Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
Sudden Death (21 page)
“I’m blind. Well, not blind as a bat, but I can’t see more than two feet in front of me even with my glasses. So you can understand why I would love to have some help, but I never was able to have children. Though some of my friends have several children and none of their kids help out—”
“Mrs. Lyons, I really appreciate your time and information. I may call you again, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course, anytime. Please.”
“One more thing, how long was Mr. Russo involved with Hannah?”
“Several months. They met at a community mixer.”
“How old is she, would you say?”
“Young. Forty, forty-five.”
“I thought you had to be fifty to live there?”
“Yes, but she was taking care of her parents—didn’t I say that? I’m sure I did.”
“Are her parents still there?”
“Oh no, when Hannah left for her new job, they went to a nursing home. They were in their eighties, I think Bernard was close to ninety. He had a pretty good head, but didn’t say much of anything. Millie had advanced Alzheimer’s. Couldn’t remember anything, bless her heart. I don’t blame Hannah for moving on. Bernard never made much money working for the county, though they had a nice retirement. I think Hannah was struggling to make sure their bills were paid. Before Millie was diagnosed, she’d bought thousands of dollars of stuff she didn’t need off that shopping channel. Finally, Bernard cut up the credit cards. At least, that’s what I
heard.
”
“Do you have the name of the home?”
“Sunny Day Adult Living. It’s one of the nicer places in Orlando. If any of those places are nice.”
“And their last name?”
“Rubin. Bernard and Millie Rubin.”
“Was that their daughter’s last name as well?”
“I suppose so. I honestly don’t know.”
“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Lyons.”
“We’re here,” Officer Dodge said after Megan hung up. “Ready?”
“One minute. Let me make a quick call.”
Megan dialed the number Mrs. Lyons gave her for Hannah, Ken Russo’s ex-girlfriend. Her head was abuzz with questions, namely did Hannah know if Russo had been threatened or seemed distracted prior to their breakup. Megan was shocked when Mrs. Lyons told her the community was a private, gated development. Only one major theft, with a murder attached, and the police weren’t suspicious of a more personal motive?
An automated voice mail system picked up and Megan debated leaving a message. When the beep sounded, she said, “Hello, my name is Megan Elliott and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I spoke with someone who said you used to date a Mr. Kenneth Russo in Orlando, Florida, who was murdered in a robbery last year. I’m following up on the case and have a couple questions, and would appreciate a call back.”
Next she called information for the Sunny Day Adult Living Center in Orlando and asked for the administrator. Unfortunately, being five in the afternoon on the East Coast, he had already left. “This is an FBI investigation that may relate to one of your residents,” Megan told the manager who answered the phone. “If you would please give me the administrator’s home or cell phone number, I would appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry, that’s against protocol, but I’ll be happy to contact him if you can tell me what this is regarding.”
“The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Rubin may have information that will help in a criminal investigation, and I’m looking for a current phone number and address.”
“I’ll have Dr. Boswell get back to you, Ms. Elliott.”
Megan gave her contact information and hung up, frustrated. Two potential leads—two good solid leads—on hold while she waited.
“Let’s go,” she said to Officer Dodge.
The two women exited the patrol car and walked up the short stone path to the quaint Victorian house in downtown SLO. Megan hoped Hans hadn’t sent her on a wild-goose chase.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
The bartender at the hotel bar had been less than helpful, Jack thought. While they had a vague description of the woman, the bartender sat with a police artist for an hour and nothing came of it. If they needed a description of her breasts, no problem. The artist told a frustrated Hans that sometimes it took a few hours, but she wasn’t confident that the bartender would remember enough detail to render an accurate picture.
Still, the meeting confirmed one fact: General Hackett had gone to the bar as was his custom when he arrived on the third Thursday of the month, ordered a drink, and then bought a drink for the lady in the red dress. The bartender also confirmed that the lady had invited Hackett to her table, where they engaged in conversation and another round of drinks for forty-five minutes, before leaving together. Hackett had a habit of meeting with pretty, fortysomething blondes each month.
Approximately fifteen minutes later—about the length of time it would take for a leisurely stroll from the bar to the beachfront cabins, reports of gunshots came into the reservation desk and the police station. Security was dispatched, but no one was at the cabin for nearly five minutes after the reported gunshot, largely because the security guards had all been at the main hotel, and had been uncertain where the shots came from—whether on the resort grounds or the beach itself.
Five minutes had been more than enough time for Rosemont’s murderous partner to slip away.
“A woman,” Jack said almost to himself as he and Hans walked back to the small conference room that the hotel had set aside for law enforcement.
“Excuse me?”
“Rosemont’s partner is a woman.”
“Don’t leap to conclusions. She could have—” Jack raised his eyebrow and Hans stopped. “You’re right. There is no other explanation.”
“Someone led Hackett to that room. The bartender said it was a mutual flirtation.”
“But why the elaborate plan?” Hans asked. “They were practically in public. Though the cabins are more private, they couldn’t be sure that someone walking by wouldn’t have heard the shot. And they would also have had to know Hackett’s schedule.”
“Hackett had a routine,” Jack said. “The third Thursday of every month.”
Hans sat down and nodded. “They knew Duane Johnson’s schedule, Perry, Bartleton—” He glanced at Jack.
Jack nodded. “It’s a woman. What she was doing with Rosemont is anyone’s guess. But she’s just as dangerous—”
“She could have been a battered partner. Females account for less than ten percent of serial murderers. In many killing pairs, the female participant suffers from domestic violence. They are too scared to leave or not do what their partner demands. Perhaps she saw an opportunity and took it—domestic violence often ends in murder. Usually, the abused wife or girlfriend, but occasionally, the abused decides murder is her only way out.”
“Good in theory, but—”
Hans interrupted, “Which would support Father Francis’s visitation the other night.
If
that woman, and it’s not certain because it doesn’t fit the M.O., was Rosemont’s partner, then perhaps seeking out the priest was her first attempt at getting away.”
Jack considered and dismissed the argument. “Let’s take this from the beginning. Can we agree that the woman in the red dress intentionally lured General Hackett to Ethan Rose’s room?”
Hans considered, then nodded. “Yes, because Hackett would have no other reason to go there. It’s across the resort from his room.”
“There were no prints found. If she was truly fighting for the gun and shot Rosemont out of self-defense, why aren’t her prints there?”
“She may have been scared and wiped them off.”
“Wiped them off, sure. But scared?” Jack shook his head. “She had four and a half minutes from the sound of the first gunshot, and just over two and a half minutes from the sound of the last gunshot, before security arrived. She wipes the gun, takes the knife, runs out the back, and disappears? She must have had blood on her, so that means she changed clothes somewhere.”
“Holden’s people canvassed the entire hotel. No one saw the woman except in the bar prior to the murders.”
“And what’s accessible from the beach?”
“Several hotels both up and down the coast, the pier, farther up there’s little commercial business, and the road access is limited. I suspect she went south.”
“I don’t see a panicked, abused woman killing two men in cold blood, even in self-defense, and then disappearing without a trace of evidence.”
Hans took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “So she’s an active and willing participant in Rosemont’s killing spree.”
Jack nodded. “We need Padre’s sketch.”
“And Megan may get something from her witnesses. I just— There’s something eluding me, and I can’t quite figure it out.” He picked up the phone. “I know exactly what we need.”
“What?”
“A fresh pair of eyes. Or rather ears. Your brother.”
“Dillon?” Jack wouldn’t have thought about contacting his brother, the forensic psychiatrist, but Dillon did have an uncanny way of getting to the heart of the matter, and psychopaths were his specialty.
Hans dialed the number from memory. “I hope we can track him down tonight.”
Ned Stenberg was Megan’s height with a comb-over and kind brown eyes behind wire-rim glasses. She wasn’t surprised when he told her he was a medical lab technician at the local university—he looked the part. His wife, Jennifer, was an elementary school teacher, plump and pretty. As soon as Megan and Officer Dodge arrived, Jennifer sent their three kids upstairs.
“When Detective Holden said he was sending an officer over,” Ned Stenberg began, “I didn’t expect the FBI as well.”
“Can I get you water? Coffee?” Jennifer asked.
Megan shook her head. “We can’t stay long. We get a lot of tips when we send out a media story, but yours sounded valid. A personal visit is sometimes the best way to get information without distractions that can occur over the phone.”
Jennifer led them to the living room, which was off the main entry, a tidy room obviously unused by the family.
“Would you mind repeating your story?” Megan asked the Stenbergs.
“Not at all,” Ned said. “I planned on calling the police right after the incident, but—”
Jennifer said, “It didn’t seem as important once they left.”
“From the beginning,” Megan said. “Please.”
Ned began. “We were driving back from Phoenix where my brother lives. It’s my spring break and we go there nearly every year for Easter and a few days. We left early Thursday morning and about an hour or so into the drive, this maniac in a truck almost kills us.”
“Kills you? How? Did he exhibit road rage? Have a gun?”
“Almost ran us off the road. Had to be going a hundred twenty.”
“Scared all of us,” Jennifer concurred.
“Did you get his license plate?”
“Not then,” Ned said. “He was going way too fast. We continued, but were all a little stressed. We usually eat brunch when we hit the Los Angeles area, but decided to stop earlier for a while and have breakfast instead. I pulled into the diner and saw the truck.”
Jennifer said, “We told the kids to stay in the van and keep the doors locked.”
“I was so angry,” Ned said. “That was my family he almost ran off the road.”
“I told him to let it go,” Jennifer said.
“But I couldn’t do that. Instead, I went in just as the driver was leaving.”
“How did you recognize him if he went by so fast?” Megan asked.
Ned frowned. “I’m not really sure. It was more an impression. He was really tall and looked tall driving. Had dark hair. And after I said something, it was obviously him. He didn’t say hardly anything, but he knew.”
“And what type of truck was he driving?”
“A black or maybe a very dark charcoal gray Ford pickup.”
“Make?”
“I’m not sure. A 150 or 250, I think. I’m not great with cars,” Ned confessed.
“Immediately his wife came over,” Jennifer interjected.
“Wife?” This was new information.
“She said his name was John and called him her husband.”
“And?”
“She apologized profusely for his behavior and bad driving. Said they’d driven through the night from Houston on the way to see her mother who’d had a heart attack.” Jennifer slowly shook her head.
“You don’t seem sympathetic,” Megan said.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but if my mother had a heart attack, I wouldn’t be dying my hair to go to her bedside.”
“How do you know she dyed her hair?”
Jennifer ran a finger high on her forehead. “She didn’t rub all the dye off her scalp. I could see it.”
“What color hair? Or rather dye?”
“Blond. She had the skin tone to be a blond, but this was very light—almost like yours, but it looked unnatural. The giveaway was the dye on her forehead. You know.”
Megan shook her head. “I’ve never dyed my hair.”
“You haven’t? Oh. Well, sometimes the dye gets on your scalp and you need to rub it off. But it usually comes off after a shower or two. And then the smell, it’s very strong even after a washing. She’d probably done it the night before or first thing in the morning. But it just seemed odd to me because of her mother’s heart attack.”
“Did either of them say anything about his dangerous driving?”
“No, just an apology from her. I don’t think he said more than a word. Ned?”
Ned shook his head. “He just stared, like he wasn’t right in the head.” He tapped his own scalp.
Megan took out a photo sheet Holden had given her with Rosemont’s photo and five other men. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
Both Jennifer and Ned tapped the same photo: Rosemont’s.
“Can you describe the woman in more detail?” Megan asked.
“Pretty,” Jennifer said. “And she was weepy. Probably because her husband was causing a scene.”
“Even though he wasn’t saying anything?” Officer Dodge interjected.
“He was just standing there looking . . . dazed.”
“And the wife?”
“Taller than me, but not by much. Dyed blond hair, as I said. Blue eyes. Her hair was just below her shoulders, and her smile was nice—straight white teeth. She was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt, a little big on her.”
Ned added, “She had small diamond earrings on. Like the ones I gave you for our anniversary, Jen.”
“But no ring,” Jennifer said, turning her own wedding band around on her finger. “I know some women don’t wear wedding rings, but it’s rare. She could have taken it off when she dyed her hair, I suppose . . .”
Megan got them back on track. “Would you be able to sit down with a sketch artist and describe the woman?”
“Maybe,” Ned said. “Why?”
“I don’t know how much the officer told you.”
“The news report just said that if we’d seen that man, Rosemont, to call in, so we did.”
“Mr. Rosemont is dead and the woman is being sought for questioning.”
Jennifer blanched. “No. I . . . oh my God.”
Ned put his arm around his wife. “What happened? Car accident?”
“No. Rosemont is our main suspect in multiple homicides.”
Officer Dodge cleared her throat. “I’ll contact the sheriff’s department and see if they can send over a sketch artist.”
“Thanks, Barbara,” Megan said. To the couple, “Do you remember anything else about these two people? Accent? Distinguishing marks?”
Ned shook his head, but Jennifer said, “Yes. The woman said they were going to San Francisco and the husband said he thought they were going to Santa Barbara. It was really odd.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Jack and Hans were waiting for a call back from Dillon when Detective Holden rushed in. “We got a match!”
Jack asked, “On what?”
“The bullets! An FBI agent from Orlando faxed over a ballistics report from a cold case down in Florida. He wrote that Agent Megan Elliott had requested it.”
“Russo,” Jack said. He couldn’t help but be proud at how quickly Megan had put together the case and expedited the information.
“Right. The gun that killed Russo also killed Rosemont and Hackett.”
“And,” Holden continued, “the Hoffmans. The Riverside County crime lab got a copy of the same report and contacted Dr. Clark.”
“What about the other victims?” Hans said. “Bartleton and Johnson and the other two men?”
“Not Bartleton,” Detective Holden said. “I don’t know about the others.”
Hans frowned. “Can you ask Dr. Clark to contact the other crime labs and get a ballistics comparison?”
“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.
“Why change guns? Are we looking at a completely different crime?” He rubbed his temples.
Jack realized that Hans was practically asleep on his feet. Whatever was bothering him had interrupted his sleep as well.
“Russo and Hackett were both involved, either directly or indirectly, with the mission in which Rosemont was kidnapped and held hostage,” Jack said. “It would be far too big a coincidence if two separate killing pairs were targeting the same group of men.”
“Right,” Hans nodded. “And Bartleton’s dog tag was found at the Hoffman double homicide.”
“My question is, why change guns?” Holden asked.
Jack said, “So Russo’s murder isn’t connected to the others through ballistics.”
“But it is connected,” Hans said.
“No, it’s not—yes, to these recent murders, but if the other three ballistics reports match Scout, then we know that a different gun was used for those victims, which makes me think that the killers didn’t want Russo’s murder connected with these crimes.”
Holden nodded. “That makes sense. But why?”
Hans said, “Because it’s often the first victim that leads directly to the killer. Can I see that fax?” he asked Holden. “I’m going to call the Orlando office and get them to overnight the reports to us. Something is in there that we can use.”
The SLO sheriff’s department contracted out their forensic sketch work. The woman would arrive at the Stenbergs within an hour, and had instructions to fax the sketch to Santa Barbara P.D. as soon as it was ready.
Megan asked Officer Dodge to take her back to Santa Barbara. It was getting close to four and she wanted to be back to review the ballistics reports more carefully and see if Jack could nudge his friend Padre to speed up the sketch artist. She wished she had a picture to show the Stenbergs because Megan was certain they would recognize her. Although meeting with the witnesses hadn’t been a complete waste of time, Megan still felt that a local cop could have handled it just as competently.
Simone Charles with the Sacramento crime lab called to let Megan know that there was no match on the ballistics report with John Doe.
Still, just because the ballistics
didn’t
match didn’t mean they were different killers. Megan just had to review the evidence more closely and hope to find another commonality.
Her cell phone vibrated and she recognized the Orlando prefix, but not the phone number.
“Agent Elliott.”
“Hello, this is Gerald Boswell with the Sunny Day Adult Living Center in Orlando returning your call.”
“Thank you, Dr. Boswell. I won’t keep you long.”
“My secretary said it was about the Rubins?”
“Yes. Their daughter, Hannah.”
“That’s what she said, and that’s why I’m calling you back. They don’t have a living daughter.”
“Maybe a daughter-in-law?”
“No. Their only daughter died years ago, when she was in her twenties.”
“Are you sure?”
He sounded put off. “Of course. I have their file right in front of me. No living childen. I am positive.”
“Does the file have the name of their daughter?”
The sound of shuffling paper, then, “No. Under immediate family, simply ‘one daughter, deceased, February 1, 1960 to November 29, 1981.’ Mr. Rubin was the youngest of five kids and the only survivor.”
Megan almost hung up, but she remembered a case of elder abuse from her first years as an agent where an adult son moved in with his elderly and disabled parents. He spent their entire savings plus mortgaged their home, then left them destitute.
“Are the Rubins paying for your facility? Or are you a subsidized adult care home?”
“Why do you ask?”
She couldn’t very well explain her vague theory without sounding paranoid and suspicious. “One of their former neighbors expressed concern over a relative of theirs who seemed to be living off their generosity. Seniors are very trusting as a group and tend to be conned quite easily.”
“You’re right about that, Agent Elliott,” the director said, his voice decidedly more friendly. “I’ve seen well over a thousand cases of elder abuse and fraud in the twenty years I’ve been an adult care director. I don’t know if the Rubins were victims, however. They bought into a plan with Sunny Day when Mr. Rubin retired from county government so that when they were in need of care, they could move in and live here rent free. Medicare and Social Security pay for their food and medical needs.” He paused. “I can look into their finances for you, if you’d like. We have a board of trustees that manages the accounts for our residents. We’ve never evicted anyone for nonpayment. We receive donations and have many planned giving programs.”
“If you can, that would be very helpful to me. Even if nothing is odd, let me know.”
Megan thanked him for his time, then called Mrs. Lyons again.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Lyons, this is Megan Elliott again, with the FBI. I have another question for you if you have a minute.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Did the Rubins ever talk about their daughter? Before she moved in with them?”
She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “I honestly don’t remember. I don’t think it came up. I didn’t know them well—we have more than four hundred houses and town-homes in the community. It was just because Kenny was my neighbor that I got to know them a bit, but it was only at social functions.”
“Do you know if they had any close friends I could call?”
“I’m sure they did, but I don’t know who. They lived on Sea Breeze Circle. Maybe the manager knows them. I’ll give you her number. Paula Andrews. A darling girl.”
Megan called Ms. Andrews next, but she wasn’t home. She left a message on her answering machine that she was an FBI agent and wanted to talk about the Rubins who had lived on Sea Breeze as soon as possible.
“Sounds like a promising lead,” Officer Dodge said as she turned south onto the Pacific Coast Highway.
“It seems clear that our female UNSUB has been an integral part of Rosemont’s killing spree for well over a year. That she moved to Orlando to specifically get close to Ken Russo so she could do that. Why him? He was the team leader of the mission that Rosemont was kidnapped from. Russo was the first victim.” He’d been killed seven months before Duane Johnson. How long did Rosemont and his partner plan these murders? Years?
“If he was the team leader, maybe he’d kept in touch with the other men,” Dodge suggested.
Megan straightened. “And he might have their current addresses. Or know how to find them.” And because George Price was AWOL, the killer stole the tags . . . why? Why was it important to the UNSUB and Rosemont to kill a homeless man and plant Price’s tags on him? Contact the FBI and bring them into the case?
It wasn’t common for the FBI to be involved with local homicides, but the killers
wanted
the FBI involved. If Megan wasn’t already called into the investigation because of the connection to victims in two other states, she would have certainly gotten involved when she received Price’s dog tag at her apartment.
The killers started in Florida with Russo. Then they did nothing for seven months before hitting Johnson in Texas. Two months passed, then they took out Perry in Nevada and “Price” in California two weeks after.
Then
they returned to Texas to kill Bartleton
two days
after John Doe. It would have been far more efficient to remain in Texas and move west. And it made no sense to kill a stranger and call him George Price.
Except to bring in the federal authorities. Except to bring Megan herself into the investigation.
Why her? She’d assumed that the killers sent her Price’s dog tag because she was the squad leader of Violent Crimes and had recently been in the media because of a complex and high-profile investigation, or because they’d been watching the crime scene and saw her arrive.
But they had known where she lived.
Suddenly, a chill slithered down Megan’s spine. For the first time she thought maybe there was something more going on here than simple revenge against the army and the Delta soldiers who Rosemont blamed for his captivity.
She called Hans to fill him in, but his voice mail picked up. Dammit. She dialed Jack’s number. He answered after the first ring. “Kincaid.”
“It’s Megan.”
He sighed audibly. “You okay?”
“Yes. I need to talk to Hans. Is he there?”
“We’re on a conference call with a profiler. My brother.”
“Oh. Good.”
“I can interrupt—”
“No, I’ll text him the information. I have a question for you. In February, around the tenth, were you and Scout on any mission out of the area?”
“Two short assignments, the first week of February we were in Honduras, the last week of February we were in Belize.”
“Thanks.”
“Why?”
“I’m just thinking about the timeline, why the killers jumped around when it would have been more efficient to kill their Texas targets first, then move to Nevada.”
“What about the witnesses?”
“They I.D.’d Rosemont. I’ll text Hans with the details.”
“When will you be back?”
Megan asked Officer Dodge their ETA. Her driver said, “An hour, maybe a bit more because of traffic as we get closer to Santa Barbara.”
“Did you hear that?” she asked Jack.
“Yes. Be careful.”
“I will. You too.”
Jack chuckled lightly. He wasn’t a man who laughed a lot, but when he did the humor in his voice was endearing and sexy at the same time. “I’ll watch my back, Blondie. And I want to watch yours, too, so get back quick. I’ll feel a lot better when you’re in my line of sight.”
She was still smiling as she e-mailed Hans the status of her investigation, and included the information about the Rubins and the woman who had claimed to be their daughter.
“I think this is our UNSUB. I know it’s a theory, but it’s the only thing that makes sense right now. She befriended Russo in order to learn where the Delta team members lived, then killed him and stole Price’s dog tag. The only thing I can’t figure out is why they sent me the dog tag. Me, specifically. Let’s talk when I get back.”
She hit Send and leaned back, closing her eyes briefly. Officer Dodge said, “I just called for a traffic update. It’s Friday; it’s always heavy with tourists. Take a nap if you want.”
“I don’t think I can sleep, but five minutes to think things through would be nice.”
“Feel free to bounce ideas off me. I’m pretty good with a puzzle.”
“Thanks.”
Megan turned her head and looked out the passenger window at the ocean beyond the cliffs, at the way the late-afternoon sun made the water shimmer like jewels. She frowned, knowing she was on the cusp of a solution, but fearing she was missing a critical piece of the puzzle.
Jack listened as Dillon asked questions over the speaker phone in the hotel conference room. He was impressed with his brother’s quick and intelligent analysis and thoughtful inquiries. He hadn’t seen Dil in action in two years, and he remembered that they were essentially in the same business. Jack gathered military intelligence to lay out a game plan; Dillon gathered psychological evidence.
“So Rosemont’s partner is female,” Dillon said after Hans laid out all the information they had to date.
“I’m ninety percent sure. There are no dead women in red dresses popping up, and unless there are three people involved—”
“I think you’re right,” Dillon said. “I have Rosemont’s medical records your partner had couriered to Quantico from New York—it’s the reason I was so late returning your call. I wanted to get a sense of who Rosemont was.”
“And?”
“I still need more information for any substantive profile. You went over the victimology and the timeline, but I’m curious about the Sacramento victim. George Price.”
“That’s the thing,” said Hans. “The vic wasn’t George Price. He’s a John Doe, homeless—was most likely a stranger to the killers.”
“But this John Doe just happened to have the identification of a man who fits the profile of the victims?” Dillon asked.
“We now believe that the killer planted Price’s dog tags on the victim, but I can’t figure out why,” Hans replied. “If the killers were more symbolic at the crime scene, it would make sense because they couldn’t get to Price—he’s AWOL. The military couldn’t find him, and our killers probably couldn’t either.”