Midnight Fear (14 page)

A
cold drizzle had begun to fall. Reid watched somberly as the nude female corpse was zipped inside a black body bag and loaded onto a gurney. It had been there for days, apparently, lying amid the garbage in a Dumpster behind a K Street restaurant. A homeless person who’d been rooting through the bin had found the body, and Reid wondered how the stench had gone unnoticed for so long.

Mitch was talking to the man now, a gaunt junkie with café-au-lait skin and unwashed hair. His partner held in one latex-gloved hand the cellophane evidence bag. It contained the chess pawn that had been wedged inside the victim’s mouth. Two workers with the M.E.’s office rolled the gurney past and loaded it into a van.

Walking to where Reid stood, Mitch jerked his thumb toward the homeless man. “He wants to know if there’s a reward for calling 911.”

He handed the evidence bag to Forensics, then turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and looked
around. “Where the hell did Morehouse go with my umbrella?”

On the drive over, they’d spoken briefly by phone to the administrator at the psych ward from which David Hunter had escaped. The details of exactly
how
he had eluded the hospital staff were still sketchy, but his disappearance hadn’t been discovered until early that morning.

“We’re lucky—thanks to the District’s stretched resources, the garbage hasn’t been picked up yet. Based on decomposition, the body’s been here at least a week,” Mitch said. “Hunter was arrested just four days ago—do the math. Not to mention, his breakout sometime last night puts him in the running for the attack on Ms. Cahill.”

“The man on the surveillance tape’s too big.”

“What’s Hunter? Six foot?” Mitch pointed out. “He’s on the thin side, but with the heavy jacket and mask the guy’s wearing and the bad-to-no lighting, it could be him. I don’t think we should overlook the basic rules of means, motive and opportunity.”

“It’s not him,” Reid said quietly.

“I forgot. Hunter doesn’t fit your psychological profile.”

Morehouse cleared his throat, letting them know he was approaching. He looked at Mitch. “We need to go to the morgue with the Jane Doe—”

“You do it.” He tossed him his car keys. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry. And give me my umbrella.”

“Bigger fish?” Reid asked once the younger agent
had relinquished the black umbrella and headed in the direction of the sedan, his shoulders hunched against the increasing downpour.

“You’ve got your intuitions and so do I. I’m going to see this Dr. Abrams at the hospital and try to figure out how Hunter could slip away without anyone noticing.” Mitch nodded toward the SUV. “Want to give me a ride?”

Reid’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open, his stomach tightening as he saw the call’s source. But instead of answering, he replaced the phone in his jacket pocket. “I’ll go with you.”

As they walked toward the vehicle, Mitch asked, “How long are they keeping Ms. Cahill?”

“A couple of nights, I’d guess.”

“She didn’t look good.”

Reid climbed into the driver’s side of the SUV. “No.”

Once they’d pulled from the alleyway, he said, “We need to get protection for her.”

“We can try, but resources are tight. The Feds have had job cuts along with everybody else.”

“She’s in trouble. Whoever attempted to abduct her is going to try again.” Reid looked at Mitch. “I’ll call SAC Johnston, extend my leave another few weeks and stay with her myself if I have to.”

“Let’s not jump the gun. I’ll see what I can do.”

Caitlyn’s hospital room had darkened with the falling evening, and silvered raindrops trailed along the window glass. For most of the day, she’d been drowsy,
the pain medication providing a measure of anesthesia against her thoughts. But she assumed the physician had begun tapering her dosage, since her mind was now growing clearer and with that clarity came anxiety and memories she couldn’t stop—of a man wearing all black, his face concealed by a ski mask. Caitlyn nudged the mobile tray that held her uneaten dinner away from the bed. She reached for the television remote, hoping to find something that might distract her from her thoughts.

“Let me clear that, hon.” A pleasant-faced hospital worker in floral-print scrubs came through the door. She smiled brightly. “How are you feeling?”

Caitlyn put the television speaker on Mute. “I’m…fine. Thank you.”

“You’re looking a little better. How’s the head?”

“It hurts,” she admitted.

“I’ll bring you some acetaminophen as soon as I come back through.”

“Do you know when the doctor will be making rounds?” Caitlyn asked as the woman covered the plastic food tray with its top and began rolling it toward the door. Despite how she felt, she desperately hoped to be discharged in the morning. She hated the antiseptic hospital smells and the constant threat of needles.

“Dr. Singh should be by sometime in the morning, but his schedule varies.” She gave Caitlyn a sympathetic look. “I’ll be right back with the meds.”

Once the woman left, Caitlyn looked back up at the television screen. The six o’clock news was on, and a
female journalist stood in front of an alley. Police crime scene tape crisscrossed its entrance, and the blue light bar of a patrol car flashed in the background.

The hair on Caitlyn’s nape stood up as she saw the caption across the bottom of the screen.

Capital Killer Copycat.

She searched for the television remote lost in the bed’s sheets. Finding it, she clicked on the volume button with a sense of dread.

“…believed to be the third victim. Preliminary forensics estimate the body had been concealed in a Dumpster here for the past week. Although the Federal Bureau of Investigation and District Police are not releasing the details, certain aspects of the crime scene suggest a copycat may indeed be at large…”

The throb inside her head grew a little more insistent, drowning out the reporter’s monologue. The killer had claimed a third victim. She absently twisted the sheets with her uninjured hand.

“I was hoping to tell you first.” Reid stood in the doorway, his leather jacket and his dark hair damp from the rain. He came into the room and sat in the chair beside her bed. “The copycat story broke this afternoon. They’ll probably release the newest victim’s identity soon. Her name was Sherry Halston. She was a D.C. events planner.”

Caitlyn felt sick thinking about it. “Do the press know about the attack on me yet?”

“So far it hasn’t been reported by any of the media outlets. But if it comes out, they’re undoubtedly going
to make a connection.” Reid’s gray eyes were filled with concern. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Caitlyn. David Hunter escaped last night from the hospital psych ward.”

“H
ello, Mom,” Caitlyn said softly, her chest tightening as her mother looked at her with no sign of recognition on her unlined, still-pretty face. A fashion magazine open in her lap, Caroline sat on a chintz sofa in one of the Vinings common rooms. Behind her, a wide picture window framed by raw-silk curtains provided a view into the facility’s well-tended gardens.

Moving closer, Caitlyn sank onto the adjacent wing chair, carefully adjusting the sling that held her arm against her chest to protect her badly bruised hand. Her fingers were stiff and swollen, and the dull throb of her headache lingered. Caitlyn wore the same clothes she’d had on yesterday morning when she’d rushed to the District, thinking her mother had been hurt. She had come directly from the hospital as soon as they discharged her, needing to see for herself that her mother was really all right.

Caitlyn’s eyes met Reid’s, who stood inside the door
way but hadn’t come any closer. “This is a friend of mine, Mom. Reid Novak?”

She wondered if the name might cause some flash of memory inside Caroline’s weakened mind, that perhaps the sheer duress that had once been attached to the name
Novak
might cause some reaction—anger, hostility—to rise inside her. But Caroline simply blinked at Reid, studying him for a few moments before returning her gaze to Caitlyn.

“And who are you?” she asked, puzzled.

Caitlyn’s face burned. “I’m your daughter. It’s me. Caitlyn.”

Caroline tucked a few stands of her hair behind one ear, nodding thoughtfully. Its pale color—lighter than Caitlyn’s—held only a touch of gray. Even then, the color was an attractive, lush silver.

“Do you live in the District?”

“No.” Caitlyn shook her head. “Not anymore.”

“There’s a soiree next month. It’s invitation-only—the First Lady’s Fire and Ice Ball. I’m picking out a gown.” Caroline bent her head in concentration as she flipped slowly through the magazine she held. She stopped at a page with its top corner dog-eared and placed her finger on a photo of a statuesque model in an ice-blue evening gown. “I like this one. What do you think?”

Caitlyn knew there was no ball, and if there were, Senator Cahill’s widow would not be on the guest list. Still, she looked into Caroline’s eyes and smiled. “You’d be beautiful in it.”

“I…don’t know you,” her mother admitted. “Do you work here?”

When Caitlyn stared up at Reid, the pain she felt was reflected on his features. He held her gaze for several long moments, and the sympathy and guilt emanating from his eyes was almost more than she could bear. Caitlyn took a breath. She moved to the sofa to sit next to her mother and continued studying the magazine. When she looked up again, Reid had disappeared into the hallway.

“It was a good visit,” Caitlyn said quietly as they walked out to Reid’s vehicle. He held the lobby’s glass door open for her, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her down stone steps that led to a patio with wrought-iron benches and a gurgling fountain. Caitlyn took the steps slowly, still feeling stiff from the attack.

“She’s worse sometimes?” he asked.

“She was talking today. Sometimes she doesn’t respond at all. She just stares right through you like she’s a million miles away.”

“Does she ever remember who you are?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “No.”

He stopped walking. Reid touched her arm through the sling. “I’m sorry, Caitlyn. I know I had a hand in what happened to her.”

She said with honesty, “You’re not to blame. You were doing your job.”

The afternoon wind was brisk, and Caitlyn shivered a little. Reid took off his leather jacket and placed it
around her shoulders. The heat from his body was still inside the garment, and she allowed herself to take comfort in its warmth. The visits with her mother always left her feeling blue. She stared out over the facility’s grounds, focusing on the rustle of leaves in the fall wind and the slightly overcast afternoon sky.

“How are you feeling?” Reid asked, apparently attuned to her mood.

“Sore. My head still hurts a little.”

Caitlyn knew the hospital security tape hadn’t been able to reveal much about her attacker—at least no more than she’d been able to make out herself in the darkness. He was still a faceless but menacing threat. It had all happened so fast and she had done everything wrong. She hadn’t fought back well enough, hadn’t made a grab to unmask him.

She was lucky to be alive.

“Are you taking me back to my car?” Caitlyn asked as Reid helped her into his SUV—an awkward process due to her injured hand. He had driven her to the Vinings Care Facility to visit her mother, so her car remained in the parking garage at the medical center. Her stomach knotted at the thought of returning to the place where the attack had occurred.

“Actually, we’re going to my apartment.”

The announcement was not entirely unexpected. Reid had made it clear he didn’t think she should return home until he had some kind of security worked out.

“What am I going to do? Spend the night there?”

“One night. Maybe two. And it’s not the first time we’ve slept under the same roof.”

“I could get a hotel room.”

He peered at her. “You’re not in great shape, Caitlyn. I’m still trying to figure out how you coerced the doctor into signing your discharge papers so soon. I doubt you can even drive a car right now with your hand, not to mention dress or bathe yourself.”

As he reached across her lap, pulling the shoulder belt across her chest and fastening it, he was undeniably close. Reid smelled clean, like a masculine soap, and Caitlyn was aware of her own rumpled appearance. He straightened, standing outside the car with his right hand on the SUV’s roof.

“I’d go back with you to Middleburg tonight, but I have firearms recertification tomorrow. It makes more sense for you to stay with me instead of the other way around.”

Caitlyn remained silent, unable to find a point for argument. Manny wasn’t even at the Rambling Rose, since she had insisted he take the week to go visit his daughter, Maria. Other than the day workers, she would be completely alone. She could call the Treadwells, but after the strange incident with Rob in the hallway outside her bedroom, she wasn’t sure that she would feel comfortable staying in their home. She had seen Rob’s number come up, three times on her cell phone since then, although he had failed to leave any message when she hadn’t answered. She wondered again if she had misconstrued his overture. Maybe he was just genu
inely trying to be helpful, and he’d suggested calling his cell instead of the house so as to not worry Sophie with all the things going on. Caitlyn knew how high-strung Sophie could be.

She chewed her lip thoughtfully as Reid closed her door.
I’ll only stay today and tonight,
she conceded silently.
Manny’s out of town and I need to get back to the stables.
Once they reached Reid’s apartment, she would call out there and make sure things were running okay with just the therapy instructors and stable hands.

“I’m going to need a change of clothes,” she said as Reid got into the driver’s side.

He started the engine. “We’ll stop at the mall.”

What the hell had happened to her?

Hal Feingold hunkered in his new Lexus coupe, his eyes on the SUV that had just pulled away from the curb. He’d been sitting across the street from the adult care facility as Reid Novak escorted Caitlyn Cahill along the sidewalk. The FBI agent had taken every excuse he could to touch her, Hal noted cynically. Her arm had been in a sling and even from a distance he could see the bruise shadowing her right temple.

Was it a car accident? Something else? Activating his digital recorder, he spoke into it, preparing a note for his assistant. “Run a check to see if Caitlyn Cahill comes up in any police reports over the past forty-eight hours.”

Tossing the recorder onto a copy of the
Washington Post
that lay on the passenger seat, he drummed his
pudgy fingers on the car’s leather steering wheel in thought. A worker at the Vinings facility had tipped him off, letting him know Caitlyn was there visiting her mother. His intention, plain and simple, had been to ambush her outside the place and get her to agree to an interview. Even more, he wanted to gain her cooperation, win her blessing over his book. His publisher was insisting that her involvement would bring in greater sales. Hal’s mouth twisted. Apparently, what a pretty, former socialite had to say held more interest for readers than a veteran crime journalist.

But he reminded himself that Caitlyn wasn’t just any former socialite. She’d been at the center of the Capital Killer case, her family dethroned by the revelation of her brother’s dirty little secret. In many ways, she’d been the tipping point in bringing Joshua Cahill down.

His publisher was right, Hal admitted to himself. Her story was the one readers would want.

But his plans had been bushwhacked by Novak’s unanticipated presence. The way he’d helped her into his car, carefully buckling her seat belt for her—well, it had been downright tender. And it suggested more than a professional acquaintance. Hal remembered his recent confrontation with Novak in the bar.

The plot thickens,
he thought with a contemplative grunt. His curiosity was piqued. He pondered again how Caitlyn Cahill had ended up looking like she’d come off the losing end of a bar fight. Maybe one of her horses had thrown her, but Hal had a feeling it was something
more. Was Novak with her as some sort of bodyguard? And how well
did
they know each other?

His paunch pressing against the steering wheel column, Hal leaned forward to start the coupe’s engine. It purred like a cat. He’d bought the car with part of his advance on the book. The
Post
’s headline on the seat next to him briefly caught his attention, causing his lips to tug upward in a grin: FBI Fears D.C. May Have Capital Killer Copycat on Its Hands.

He knew one thing—the timing couldn’t have been better.