were doing in Iraq, my team and I are doing here. We’re fighting a war against a killer who took out your wife and four other women. The best ammunition we have in this war is every bit of information that we can gather about each one of our victims in order to understand why and how these casualties came about. It’s not pleasant, but then, no war is. And some of the questions that we may be asking may not make sense to you, but like your people on the front lines had to trust that you knew what you were doing, I have to ask you to trust my team.”

Colonel Clark looked around the room at each agent in the room. Murphy’s calmness had its desired effect. If he continued raging, then he would appear to be a hysterical family victim, which was the last thing he would want reported back to his superiors.

“If there’s a problem, now would be the time to discuss it,” Murphy prompted him.

“My DNA is already in the military database,” Colonel Clark said.

With a nod of his head, Murphy acknowledged that he was aware of this. “Every active duty member of the military has his or her DNA listed in the database to help with identification if the worst was to happen.”

“But you have no reason to need my son’s DNA.”

“Actually, we do,” Murphy said. “It can help to exclude evidence that might be found at the crime scene.”

“He was never at this Baxter woman’s home,” Colonel Clark said, “so his DNA won’t be found there.”

“Actually, it’s already there.” When Colonel Clark opened his mouth, Murphy raised his hand to silence him. “Transference of forensic evidence. Your wife Maureen, after feeding your son macaroni and cheese for dinner, decided to take a couple of minutes to brush your Himalayan cat—getting cat hair on her pants and shirt. Despite her best efforts, she was unable to remove every single strand of that hair. Then, she bathed your son and put him in his pajamas while you sipped your vodka martini. At that point, he transferred epidermal particles from his skin to the front of Maureen’s shirt when he splashed bathwater and soap onto her. While you were having your second cocktail to help ease your nerves from giving up smoking, Maureen helped your son to brush his teeth, getting cast off from the brush, barely noticeable, but enough for forensics to pick up the toothpaste. Her clothes had minute odor of the macaroni and cheese he ate for dinner.” He leaned in to whisper to the stunned general “Kraft by the way. My favorite too, when I was your son’s age. And the scent of the lasagna as well, with minute traces of the parmesan cheese and the sauce also on her sleeves. When you kissed her good-bye, you left your DNA and minute traces of the vodka martini on her lips.”

The conference room was filled with stunned silence.

“All of that evidence from your family and home was on Maureen when she went to Francine Baxter’s house,” Murphy explained. “When she sat down on Francine Baxter’s chair, the hair from your cat caught on the chair. As a result, your cat’s DNA is in the Baxter home, even though the cat has never been there. Maureen brought it in. That is transference.”

Finally, Colonel Clark spoke, “I gave up smoking … how did—”

“You may have made it through nicotine withdrawal, but the psychological effects are still there,” Murphy said. “You’ve been holding onto that pen and waving it around like a cigarette. When I introduced myself, you almost took a drag on it—until you remembered that it wasn’t a cigarette.”

Seemingly speechless, Colonel Clark nodded his head.

“We need your son’s DNA in order to exclude any evidence found at the scene that Maureen may have brought in from your home,” Murphy said.

Colonel Clark stared at Murphy.

“Please, sir,” Murphy said.

Colonel Clark swallowed. “No.”

Not sure if he heard him right, Murphy said, “Pardon me, sir.”

“No, you can’t have it.” Colonel Clark hurried past Murphy toward the open doorway. Pausing, he turned around. “Maureen is gone. But our son is still here. I know how the military and Department of Defense works. Once his DNA gets into the system, then NSA and our government will be tracking him like a wild animal for the rest of his life. As long as we have some rights left, I’m going to protect our privacy with everything I’ve got.”

Colonel Lincoln Clark hurried out of the conference room, leaving Murphy, Boris Hamilton, Susan Archer, and Perry Latimore in stunned disbelief.

“That … was weird,” Susan said. “You would think—”

“How did you know he drank two vodka martinis while Maureen Clark put a leftover lasagna in the oven for him the night she died?” Perry asked Murphy. “We only just got the forensics report. You couldn’t have gotten all that. I mean, the martini—”

“I smelled the vodka on his breath,” Murphy said.

“From two days ago?” Perry asked.

“From lunch today,” Murphy said. “So I made a calculated guess that vodka martini was his drink. I did read about the cat hair on Baxter’s chair and Maureen’s clothes. That told me that the Clarks have a cat. Knowing the age of their son and seeing what type of man Lincoln Clark was, I speculated about what she would have done before leaving the house to go to Baxter’s place that evening.”

Boris chuckled. “Based on the look on Clark’s face, your surmising was right on target.”

Pleased with himself, Murphy shrugged his shoulders with a grin. “What can I say? I’ve learnt from the best.”