Hot Pursuit (39 page)

“But he was bound to be there at some point,” Alyssa argued. “He lived in the neighborhood. Did he go inside?”

“No, he did not,” Jules answered, “and most of the footage of the people who
did
go in is too blurry to ID. Winston was unique in his appearance, but most people who went through the restaurant door… ? The analysts can’t even tell if they’re men or women.” He sighed. “And the bad news just keeps coming. Re: the letter. The team searching Frank’s bedroom found both it and his stash, exactly where he said they were. That’s good, right? He’s being honest with us, at least to a degree. His parents are pissed, though. They don’t know how he got the drugs. According to them—and to Frank, too—he never leaves his room, let alone the house. But the parents aren’t there all the time, so …”

“What does the letter say?” Alyssa asked, smiling down into her sleeping baby’s face. “Did he keep the envelope? Was there a postmark?”

“No envelope,” Jules said. “Carol’s sending a scanned copy. She told me that what they found was handwritten, on a single sheet of notebook paper. It accused Frank of killing both Maggie—and Maria. In fact, it said,
I saw you kill Maria
. But the kicker? The handwriting, again, appears to be Frank’s.”

“Appears to be.” Robin pounced on Jules’s words. “You think it’s possible that Frank didn’t write it.”

Jules glanced at Sam. “Occam’s razor says he did, but… I don’t know. I just don’t see Frank killing anyone.”

“But if it’s not Frank, then who?” Robin asked.

“Mick Callahan,” Sam said with an extra dash of grim, and all but a growl in his Texas twang. “He saw the case file. He knew we were looking for Winston. He knows the neighborhood. He has the motive—Maria rejected him. His life’s in the shitter. His wife left
him for his cousin, he lost his job in New Jersey … Best he could do was return to his old precinct, which is, as he admits, a giant step backward in his career. He still hasn’t found an apartment that he can afford, so he’s been living with his parents. He drinks too much and he’s got a hair-trigger temper that we’ve seen up close and personal.” He laughed. “He apologized to me—sort of.
I didn’t know she was your wife
. Like it would’ve been okay for him to say those things about Alyssa if I wasn’t married to her.”

“He’s definitely a misogynist,” Jules chimed in, “and probably homophobic. He’s one of those guys who didn’t want to shake my hand, for fear that some of my gay might rub off.”

“I hate that,” Robin said, laughing.

“But that doesn’t make Callahan a killer. I got the same vibe from both Doug and Gene
—and
one of the New York FBI agents,” Jules said. “John what’s his name. It can be a generational thing.”

“Douglas,” Alyssa chimed in, and when Jules looked at her blankly, she added, “Forsythe. He doesn’t like to be called Doug. It’s Douglas. He knew Maggie better than anyone, including Maria and Jenn. They ran with the same crowd when they were growing up.”

Jules nodded. “For that alone,
he
should stay on our suspect list, too.”

“Although he did volunteer that information,” Alyssa pointed out. “He seems forthright.”

“He’s also guilty of wearing a bow tie and meaning it,” Sam said.

“And loving the sound of his own voice,” Jules added. “But that’s not a crime, either.”

“He’s a personal-space invader,” Sam said. “I kept wanting to tell him to move away from my wife.”

“Yeah, and maybe if you did it with the right
je ne sais quoi
, he would have broken your other rib,” Jules quipped.

“Forsythe?” Sam scoffed. “I doubt it.”

“Don’t be fooled by the bow tie,” Jules said. “There was a solidly put together man under that tweed jacket.”

“Excuse me. Should I be jealous?” Robin asked.

“No,” both Jules and Sam said in unison, then laughed, Sam adding an “Ow.”

“He just creeped me out,” Jules said. “Although, I gotta confess, I’ve reached that place where everyone I talk to creeps me out. Any one of them could be the killer—including Ron Reed with his perfectly prepared alibi report. I mean, I just start thinking why else would he have gone to all that trouble to document his every move. So he’s still on my suspect list.”

“Gene the intern’s at the top of mine,” Alyssa said. She told Robin, “Not only did I see him lurking in the crowd outside the basement, but Jules sent some agents out to talk to his parents. No one was home, but they spoke to some neighbors who saw a car idling in the driveway around midnight on the night Maggie was murdered. They said they saw Gene get in and the car drove away. But Gene told us he was there all night.”

“So you know that he lied to you,” Robin concluded. “At least about that.”

“Don’t forget Hank Englewood, the UPS man,” Jules said. “He was supposed to come in for an interview today, but he was a no-show. Carol called the branch office where he works, and they told her he quit. Just like that. No notice, just good-bye. She got his home address and went out there, got the landlord to open up the place, and he was gone. We’ve got an APB out on him. He could be our man.”

“But what does he want?” Alyssa asked. “Why put Maggie’s heart into Maria’s office? And why kill Winston at all—unless it’s to try to make us think that Winston killed Maggie? But whoever set that up didn’t try very hard. It’s almost as if they were just playing with us. I mean, yes, let’s find and bring in Hank Englewood, but I can’t shake the idea that the killer is someone we’ve already spoken to. And I keep coming back to Gene. Tomorrow, I want to go out to his house. Talk to his parents, see if there’s anything else he’s lied about.”

“We’ll check out everyone’s alibis,” Jules said. He glanced at Sam. “Even Mick Callahan’s.”

“I still think,” Sam said, looking over at his wife, “that until we figure out what Winston was doing with your photo, you need to make damn sure that you’re with me or Jules at all times. No more exceptions, no more back-alley excursions with anyone, suspect or not.”

“Carol’s good, too,” Alyssa pointed out.

“Me,” Sam repeated, holding her gaze, “or Jules.” He paused, then added, “Please.”

They sat there, just looking at each other, having some kind of silent communion. God only knew what all they were saying to each other, but it was clearly heartfelt.

Robin glanced at Jules, who was watching him and smiling. And he knew what Jules was thinking. Out of all of their many friends who were committed couples, Sam and Alyssa’s relationship was the most solid. In fact, Jules often said that being with them was like taking a master class in communication. They were both leaders, both alpha personalities, and they worked it—hard—to maintain a perfect balance, to make their relationship a true partnership.

“Fair enough,” Alyssa said.

“Thank you,” Sam told her quietly.

She smiled at him and stood up. “Let’s put this baby to bed.” She glanced at Jules and Robin. “Good night, guys.”

“I’ll print out that copy of Frank’s letter and leave it on the table out here,” Jules told her, “so you can see it first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks,” she said with another smile, as she closed their bedroom door behind them.

“Is the laptop set up?” Jules asked.

“In our room,” Robin said. “It’s attached to the printer.”

“Bless you,” Jules said. He pushed himself up to his feet. “This is turning out to be some vacation for you, huh?”

“Ash is amazing,” Robin told him. “He’s killing me, but he’s … really amazing. He’s making up his own language and … I gotta figure out how to get him crawling. I read that there’s a correlation between crawling and developing fine motor skills and reading. It sounds crazy, but when people have strokes, part of their recovery therapy is to learn to crawl again.” He laughed. “That’s on my to-do list for tomorrow—teach Ash to crawl. As opposed to yours—catch a killer.”

“Please baby Jesus, let us catch him tomorrow,” Jules said, as he held out his hands to help Robin off the floor. “Is it okay with you if we bring Maria back here in the morning? That letter with its
I saw you kill Maria
thing has me on edge.”

“Of course,” Robin said. “She … gets a little uptight when Ash cries. I haven’t figured out if it’s a biological clock thing, or if she’s annoyed with herself because she just doesn’t like babies—like she thinks there’s something wrong with her because of that. Which there’s not. Not everyone’s meant to have children. I don’t know—I like her, though, don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I like Izzy, too. He’s … funny and … Thank you, by the way, for not sending me home.”

“Come here,” Jules said, pulling him in for an embrace.

Robin closed his eyes and held on tight, his cheek against Jules’s—who always seemed to know exactly what he needed.

Robin was about to tell him that, when Jules spoke first. “I’m so lucky that you’re in my life,” he murmured, pulling back to look into Robin’s eyes. “On days like today, when I see things that…” He looked away, shook his head.

“You can tell me about it, babe,” Robin said.

Jules smiled. “I know. I’d just rather…” He kissed Robin.

And yeah. Talking was nice, but there were definitely other ways to communicate.

And right now, Robin would
just rather
, too.

•   •   •

He used nearly a full bottle of Purell Instant Hand Sanitizer after shaking the homosexual FBI agent’s hand.

It was a shame, because he wanted to keep his hand unwashed for at least a little while, after touching her.

After waiting so long, he’d finally touched Alyssa.

He’d practiced breathing, slowly, regularly, in the hours leading up to their meeting.

He knew he was a suspect—that was all right. He was prepared. Even if they came out to his house, looking to ask him further questions, looking to talk to his parents, to verify that he’d been where he’d claimed he was on the night of Maggie’s murder… He was ready for them. He was ready for anything.

He was euphoric, despite the mishap with the unwanted handshake.

It had been more thrilling than he’d imagined to talk to her, to answer her questions, to have her talk to him, look at him.

To have her
see
him.

He’d spoken to her without his voice cracking or wavering—at least not too badly.

And he’d managed, too, not to snarl and tear out the husband’s eyes—although he’d desperately wanted to.

And he was glad that he’d looked out of the window in the men’s room that cold December day, and watched the homeless man, Winston, shuffling away from the dumpsters, then furtively climbing in through the window, into the basement of that building at the end of the alley.

He knew where Winston lived, and when he’d heard the SEALs talking in the hall outside Maria’s office, he knew what he had to do.

It was easier than one would think, to transport a body through the city, although it helped that he had his father’s car.

Getting Maggie through the window had had its difficult moments, but he’d managed, and he was there with her, waiting, when sure enough, Winston scrambled home.

The elderly man was wearing only that skimpy hospital gown, and he was shivering and near frozen.

Nearly dead.

But not quite.

It had been exhilarating, knowing that Alyssa was going to see this, find this …

And he also knew he’d have to step up his schedule, to move his plan along. She was smart and he couldn’t risk her being a step ahead of him.

Because he hadn’t been able to resist taking a tooth.

T
he morning was another gray one, with a cold rain falling, beating a syncopated cadence on the window and the top of the air conditioner.

Dan had slept better last night than he had in weeks, possibly months. No nightmares, no dreams at all. Just Jenn, breathing steadily, warm and soft next to him.

The one time he’d woken up in the night, he’d known exactly where he was—no disorientation, no sense of panic. He’d gotten up to use the head and, coming back to join Jenn, had fallen asleep again, almost immediately.

This morning, after some slow, lazy lovemaking that had left him smiling, Jenn had gotten up to write a series of statements for the press about Maria’s brother’s drug use and Maggie’s death. She’d even written a speculative one, linking Maria’s brother to Maggie and Winston’s murders. It was only a matter of time, she’d told Dan, until the truth came out and the story broke. And they had to be ready with honest, concise information.

Her apartment was so small, she sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, her laptop on a tray table as she worked.

She was including facts and statistics about the government’s self-admitted failure in treating PTSD—about their lack of readiness
in providing sufficient facilities and medical personnel to treat the sheer numbers of servicemen and women returning from war zones with the trauma-induced disorder. Frank had had the additional difficulty of getting care because his condition was labeled “pre-existing,” which was ridiculous. But there it was, in his file. He allegedly had something called borderline personality disorder, a condition that was hard to diagnose or even define, and his benefits were cut.

And then, when he’d started self-medicating through drug use …

He’d been completely abandoned by a system that was desperately in need of change.

Jenn sat there, calmly giving Danny information about PTSD—what it was and how it manifested itself in a wide variety of symptoms, depending on the person.

Not everyone ended up like Frank, broken and addicted. In fact, most people with PTSD knuckled down, coping with the disability as best they could—raising their families, living their lives.

But the stigma attached to post-traumatic stress disorder often kept servicemen and women from seeking the proper treatment. And there
was
treatment. Doctors had had a huge amount of success with something called eye movement therapy—the idea being that human beings used dreams to process high-stress situations and events fraught with fear or peril. But some people either didn’t or couldn’t dream properly. Or they compartmentalized the trauma, seemingly in control, when in fact it was back there, unprocessed and manifesting itself in the nightmares or flashbacks or other symptoms of PTSD.