Stalked (16 page)

“Anything you need.”

“I talked to Agent Madeaux last night about Tony's work on the Weber case. I don't know that I'll be getting involved, but Tony left a message for me yesterday before he boarded the plane. I didn't get it until after he died.”

Hans continued, “Agent Madeaux said you were helping Tony. How so?”

“Before he went to New York, he gave me his file on the McMahon case because we'd been talking about it and Rosemary Weber and whether her death could have had something to do with the Cinderella Strangler investigation.”

“You lost me.”

“I'll backtrack.” Lucy relayed the information as if she were giving a report. She explained to Hans about Suzanne contacting her Wednesday morning, discussing Weber's murder with Tony, and the work she'd been doing reviewing the McMahon file and the analysis of Weber's books while Tony was in New York. “Tony thought it was suspicious that Weber's notes from her first book were missing from the library archives.”

“He suspected her murder had something to do with the McMahon case, and not the book she was currently researching?”

“Yes, I'm certain of it, though he didn't explicitly say that. He said something was bugging him and he wanted to look as his notes again. So I agreed to meet him in his office. When I got here, he was unconscious.”

“Where is his file? Did you bring it?”

“I had it with me last night.” She glanced around the office, but it was much messier than yesterday. She gestured to the table just inside the door. “When I saw him, I dropped the file on that table but it's not there now. It's a file folder about an inch thick.”

“I'll find it.”

Lucy frowned and looked around the office. “It should be here.”

“Lucy, it's okay.”

“I need to find it, sir.”

Hans smiled. “You can call me Hans when we're alone. No need to be formal.”

“It's important. I think someone was in my dorm room today.”

“Someone broke in?” Hans raised his eyebrows.

“I don't know. But I made some personal notes about the McMahon case, and I kept them in my desk. I'm almost certain that's where I put them, but maybe I grabbed them when I picked up Tony's file.”

He eyed her closely. “But you don't think so.”

She shook her head. “I remember everything clearly from the minute I found him, but I can't remember if I picked up my notes. He'd asked for something specific—he wanted a list of every person Weber wrote about, and what she said about them.”

“Because he thought someone might have a motive, even ten years later.”

“Yes. So I typed up my notes. I included those in his folder, not my handwritten notes.” The more Lucy thought about the series of events, the more certain she was that she'd left her written notes in her desk.

“Tony over-involved himself on too many of his cases, particularly cases involving young children, sometimes to the point of obsession. It's one reason he was here—he's brilliant, but…” His voice trailed off.

“I didn't think he acted obsessed, just contemplative. Curious.”

“You didn't know him like I did,” Hans said, his voice switching from friendly to authoritarian.

Lucy wondered if she should mention Tony's interest in Peter McMahon, decided yes. “Tony asked me to find Peter McMahon, Rachel's younger brother. I don't think he believed that Peter was responsible for Weber's murder, but…” She hesitated.

Hans wrote something down. “He thought it might have been a possibility?”

“I got the sense that he was simply concerned about Peter himself. With the media reports on Weber's death, it might drag up old feelings about his past.”

“That's stretching. More likely, Tony thought the boy may have grown up with deep resentment. He was a child when his sister was killed, a teenager when Weber's book came out. Now he's an adult. He could have been planning revenge for a long time.”

It was definitely possible. She said, “I asked Sean to look for him, find out where he lived and what he was doing. We knew he had been living in Florida with his grandmother, and may have taken her surname. Sean was able to trace him to Syracuse University, but lost him there. He seems to have disappeared.”

“No one disappears.”

“That's pretty much what Sean said.”

Hans leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Tony's instincts are sharp, but like a lot of psychologists, sometimes he knows or senses things that he can't quite articulate. Gut instinct. Do you think McMahon was involved in Weber's murder?”

Lucy hesitated, then said, “Sean brought it up as a possibility. But I couldn't possibly make that determination without knowing more about Peter McMahon.”

“Can you re-create your notes?”

“Yes.”

“E-mail me the file when you're done.” He smiled sadly. “Get some sleep, Lucy. It's been a long twenty-four hours.”

“How did Tony die? Heart attack?”

“That's the preliminary diagnosis. He'd had elevated blood pressure for years, but was controlling it primarily through diet and exercise and a very mild drug, according to his doctor.”

“Please let me know. If I did anything wrong when I found him—”

“You did everything you could. Go; have dinner; rest. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

*   *   *

After Lucy left, Hans considered what she'd said and, knowing Tony, what he might have been thinking or working on before he died. Hans had told her about Tony's instincts, but his own were humming right along. He immediately began looking around the office for the McMahon file Lucy had left here yesterday.

“Tony, what were you thinking?” Tony was brilliant, but he rarely brainstormed with his colleagues. He mulled thoughts and ideas in his head until they came together; then when he spoke he was almost always right. Knowing what he might be thinking was nearly impossible.

But Hans had known Tony for twenty-five years. Hans knew how he reasoned out a case. His notes would help, but Hans searched everywhere and didn't find the McMahon file.

Lucy thought someone had stolen her notes from her room. And it appeared someone had taken Tony's files from his office.

Hans stared at Tony's personal effects, which he'd already boxed up to bring to Tony's widow, Shannon. The box included a Glenlivit bottle that was only a quarter filled. Tony wasn't a heavy drinker, but he liked his shot of Scotch at night. When they worked together two decades ago, they'd often shared a Scotch after hours.

The bottle had been on his desk, an empty glass nearby.

Hans didn't think that there was any foul play in Tony's death.

But.

He opened the bottle, and all he could smell was Scotch. He closed it and called the FBI Laboratory. The head of toxicology, Dr. Trisha Morrison, was a longtime colleague and friend.

“Hans, it's been a while.”

“A lot of travel, but mostly just excuses on my part.”

“How can I help you?”

“I need you to come to Quantico tomorrow and gather evidence from Agent Presidio's office.”

“The instructor who had a heart attack?”

“Yes. I want to make sure that there's nothing in here that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.”

Trisha didn't say anything for a moment. Then, “Are you saying he could have been murdered?”

“No.” Then he stated carefully, “I'm saying I want to make sure there's nothing in his office that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.” If Tony was murdered, that put the murderer at Quantico. As soon as Hans put this in a report, it would be part of the system. Even if they classified it, if someone
had
killed Tony, they would wonder why his file was classified. “I need someone who can be discreet.”

Trisha said, “I'll be out tonight.”

“I appreciate it.”

Hans hung up and then dialed Sean Rogan.

“Hello, Dr. Vigo,” Sean said. “I suppose I don't need to guess why you're calling.”

“You're a smart boy,” Hans said. He liked Sean quite a bit but worried about some of his activities. It was no secret that Sean had had trouble in his youth, but Hans suspected it went a lot deeper than even he knew. Hans felt oddly protective of him, maybe because he'd captured Lucy's heart and Hans wanted to make sure Sean didn't make an illegal detour that would break it.

Still, Hans wanted answers and Sean could get them. “I know you're digging around in this and that.”

“You may have to define what you mean by
this
and
that.”

“Peter McMahon.”

“I'm trying to find him.”

“Call me if you do.”

“Why?”

Hans became irritated. He was an assistant director in the FBI and no one challenged his authority. He had to remind himself that not only was Sean not his employee, but also Sean challenged everyone.

“It's relevant to the Rosemary Weber murder. Lucy filled you in?”

“She did. Do you think he's guilty?”

“I think he needs to be found.”

“All right. I'll let you know. Now I have a question for you. Do you know a cop named Bob Stokes? He was a rookie during the McMahon case, became a detective pretty quick. Weber dedicated her first book to him.”

“I remember the name.”

“I thought he'd be a good place to start, but Patrick found out he died. Six weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“Heart attack.”

Hans frowned. “How old was he?”

“Forty-one.”

“Was there anything suspicious about his death?”

“No, but they might not have been looking for anything suspicious.”

“And you are.”

“I'm curious. Just want to answer these nagging questions.”

Hans didn't believe in coincidences, yet causing someone to go into cardiac arrest wasn't easy. The killer would need both knowledge of poisons and access to the victim. And there was no guarantee that the victim would die. Such a premeditated murder would need planning and foresight. And there wasn't any connection between Detective Stokes and Tony except a fifteen-year-old case.

“Doc, you there?”

“Let me know what you learn as soon as you learn it, especially if you locate McMahon.”

He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Tony, you knew something. What was it? Did it get you killed? Did it have anything to do with Rosemary Weber?

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nine Years Ago

I kept to myself my freshman year of high school.

I was smart, but that didn't make me popular. I wasn't an athlete because I was too short and, when I was younger, Grams didn't have the energy to take me to practices or games. I had told her I didn't care about playing soccer or football or lacrosse, even though I kind of did. But she needed me and I wasn't going to let Grams down. And then she died and I was back where it all began, and hiding behind Grams's last name no longer helped.

Being smart has its advantages, and I kept telling myself if I could just get through four years of high school I could go to any college I wanted, far away. I didn't make many friends. Maybe because I didn't try and use Rachel as an excuse. I was, after all, the kid whose sister had been murdered by a pervert who went to his parents' sex parties. It didn't matter that my parents divorced, my father moved across the country, or I hated my mother. I was the freak. People either felt sorry for me or thought my misfortunes would rub off on them. I don't know. Maybe it was just because of me.

It didn't help that everyone knew about the book. The book that reminded me that I was nobody except Rachel McMahon's little brother.

Most of the kids left me alone. They probably thought I was going to blow up the school. I guess I looked like the type of kid who would do that—short; shaggy hair; dressed in black; friendless; and a geek. Sometimes, I thought about doing something big. Not blowing up the school, I didn't want to hurt anyone, except one person. My mom. Or maybe something bigger, like blowing up the prison where Rachel's killer sat filing appeal after appeal in his attempt at gaming the system.

Someone, though, had it out for me. All that year, watching me.

It started with the note in my locker, but it got worse. I never knew when—sometimes weeks would pass, sometimes only a day or two. A picture of my sister. Copies of the articles from the murder investigation. And on the anniversary of Rachel's death, the creep filled my locker with worms.

But on the last day of school, I think my latent instincts kicked into high gear, and I believed for the first time that someone wanted to kill me.

I hadn't planned on going to school. It was a half day, everyone was signing yearbooks, and there wasn't anyone I cared to sign mine. But Mr. Doherty had graded our English essays, and he said he wanted to talk to me about mine. So I rode my bike to school, kept my head down so no one would feel like they had to ask me to sign their yearbook, and went upstairs to Mr. Doherty's class. I waited until he was done talking to some students; then when they left I stepped inside and cleared my throat.

“Hey.” Mr. Doherty was my favorite teacher. His was the only class I really liked. He loved to read and loaned me books. I never talked to anyone about what happened to Rachel, but I told him about Grams. Having him listen helped, and every time I thought about running away I remembered I had a book I needed to return or an essay I wanted to finish. He always wore a blazer with leather patches on the elbows, either a tweed coat or a dark blue coat, and the familiarity was comforting, like the smell of my grams's soap.

He smiled. “Peter, come in, please.”

I stood in front of his desk, still and silent, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I slid back my hoodie as a sign of respect, the most I'd do for a teacher I liked.