Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (10 page)

“So you’re no nearer finding out her identity?”

“It’s early days. The name on the tenancy agreement hasn’t popped up anywhere else yet either: you know local doctors’ surgery, dentist, that kind of thing. But it’s not as if we’ve completed a comprehensive trawl. I do know the registered council tax payer for the property is the same overseas company that owns the flat.”

“What about the neighbors? Do they know if there was a man living at the property? Do they know the victim’s name? What she did for a living?”

“No one’s mentioned a man as yet. And nobody seems to know very much about the victim. But again—we haven’t completed our house to house inquiries.” He folded his arms across his chest defensively. “You still haven’t told me why the FBI is so interested in this case.”

“I can’t go into the details with you.”

“I thought we were both foot soldiers. I’ve got to tell my DCI something.”

“Why don’t you leave that with me? The embassy will square everything with your boss. Or, most likely, your boss’s boss.”

Fraser raised his eyebrows.

“Standard procedure.”

“If you say so.”

Ingrid watched another CSI lingering just inside the front door of the building. This one was on his own. The man looked exhausted.

“Look—I’ve got to go,” Fraser said. “I need to report back to the DCI.”

“Any chance I could take a look inside?”

“I’ll ask him, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

She watched Fraser stride toward the front door. He reached it just as the CSI was coming out. The man in the Tyvek suit snapped off his gloves and shoved them into a large plastic trash can standing on the driveway. Ingrid wandered over to him. “Tough gig, huh?” she said.

“Bloody impossible.”

“Really?”

He stepped back and studied her face. “Shit. You’re not a reporter are you?”

She showed him her badge.

“You’re a long way from home.”

“I work out of the American embassy here in London.”

“Why are you here? There’s no US connection, as far as I know.”

“It’s a long story—I won’t bore you with it.” She flashed him a big smile and he seemed to relax a little. “Any signs of a man having lived there?”

“Not as far as I can see, but there’s very little of anything. Place is practically empty.”

“It is?”

He put his hands on his hips and leaned back, stretching his spine. “Looks like whoever was living there has moved out.”

“That must have happened pretty fast. I was here Monday night. I didn’t see any packing cases.”

The CSI shrugged at her.

“According to the pathologist, the woman died some time in the early hours of Tuesday morning. There’s no way she could have packed up all her stuff.”

“Maybe the dead woman they dragged out of the Thames didn’t live here. Maybe this is all a waste of bloody time.”

“No—it was definitely her. I’m certain.”

“Well then, I’ve got another puzzle for you.” He leaned his neck one way then the other before he spoke again. “We’re getting no samples at all. Not a single one.”

“What have you been looking for, specifically?”

“No—I mean no samples
at all
. Of anything. No hairs, no fingerprints, no clothing fibers, nothing.”

“How can that be?”

“Exactly what I’ve been thinking. If this place was where the victim was living, she not only found the time to pack up and remove all her stuff before she copped it, but also managed to arrange for the whole flat to be industrially deep-cleaned.”

15

After a rushed sandwich she’d picked up from a Brooklyn-style hipster deli in Dulwich, Ingrid returned to Grosvenor Square. It wasn’t until she’d reached her desk and smelled the delicious aroma emanating from Jennifer’s desk that she remembered the clerk had told her about the fabulous new menu in the embassy cafeteria.

“What is that?” Ingrid pointed to the steaming bowl.

“I’m sorry—I should have eaten downstairs, but I’ve got such a lot of stuff to do, I thought I’d work straight through.”

“I was admiring it, not criticizing your eating habits.”

“It’s a vegan pad thai. Organic tofu.”

Ingrid screwed up her nose.

“That’s not as bad as it sounds. And it tastes as good as it smells.” She lifted a spoon toward Ingrid’s face. “Wanna try?”

“I’m good—thanks. Is Isaac around? I asked him to do a little research for me.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Never mind, I’ll catch him later.” Her cell started to buzz. Out of area. She hurried out the office and answered the call. “Hey—what the hell happened to you?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

“I’ve been in the middle of a special operation,” Marshall said. “Complete communications blackout.”

“Did you even listen to the messages I left you?”

“Just about to. Is something wrong? Are you OK?” His concern sounded sincere. But she could hear the tapping of computer keys in the background. Was he attempting to multi-task?

“I want you to tell me about the guy whose bank account is on the watch list.”

“I can’t believe you’re still talking about that. I told you to drop it.” He said something away from the phone. It sounded like he was giving someone his breakfast order.

“Where are you?”

“At the office.”

Ingrid distinctly heard the rattle of cutlery and clatter of dishes. “Sounds like you’re in a diner.”

“Nope. At my desk, working hard.” Lying again, badly.

“What’s this guy suspected of doing? You still haven’t told me.”

“It’s not important—come on, you said some Latvian woman lived at the address.”

“I ID’d her at the morgue.”

“You did what? Why are you getting involved?”

“A watch list bank account was accessed from her address, is that reason enough? I don’t understand why you’re not interested.”

Marshall let out a long sigh. “This is strictly between you and me, honey, OK?”

That depended on what he was about to tell her. She made a non-committal ‘hmm mmm’ sound.

“Lately I’ve been monitoring a whole heap of watch lists, keeping my eyes and ears open. You never know when you might stumble over something—a quick win. Something to impress the bosses with the minimum amount of effort from yours truly. This was just another example where I got zero results. Happens practically every day. I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”

“I wouldn’t call a woman’s mutilated body a zero result. She went on to describe exactly what she’d seen in the morgue in graphic detail. She pictured Marshall sending his pancake stack and rashers of bacon back to the kitchen.

“But our guy didn’t kill her. That’s just not his style.” It sounded as if he were speaking with his mouth full. “He’s not a butcher. I told you—he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“Don’t you think that the whole thing is way too coincidental? The bank account is accessed by Jane Doe and just forty-eight hours later she’s found dead, all identifying marks removed?”

“She must have just been a scammer who stumbled on one of our monitored accounts. You know as well as I do those people keep pretty bad company. I hate to repeat myself, but whoever was responsible for her death, it wasn’t our guy.” He gulped down some liquid then tried to suppress a belch. “I appreciate your trying to help me, but really, all it’s doing is wasting my time.”

“Oh really?”

“I’m sorry, honey. That came out all wrong.”

“OK—I won’t waste another precious second—just tell me his name and I’ll do a little digging of my own.” Ingrid had marched all the way to the rear of the building and along the main corridor, her pace increasing the madder she got at Marshall. Now she was so pissed at him she wanted to punch something.

“Listen, honey, why don’t you just leave the investigation into the Jane Doe’s murder to the local cops? It’s not FBI business.”

“You can’t know that for sure. Where’s the harm in my pursuing it?” She reached the end of the corridor and started to head back toward the office.

“If you find anything pertinent, you will let me know?”

“Sure—I wouldn’t leave you out of the loop, Marsh. We’re a team, huh?”

He blew out a noisy breath and mumbled something inaudible. “OK—it’s Darryl Wyatt. But don’t complain to me when you find out how totally wrong you are.”

“What did he do?”

“He murdered a woman in a restaurant in Savannah, Georgia.”

“If he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, how did he kill her? What is his M.O.?”

“Our guy’s a poisoner.”

16

Ingrid pulled up sharply. “Poisoner?”

“Yes—that’s what I said—not some knife wielding maniac.”

“What kind of poison did he use?”

“I really don’t have time for this—check out the details for yourself.”

“Please, Marshall, just tell me—”

A fraction of a second later, the disconnected tone bleeped in her ear. He’d hung up on her.

Really
?

She was just about to call him back when she thought better of it. Damn Marshall and his ‘quick win’ watch lists. She’d just have to work this case without any help from him.

A poisoner. What if Darryl Wyatt
was
right here in London? What if the Latvian had gotten too close to discovering his true identity and he’d had to kill her to eradicate the threat. Was it possible he’d had something to do with Matthew Fuller’s death?

She started to run.

Ingrid quickly reached the office and hurried to her desk, aware her speed had aroused the interest of both Jennifer and Isaac.

“Is there something wrong?” Jennifer asked.

“Nope. Everything’s just fine,” Ingrid snapped back at her. She’d been more curt than she’d meant. “Sorry, Jennifer, just really busy right now.”

“Can I help at all?”

“I’ll be sure to holler when you can.”

The clerk shrugged her shoulders a little theatrically and went back to her computer. Ingrid fired up her own desktop PC and waited for long agonizing seconds while the machine went through the slow start-up routine. Then she logged into the main FBI database and tapped Darryl Wyatt’s name into the search box. Three records came up for that name, but only one was a murder suspect last seen in Savannah. Ingrid quickly scanned the information for the name and contact details of the investigating detective. She could read plenty of dry facts on the database, but they would constitute just a fraction of the intel gathered by the team on the ground. Only the barest details would have been keyed into the database—Ingrid hadn’t met a cop or a Fed yet who enjoyed typing.

A few moments later Ingrid was on hold at Savannah-Chatham Police Department, waiting to be put through to a Detective Trooe. When he finally took the call, Ingrid quickly introduced herself and told the detective what she was calling about.

“The peanut poisoner?” Trooe said as soon as she’d finished. His voice was rich and deep and strangely comforting.

“I’m sorry?”

“Darryl Wyatt, right?”

“I know practically nothing about the case. I was hoping you could enlighten me. Do you have the time right now?”

“Sure. Hang on a second.”

Ingrid heard the sound of the receiver clunking down onto a hard surface, then a door close, then the creak of a leather chair. While she was waiting, she scrolled through the records on the database until she found a photograph of Darryl Wyatt.

“That’s better,” Trooe said, “a little quieter.”

“We have a picture of him here,” Ingrid said. “It’s a little indistinct, but Wyatt is white, thirty-three years of age, dark hair, with a beard. Is that right?”

“I can send you through a better photograph than that. Sounds as though you’re looking at his drivers’ license picture.”

“Just now… you called Wyatt—”

“The peanut poisoner. That’s what he did—he killed that poor lady by feeding her peanuts. She had a real bad allergy.”

Ingrid felt a sudden sense of disappointment. It seemed Wyatt wasn’t quite the ‘poisoner’ Marshall had suggested. “He hasn’t poisoned anyone else?”

“Not as far as we know.” The leather chair creaked a little more. “So, you think Wyatt is in London?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How well do you remember the case?”

“Oh it’s crystal clear. It was only twelve months ago.”

With his slow southern drawl, Ingrid wasn’t sure whether Detective Trooe was being sarcastic. “I guess you’ve investigated plenty of other homicides since then?”

“A few, but nothing like this one. This one kinda sticks in the memory.”

“Can you go through the highlights for me?”

“I guess you like using the computer about as much as I do, huh?”

“You can give me the background I won’t find in the official records.”

“I sure can. Where do you want to start?”

“Tell me everything you can about Darryl Wyatt.”

She heard the detective sniff. “That particular request won’t take real long to answer. He was using a false identity. The ID of a dead man. I can’t tell you a whole lot about him. He did have a girlfriend while he was working at the restaurant, he was dating the restaurant manager. I can give you her contact details when we’re through, if you want.”

“That’d be really helpful.” Ingrid wriggled into her chair, it felt like she might be in for a long session. “He worked at the restaurant where the woman died?”

“He was the maitre d’, had the job there for a couple months before he made his move.” There was a clunk and a buzzing on the line for a few moments. “Tell me your email address, I’ll send you the photograph we have of Wyatt that his girlfriend gave us.”

Ingrid spelled out the address. “So Wyatt was early thirties, white… dark or fair skinned?”

“Depends how much time he spent in the sun I guess. See for yourself when the picture comes through. He was a little under six feet tall, medium build, maybe even a little athletic, if you’re talking tennis player rather than football.” He made a sound as if he were sucking his teeth.

“That’s it?”

“Real charming with the ladies, by all accounts. He had good dental work, they all seemed to remember.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“He did as a matter of fact. Something only the girlfriend reported—a tattoo on his left forearm.”