Kill and Run (A Thorny Rose Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

“But she’s—”

“Caucasian,” Murphy finished. “And she loves men of every different color—except white.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she brags about it,” he said. “Her sex life is common knowledge. In the four months that I’ve been here, she’s slept with six men. She said at the last breakfast meeting that she’s been averaging one and a half men a month.”

“And none of them are Caucasian?” Jessica asked with a tilt of her head and an arched eyebrow.

“Three African-Americans, two Mexicans, and one Native American. I’ve noticed a definite pattern in her behavior.”

“Any of them in the military?”

“No,” Murphy said with mock disgust. “She hates the military and she despises every suspect and victim her staff investigates.”

“That sounds like a conflict of interest to me,” she said. “Why—”

“I have no idea,” he said. “It makes me wonder if that’s why the Joint Chiefs assigned me here—to investigate her.” He muttered under his breath, “They put me here for some reason. Wish they’d give me more direction.”

“Didn’t you tell me that she was former navy?” she asked. “Did she retire?”

“Left,” Murphy said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I know there’s a story there, but no one I’ve spoken to knows it. She’s clearly bitter toward the military, the government—”

“And white men,” Jessica said. “Murphy, no wonder Koch hates you. You’re the personification of everything that she blames for ruining her life.”

“You’re making quite a leap there, aren’t you, Dr. Faraday?” Murphy asked.

Jessica grinned. She was still in the process of applying to Georgetown University Medical School for her doctorate in psychiatry. She ticked off on her fingers. “You’re a successful, handsome, white, male, military officer serving your country.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a white male she blamed for drumming her out of the military.”

“We don’t know if she was drummed out.”

“I saw her when the admiral pinned that Bronze Star on your chest,” Jessica said. “She about dislocated her jaw gnashing her teeth with fury and envy. She was drummed out.”

“Well,” Murphy told her in a low voice, “whatever Crotch’s story is, I need to get along with her.”

“She’s not your commanding officer,” she replied.

“She’s my supervisor,” Murphy said. “Since CO is not on site and doesn’t see me on a daily basis, Crotch sends a regular evaluation report on my performance to her and makes a recommendation about promotion or reassignment. She could very well keep me from getting promoted or get me reassigned to a hell hole someplace.”

“CO loves you,” Jessica whispered to him. “She recommended you for this Bronze Star. I’m sure that if Koch bad-mouthed you, your CO wouldn’t believe a word of it.” She grinned. “I’m predicting that in twenty years, you’ll be the youngest admiral to make the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Everyone will forget all about General Sebastian Graham.”

Impressed, Murphy smiled. “So the lady does keep up on the news.”

For the past week, the news media had been covering the announcement that the army’s chief of staff, General Steve Johnston, was retiring. The president had nominated General Sebastian Graham. A four-star general, the commander of United States Central Command Center was a hero from the Gulf War, who had risen quickly through the ranks. A graduate of West Point, the media had been painting General Graham as a charismatic man who had a talent for making all the right friends in the right places, which explained how he had gotten on the fast track to be in the running for Joint Chiefs of Staff before the age of fifty.

“Admiral Patterson told me that General Graham is basically a shoe-in for the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” With a naughty grin, she revealed, “I heard a rumor this past weekend at the naval officer’s wives tea that he was supposed to be quite a ladies’ man. His wife is on the board of practically every major charity in the country—”

Murphy was skeptical. “That’s what they always say when an attractive man gets on the fast track anywhere.”

“I don’t think General Graham is all that attractive, do you?”

“Buttercup, I don’t think any man is attractive.”

Pressing her long, elegant index finger against his chest, she narrowed her eyes until they were violet slits framed in lush long eyelashes. “You were the one who called him attractive, Honey Buns.”

“Because that’s what the news is saying,” Murphy said while moving in closer. He could feel her long fingernail pressing through his uniform to his breast. “According to the news, all the ladies on Capitol Hill have been panting about this young general who practically won the Gulf War single-handed.”

“Forget it.” Grabbing him around the neck, Jessica pulled him in to kiss his lips. After releasing him, she held him close to admire his blue eyes. She could feel his breath on her face as she told him mouth to mouth. “Don’t let the hell bitch rain on your big day. I’ll change the reservations to dinner.” A devilish grin came to her lips. “We both have something else to celebrate.”

Murphy searched his mind for what she meant. Unable to comprehend what she was talking about, he asked, “What?”

Cocking an eyebrow, she lowered her eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

“Tell me.”

“No.” She giggled.

Grabbing her around the waist and lifting her up off the desk, he held her tight. “I have ways of making you talk,” he whispered into her ear.

“Is it true that the Pentagon has security cameras
everywhere?”

Reminded of where they were, Murphy released her. Playfully, she kissed him on the neck before saying in a low voice. “You’re going to love it, darling.”

Chapter Four

Rock Springs Boulevard, Chester, West Virginia

Joshua Thornton wasn’t surprised when he stepped out of his study to hear Cameron running down the stairs. She wore her holstered service weapon on her belt. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think I’m going?” she replied. “To follow up the only lead I have. Someone hired a hitman to take Nick out. There had to be a reason. I know it wasn’t personal. So it had to be professional. If it had to do with his job as a patrolman, then his supervising officer must have some idea who would want Nick dead.” She kissed Joshua quickly on the lips. “I’m going to see Reese Phillips. He’s retired and living up in Ashtabula.”

Joshua grasped her arm when she tried to hurry out the door. “I’m coming with you.”

“You’ve got to be in court this afternoon,” she objected.

“I’ll get a continuance for a couple of days,” he said. “I’ll tell the judge that we have a family emergency. This is more important.”

“Josh …”

“Cameron,” Joshua gripped her by the shoulders, “don’t forget, I lost my first wife suddenly. One minute, she was there and the next she was dead—gone. Now, Valerie died of natural causes. If now, after all of these years, I found out that someone had engineered ripping her out of my family’s life …” He swallowed. “I’m trying to tell you that I completely understand what you’re going through and I fully intend to be by your side every step of the way.”

Cameron brushed her hand across his cheek. “I love you, Joshua Thornton.” She reached up to kiss him tenderly on the lips. “You just better not slow me down.”

“Have I failed to keep up with you yet?”

“There’s always a first time.”

Reese Phillips had retired to a lake-side cabin in Ashtabula, Ohio. He had a fishing boat and two hound dogs to keep him company. Upon their arrival, and after introductions had been made, Cameron allowed a minimal amount of time for pleasantries before recounting the FBI visit.

“Why would someone want to kill a nice guy like Nick?” the retired state trooper asked when Cameron gave him the news about Nick’s death not being an accident. Reese stared out over the still water of the lake with his beer bottle stopped half-way to his mouth to ponder the revelation.

“I’m asking the same question,” Cameron said.

“Did Nick have issues with anyone in the department?” Joshua asked.

“No,” Reese said with certainty. “Besides, you said this was a hitman who worked for the Russian mob?”

“He also did work for a major drug cartel,” Cameron said.

“Highly trained professional from what the agents told us,” Joshua said.

“No one in our department was connected to anyone like that,” Reese said.

“What about drugs?” Joshua asked.

“We’ve had our drug problems in these parts, but Nick had no part of any of that,” Reese said. “Nick wasn’t with us long enough to make enemies.”

Agreeing, Cameron sat back in the comfortable, old deck chair.

After a long moment, Joshua broke the silence. “So the motive was not personal, and it wasn’t a coworker who ordered the hit. Could Nick have given someone a ticket who took it too personally—maybe a DUI or an accident—”

“Jane Doe,” Reese said with a snap of his fingers. “That was the case that really got under his skin.”

“Jane Doe?” Cameron replied.

“Don’t you remember her, Cam?” Reese asked. “It was only—had to be less than two weeks before Nick got killed. One night, Nick was patrolling the turnpike out by Somerset and he finds this woman on the side of the road. She had been thrown from a speeding vehicle or jumped out. The medical examiner said her injuries weren’t consistent with the impact of being hit by a car. Nick said she was alive when he found her, but she never gave him her name. He said she kept saying ‘She’s safe’ over and over. She died in his arms before the EMTs got there. It really got to him.”

“Was she ever identified?” Joshua asked.

“No,” Cameron answered. “She had no purse or ID, nothing to identify her. I had forgotten all about that. That did hit Nick really hard. He believed that someone had abducted her, and that she jumped out of a moving car to save her life. She had a family. He knew it and wanted to let them know what happened to her.”

Reese told them, “We checked the missing persons reports in the tri-state area and Ohio Valley, but she didn’t match any of those reports. He even went on television.”

“I remember now.” Cameron turned to Joshua.
“America’s Most Wanted
. He went on national TV and showed her picture asking for someone to identify her.”

Reese nodded his head in agreement. “The last thing Nick mentioned to me that night was to ask about a contact I have in the FBI. I have no doubt but that he was going to ask him to check the national database.”

Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Cameron was shaking her head. “It’s all coming back to me now. How could I have forgotten that case? Nick wanted to know who the ‘she’ was that Jane Doe kept talking about. I remember him saying how awful it was that this poor woman—who had to have someone, someone she obviously cared about—died alone on the cold, dark freeway.”

Joshua asked Reese, “Was Nick working on anything else?”

The retired patrolman shook his head. “Only regular traffic stops, a few DUIs and some accident reports.”

“Maybe someone did know who Jane Doe was,” Joshua said, “and Nick was killed because he got too close to finding out.”

It wasn’t until after Murphy had walked Jessica to her purple Ferrari in the visitor’s parking lot and she dropped him off at his SUV in general parking, that he became seriously curious about what Jessica’s surprise was—one that would make both of them happy.

After merging his SUV into traffic on George Washington Parkway, Murphy was able to relax and examine the clues.

He had noticed that she had been a bit secretive in the last month. Before moving into the brownstone, she would close the lid to her laptop when he entered the room where they were living in his small apartment. Murphy had dismissed it as her needing her space. If he was insecure, he’d think she had gone back to one of her former boyfriends.

Jessica was through with the debutante lifestyle she had adopted after her massive inheritance from her grandmother—world-famous mystery author Robin Spencer. Jessica was returning to school, but that was no surprise. She was applying to the medical school at Georgetown University. Granted, it would be fifteen months before she could start, if she was accepted, but Jessica swore that she intended to keep busy before going back to college.

So what’s her surprise? Something for both of us to celebrate?

Seeing an SUV passing him with a baby car seat in the back, Murphy felt his jaw drop.

No! Could she—

A horn jerked him out of his thoughts when Murphy’s SUV eased over into the next lane. Easing the steering wheel to return to his own lane, Murphy swallowed.
Am I ready for that?
He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow.

Newman is still adjusting to Candi and her puppy antics. How’s he going to adjust to a baby crying over his television programs, touching his remote with slimy fingers, or worse, sitting in his chair? He’ll never forgive me. I wonder if dogs can file lawsuits.

Forcing the thought from his mind, Murphy gunned the engine to hurry to Reston. He needed something challenging to take his mind off the feeling that a major change was coming to his and Jessica’s newlywed lifestyle
.

Chapter Five

The townhouse was in an older, middle class neighborhood in Reston, a half hour outside of Washington. Practically the whole street was blocked off by local and state police. As Murphy approached the barricade in his SUV, he held up his navy identification and agent’s badge for the officer to see through the driver’s side window. The Fairfax County sheriff’s deputy stopped the vehicle to examine Murphy’s credentials.

After explaining that he had been sent by the Naval Criminal Investigation Staff, Murphy took back his badge and identification. “We were told one of the victims is a navy petty officer. I’ve been sent to survey the situation.”

Telling Murphy that he would radio the detective in charge, the sheriff deputy waved for him to pull over next to a state police cruiser. By the time Murphy placed his hat on his head and climbed out of the SUV, the deputy called over for him to go into the townhouse, where the lead detective would be waiting. Tucking a computer tablet for crime-scene notes under his arm, Murphy strode down the narrow sidewalk. The small townhouse was nestled in the middle of a collection of four townhouses that were easily half the size of his and Jessica’s brownstone. Some had small gardens with spring flowers in the postage stamp sized front yards. Most were bare. The townhouse in the middle with the police officer guarding the front door had a neat, splendidly tended garden made up of peonies that lined the front stoop. Murphy climbed the steep steps up to the door.

With a curt nod, the police officer acknowledged the naval officer while opening the door for him. “You will find the lieutenant inside, sir.”

“Thank you, officer.” Removing his hat from his head and tucking it under his arm, Murphy stepped inside to a cozy split foyer. To his left, the steps descended to the lower level where the garage was located. To the right, they went up to a small hallway. At the top of the stairs, he could see an open doorway to the kitchen.

A detective of Asian descent, in a suit that appeared a full size too big for his slightly built frame, was waiting for the navy officer at the top of the steps. “Since when does NCIS send uniformed military officers?”

“They felt this case deserved the best,” Murphy replied with a crooked grin.

His response got a chuckle from the detective, who offered Murphy his hand to shake. “I thought they deleted a sense of humor out of you guys. Maybe that’s just the civilians.” While shaking hands, he introduced himself as Lieutenant Bernard Wu.

Making a mental note of Wu’s comment, Murphy asked in a casual tone, “They must be a lot of fun at parties.”

“Hamilton isn’t so bad once you get him out of earshot of Koch,” Wu said in a low voice while glancing to see if anyone was listening. “She scares the hell out of everyone—not just in NCIS.”

Returning to the reason for Murphy’s visit, Wu jerked his head in the direction of the dining room located next to the kitchen. On the other side was a sunken living room. “Five victims. It’s pretty bad.” He handed Murphy a pair of evidence gloves to slip on.

“Sounds like it.” Murphy followed the detective into the dining room where a woman was sprawled out on the floor in a giant pool of blood. A woman’s purse rested on the floor with its contents scattered all around the room as if spilled during the struggle for her life.

This victim did not go down easy.

The shelves in a cheap curio cabinet against the wall were shattered where the victim … or maybe the killer … had crashed into the unit during the battle to the death. Two dining room chairs were overturned. An empty punch bowl rested in the middle of the table, which was covered in spilt punch and shattered punch glasses.

The wall was covered with blood spray.

“They were found this morning when two of the women’s husbands reported their wives missing,” the police lieutenant said. “Both victims had told their husbands that they were going to a Cozy Chef party and didn’t come home. We pinged their cell phones which showed us that they were here. The police arrived to investigate about the same time that the homeowner’s assistant arrived to check on her because she didn’t show up at work. She’s a professor at George Mason University and missed her classes this morning.” He pointed down at the woman in the pool of blood. “This one is yours.”

Murphy squatted down next to the body. On the floor under the table, he saw a forty-five caliber semi-automatic with an evidence catalog number next to it. “Have your people processed this gun yet?”

“Yes,” Wu said. “We haven’t run the registration number yet, though. It’s been photographed.”

“Then can I examine it?”

“You’re asking?”

“Yes,” Murphy said. “Until I say otherwise, this is your scene. You’re in charge.”

He heard a “humph” before Lieutenant Wu replied, “An officer
and
a gentleman. Go ahead.”

Murphy crawled under the table to retrieve the gun and check the magazine.

“The victim’s name is Donna Crenshaw,” the detective reported while Murphy examined the weapon under the table. “Petty officer at the Navy Yard. She has a concealed carry permit and a forty-five caliber semi-automatic Smith and Wesson registered in her name.”

“It’s a Smith and Wesson. Could be hers. Three rounds missing from the mag.” He sniffed the gun. “Recently fired.” Crawling back out from under the table, Murphy noticed three bullet holes in the wall under the staircase leading up to the next level. “Assuming those bullet holes were made by this gun, she got off three shots before the killer took her out.” He carefully placed the gun back where he had found it.

Next to one of the overturned chairs, Murphy saw a smart phone. It also had a catalogue number next to it. “I assume your people processed this cell phone, too?”

“It belongs to your victim.”

Murphy turned on the phone to see a series of texts and missed calls listed. A number of the missed calls came from someone named “Izzy.” The picture showed a young girl with curly ash blonde hair and big light brown eyes. One of the texts read, “Mom, where R U? I’m worried.”

Murphy cursed under his breath before continuing to the next text conversation listed.
She’s someone’s mother.

Someone from an unidentified cell phone number had texted:

Mtg set 4 7pm tomorrow. Pls come. Important. We need U if we R 2 stop him.

Donna’s response, sent at 7:12 the night before:

Running late. Accident has Route 7 @ standstill. B there ASAP. Count me in.

The reply back, sent at 7:27 pm:

No problem. We’re waiting for you. Front door is open. Just let yourself in.

Murphy made a note of the responding text’s phone number on his tablet. “Do you have all of the victim’s cell phones and numbers?”

“Still cataloging them,” Wu asked. “Why?”

“Our petty officer was running late last night,” Murphy said. “Accident on the beltway held her up.”

“Who wasn’t held up last night?” Wu replied.

A fuel truck had overturned on the Capital Beltway in Northern Virginia in the midst of rush hour, closing the freeway down in both directions. With commuters taking alternate routes, traffic in and around Washington had screeched to a crawl.

Murphy told the detective, “Someone had texted Crenshaw at 7:27 that they were waiting for her.”

Lieutenant Wu took the phone and checked the numbers in his notes.

Murphy glanced at the background report that the human services department of the navy had forwarded to his tablet. Donna Crenshaw was in the navy for thirteen years, after transferring from the United States Army where she had been a corporal.

She was lying face up on the blood soaked carpet. Murphy counted two gunshot wounds in her face, one in her shoulder, another in her stomach, and one in the chest.

“Someone really wanted her dead.” Cocking his head, Murphy studied her face through the blood. She did not appear to wear much makeup, if any. Her cinnamon colored hair was streaked with gray and trimmed short. Checking her background on his tablet, Murphy read that she was thirty-four years old. While her small build would make her appear younger, he could see by the picture in her personnel file that her face looked worn. “Only thirty-four.” He scrolled through the record on his tablet for the listing of her family members. “Why would someone want you dead, Donna? Who were you trying to stop and why?” He saw that she had never been married, but had a daughter.

Where RU? I’m worried.

Reading the age of the daughter, Murphy cringed. Thirteen years old. “Oh, God,” he breathed before swallowing hard. “Poor girl.” Glancing again at her face on the cell phone, he swallowed again. He remembered all too well his own mother’s sudden death when he was only sixteen years old. He knew intimately the pain this young girl was going to experience.

“Has anyone contacted Crenshaw’s daughter?” Murphy stood up to ask the police lieutenant.

“We sent a patrol unit to the school to pick her up and take her to the police department,” Wu replied from the living room.

“Has she been told about her mother yet?”

“Our counselor will tell her once I get back to the station,” Wu said.

Shaking his head, Murphy stared down at the bullet-riddled body of the woman at his feet.

“Preliminary from the ME says she died between eight and nine last night,” Lieutenant WU said, “after the other party guests. They died between seven and eight last night.”

Murphy turned to look over the railing that ran the width of the room to mark off the dining room from the drop down living room. Three women were sprawled in different positions around the small living room. One, who appeared to be in her late thirties to early forties, was in front of the sofa. Another woman, who could have been in her early to mid-thirties, was next to the chair. A petite-built young woman, who could not have been thirty, looked like she was crawling to the door leading out to the deck when she breathed her last breath. A cloth bag rested next to the sofa, the image of a big, white chef’s hat emblazoned on the side, with the name “Cozy Cook” written in red letters across the hat.

Unlike Donna, none of them had been shot.

“Were they poisoned?” Murphy asked.

“Looks like it,” Wu said. “We won’t know for certain until after the tox screens.”

“Whoever it was waited for my petty officer after they were dead,” Murphy said.

“
Your
petty officer?” Wu arched one of his eyebrows. One side of his thin lips curled upwards.

“
My
petty officer,” Murphy replied. “Tell me about the homeowner.”

“According to the phone number listed for that last text, it was sent from her phone. Francine Baxter.” Lieutenant Wu pointed to the floor above them. “She’s up in the master bedroom with two GSWs. One in the chest, the other to the head. She died between five-thirty and six-thirty.”

“She died about an hour before these three women,” Murphy gestured at the women in the living room, “and two hours before Crenshaw?”

Wu nodded. “There’s no way she sent that text to Crenshaw.”

“That means the killer spent at least two hours in this house,” Murphy said, “waiting for Donna Crenshaw. When she texted that she was running late, the killer replied, telling her to let herself in so that he or she could kill her.”

Wu shrugged his shoulders. “If you do the math.”

Murphy referred to Donna’s Crenshaw’s cell phone that he found he still held in his hand. “The meeting was at seven.”

“Party,” Lieutenant Wu corrected him. “Two of our victims told their husbands that they were going to a Cozy Cook party.” He pointed at the bag with the chef’s hat displayed on the front.

“Do you see any food put out?” Murphy asked.

Lieutenant Wu’s narrow eyes grew wide.

“Have you ever been to a Cozy Cook party?” Murphy asked with a smile.

“Have you?”

“No, but my mother used to host them,” Murphy said. “The sales lady comes to the house and cooks up all this food and lays out a whole bunch of stuff to sell to the guests.” With a sweep of his arm, he pointed out, “There’s no food or cooking stuff laid out. Your victims lied to their husbands. These women came here for a meeting.”

He held up Donna Crenshaw’s cell phone. “The day before the meeting, someone texted Donna saying that they needed her to put a stop to someone. She was important to the purpose of the meeting and that’s why the killer hung out here for two hours and killed all of these woman—in order to kill
my
petty officer.”

“Are you telling me that the navy is taking the lead in this case?” Lieutenant Wu asked with a sigh heavy with resignation.

“All evidence indicates my navy petty officer was not collateral damage,” Murphy said. “She was targeted. Since the motive may have to do with national security or be classified, I have no—”

With an impatient shake of his head, Wu raised his hand and interrupted, “I don’t have all day. Do you really want this case?”

“Yes, I really want this case.” Murphy opened the camera application on his tablet and snapped a picture of Donna Crenshaw’s body. “You need to show me everything you’ve got.”

Lieutenant Wu chuckled. “I like you, Lieutenant Thornton. You’ve got guts. That’s why I’m going to give you some advice.”

“What type of advice?”

“They give you a ballistics vest with that bright, white uniform of yours?”

“Not with the uniform,” Murphy said, “but I have one.”

“Wear it when you tell Koch.”