Dreaming Death Page 6

  “Where are your children?” Stacey asked. “Dinnertime, isn’t it?”

  “Harris has football and Christy is in chorus tonight. They won’t be home until about eight,” Cindy said. “This will mean more trips to the therapist!” She shook her head and then looked at them. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Maria makes a delicious Arnold Palmer. Squeezes the lemons herself and brews tea leaves. She’s wonderful. She’s the best thing I got out of the damned divorce and eighteen years of marriage.”

  “Hmm, sure, then. I’d love an Arnold Palmer. How about you, Stacey?” Keenan asked.

  “An Arnold Palmer. Sure. How nice.”

  The way Stacey looked at him, he realized they’d been going all day. They’d never even stopped for a meal break.

  He returned her look with one he hoped said Sorry!

  Cindy called for Maria. A smiling woman in sweats with dark eyes and very dark hair hurried into the room from what Keenan thought had to be the kitchen and dining areas.

  “Hello, hello!” she said, nodding in greeting to Keenan and Stacey. Then she looked at her employer.

  “Maria, they’d love to try your Arnold Palmers, please,” Cindy said.

  “Ah!” Maria said, beaming. “Yes, right away!”

  She started to walk into the kitchen. Stacey said, “Let me give you a hand,” and leaped up to follow.

  “Oh, she’s fine,” Cindy said.

  But Stacey was already gone.

  Keenan turned and smiled at Cindy. “She seems lovely. And such a help, I’m sure. Raising two teens on your own can’t be easy.”

  “Oh no, the trials and tribulations of youth,” Cindy said and added bitterly, “All enhanced by scandal their father created!”

  “I am so sorry for what you’ve been through.”

  “Well, I know murder is horrible. But in the case of Billie Bingham...well, maybe it will save a lot of people in the future. Marriages. Families.”

  “Is there anyone you remember specifically who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  “Specifically? No. I told you, dozens of people might have wanted to hurt her. But she was surely killed by that crazy guy. I’m sorry for the other two—how terrifying. How tragic. But...if he was going to kill someone else, at least he picked a deserving victim.”

  “When was the last time you were in contact with her?” Keenan asked again.

  “I was never in contact with her. Her law firm is Dickens and Dillard. You can call them. They’ll have the details. It’s been nearly two years since she threatened to sue me, since my divorce was final. I just shut up and decided I was going to have a life—without my husband. And I’ve done it. I’ve created a good life here. Maybe I should have left town. But I didn’t know where to go. I’m originally from Mississippi. I went to school out west and met my husband there. Years ago. I didn’t want to go back west, and I didn’t want to go back to Mississippi. Anyway... Call the attorneys. They’ll have records of what went on. But as I said, we’re talking a few years now.”

  Stacey and Maria returned bearing glasses of ice-tea lemonade drinks.

  “I’ve sipped already!” Stacey said. “Delicious.”

  “Truly delicious,” Keenan said, swallowing down most of his glass in a gulp. Cindy was looking at her watch. They were delaying her tennis match.

  He rose. Stacey followed suit.

  “Thank you,” he told Cindy. “And, Maria, thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time. If we need you...”

  “You know where to find me,” Cindy said with forced cheer.

  They waved as Cindy stood on the porch to see them off.

  When they were in the car, he started the ignition and turned to Stacey.

  “What did you get from her? Was she prepared?”

  “Oh, yes. I asked Maria if Mrs. Hardy was home all night last night. Maria immediately became very nervous. But she did say yes, repeatedly, no matter how I pressed.”

  “Hmm. So, you think she was lying?”

  “I don’t just think she was lying. I’m certain she was lying.”

  Keenan studied his new partner. She was very confident.

  He suddenly found himself intrigued. Yes, she was a rookie. But she’d done all right through the day. She’d held up at the autopsy, and she was ready to bring forward theories, be they right or wrong. And any theory was important, though the proving was what came next. And now, at the moment, they had little to go on.

  “Where do we go from here?” she asked.

  “We have tech see if we can confirm Mrs. Hardy left the complex at night. She has a key card to flash when she comes in or goes out. Tech can hopefully find out for us. We check toll booths and see if we can find her. We delve deeper into her doings and talk to that law firm. She didn’t deny hating the woman. She’s glad Billie’s dead. Maybe she was too honest. We’ll find out. There’ll be a task force meeting in the morning, and Jackson will give a press conference. He’ll put out a warning. He can’t do much more at this point. There will be speculation about dozens of politicians. Jackson will have seen to it that a forensic team has been to Billie Bingham’s place to search for her little black book—be it physical or digital. But I’d also like to—”

  “You think we might learn more through the first victims?” she finished.

  He studied her a moment longer. He smiled. “We might just get through this,” he told her.

  “Thanks,” she said dryly.

  “Especially,” he added, “if you can dream us the face of a killer.”

  She sighed softly. “It just doesn’t work that way.”

  “Of course not. That would be way too easy.”

  Three

  The day was almost over. Stacey was glad.

  She was right where she wanted to be—doing the work she had wanted to do since she was a child. She hadn’t really expected everyone to greet her with open arms, but she hadn’t been prepared for Keenan Wallace.

  By the end of the day, he was beginning to seem okay. They might just make it through it all.

  What was his story?

  Every Krewe member had one. For each agent in the Krewe, there had to be a time when they had realized they were a bit different from others. For some, discovering their talents to speak with the dead came very early. For some, it came later.

  And then, she knew there were others like her. Who had different strange talents.

  Keenan Wallace wasn’t one of them—she didn’t think. She found herself wondering about his great-grandfather, who had worked with Eliot Ness. And there was a Pinkerton in his background. Intriguing to wonder if he’d felt he had to live up to the past.

  “Another theory?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’ve been silent. Any new ideas?”

  “What? Sorry. No. Just thinking.”

  “Want to see what’s nearby?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “For food. A drive-through.”

  “Oh! Yes, certainly.”

  “And then where do I take you?”

  “Georgetown,” she said.

  “Oh. That’s convenient.”

  “It is?”

  “I’m in Georgetown, too,” Keenan said.

  “Great.”

  “So, what do you want to eat?”

  While the day had been long, it was still early enough for almost everything to be open. Stacey asked Google to list nearby restaurants. There was a drive-through place right on the way, and that seemed to be fine with Keenan Wallace.

  He ordered chicken nuggets and fries—easy to consume while driving, she figured. She went with the hamburger.

  Soon after, he had her at her door.

  “Have you been taking the subway in?” he asked her. “Sorry. I was in Maine on a case and had a few days off. I don’t even
know when you started.”

  “Four days ago,” she told him. “Yes, I’ve been taking the subway.”

  “I’ll get you at seven thirty,” he told her.

  “Fine,” she said, hopping out of the car in front of her apartment building.

  “Be right here.”

  “Yes, sir!” she said, and closing the door, she started up the cobblestone path to her apartment complex.

  Her home had once been a single-family mansion, but those days were long gone. Years ago, the old house had been converted into condos, and she rented hers from an old friend of her dad’s who had retired and now spent much of his time working with children in war-torn areas of the world.

  He was a great landlord—charging her half of what was usual for the area.

  There were six families living in the complex, and they all met once every few weeks to air any grievances or see that repairs were done. She found the association a bit petty, but when she couldn’t be at the meetings, she apologized ahead of time. And Marty Givens, her next-door neighbor on the ground floor, was great at taking notes and carefully reported to her.

  Sometimes Stacey smiled and nodded while listening to Marty when her mind was really just about anywhere else. The college professor meant well, but the woman had a habit of going on and on and not getting to the point.

  The front door could only be opened with two keys. Stacey turned one, then the other.

  On entering, she was startled by Marty, who had been hovering just behind the front door.

  “Hey!” Stacey said. “Marty, are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, just nervous. There’s a horrible murderer out on the streets. But you know that. You’re with the FBI, aren’t you? Still... Billie Bingham! Oh, the scandal that will rip through this town. I mean, that’s one thing. But...oh, my God! She was so horribly murdered. And after the other two. I’m scared. Just to think someone so sick is out there!”

  “Is that why you were looking out the front door?” Stacey asked.

  “Well, Myrna and Joseph Martin are in already, as are Cory and Amy Wang and their little boy. I suppose I was waiting for you to come home.”

  “There’s an alarm system on the door,” Stacey reminded her. “I think that when it’s all locked up at night, you’ll be just fine.”

  “Easy for you to say. You do guns and all that. I’m a single woman who barely knows how to swat flies.”

  Marty was what one might have called an old-maid schoolteacher in previous centuries. She was in her midfifties and far tougher than she imagined. Her students were in awe of her. She could control a college classroom with a single look, so Stacey had been told.

  “You always keep your phone near you. And trust in our system and our police.”

  “And you, when you’re home. Which is almost never.”

  “I’m a rookie, Marty. I have to put in my hours.”

  “Of course, of course, I know that. But tonight, tell me that man was a date. Such a face—oh, my God! I’d never be afraid of anything with him around. Handsome, yes, but fierce...and yet I’ll bet he can smile, too. Right? Date? You must have some free time.”

  “I’m sorry, Marty, no, that was not a date. He’s my partner. For now.”

  “Oh! Well, I am sorry.”

  “So am I,” Stacey muttered dryly.

  “Oh, are you not allowed to date?”

  “That’s not what I meant... Never mind. Marty, we’re locked in. Alarm is set. And I’m here. You can reach me in two seconds. I’m so sorry. I have to get some rest. I have an early morning.”

  “Oh, of course, dear. I am so, so sorry!”

  “No, you don’t need to be sorry. But I do need to go in now.”

  “Yes, of course! Good night!” She went to her apartment.

  Stacey walked down the hallway to her door.

  She’d seen the old floor plans. Her part of the house had once been the music room, dining room and pantry. The original kitchen had been outside. It was long gone, as were the old stables and smokehouse. There was only a small yard behind the building now, backed by another, newer building that offered more modern condos.

  There was only one door to her section of the house. The pantry had been turned into a small kitchen, the dining room into her bedroom, and the music room into her parlor. Though only three rooms with a small bath created out of a section that snaked out into the hallway, it was about fifteen hundred square feet and very comfortable as far as Stacey was concerned.

  It was still a little strange to be on her own. She’d gone from home to a dorm to an apartment she’d shared with three other girls, and then she’d gone into the academy where she’d also had a roommate. She loved living alone...and she hated it.

  There was no one here. Well, she could have kept chatting with Marty in the hallway. She liked Marty. She just wasn’t in the mood to deal with the woman’s nervousness. Though, that made her feel bad, and she hoped she had assured Marty.

  She really didn’t think Marty was in any danger.

  Her organs weren’t as viable as those belonging to a younger woman.

  “I could be wrong. I could be way off base, going in this direction because of the investigation Dad was involved in years and years ago,” she said aloud to a small Victorian mirror on the wall by the entry.

  She groaned, still staring at herself. “A cat! I need to get a cat. Even a parakeet or a hamster,” she told herself. “Then I wouldn’t be talking to myself.”

  But not tonight. It had been a long day. She wanted to shower and get in bed—and pray she could fall asleep quickly. She thought she had done okay on her first day in the field—even dealing with the hostility of her first Krewe partner. She supposed it was natural he’d want to work with someone he knew. An old friend. Someone he trusted in the field.

  “He was still a jerk,” she told the bathroom mirror.

  But Jackson Crow had been right about one thing: Keenan Wallace wasn’t a man you could miss. His height, of course, was enough. Because of his height he appeared lean, but he was solidly built. She had a feeling he frequented the agency gym. His eyes were the darkest shade of blue she had ever seen.

  Why the hell was she remembering his eyes and the way they focused on someone?

  She gave herself a shake. He was impressive in his appearance. Though he didn’t behave arrogantly—he didn’t have to. All he had to do was walk into someone’s view.

  Still...some of his behavior could improve.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later she’d showered, having washed her hair as well. She’d felt like she smelled of the morgue.

  And then she went to bed. She needed to sleep. She could usually find a movie on cable she really wanted to see. That guaranteed she’d fall asleep in about twenty minutes.

  Instead, she found herself searching for documentaries on Jack the Ripper.

  She found several. She chose the one that looked to be the most scholarly, curled up with her pillow, and started to watch, certain she’d be asleep in minutes.

  But they were discussing notes from the medical examiner on the first acknowledged Ripper murder, that of Mary Ann Nichols.

  The murder had taken place right where she had been found.

  “And a copycat would know that,” she said aloud. She groaned to herself.

  Details of the Ripper killings kept coming. The victims—Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Kelly. On the double-murder night, he killed Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, apparently interrupted before disemboweling Stride and carrying out his grisly work just hours later, making good with his customary technique of mutilating Catherine Eddowes.

  It wasn’t really bedtime fare. But somewhere in there, she did fall asleep.

  And the next morning at 7:26, she went out to wait for Keenan Wallace, who s
omehow managed to arrive at exactly seven thirty.

  * * *

  The room was filled with people. Representatives from the DC police, the Maryland State Police, the Virginia State Police, and FBI agents from the DC bureau as well as the Krewe of Hunters had gathered into the large conference room.

  Jackson spoke to the gathered officers, warning them the killings had sparked an atmosphere of fear that might necessitate them responding to dozens of calls, many of which would mean nothing, all of which must be addressed. He filled them in on what was known, which wasn’t much. He informed the assembled officers of the steps being taken, including investigations into the lives and activities of the younger victims and into everything regarding Billie Bingham and her business enterprises.

  Detective Crandall spoke, telling the crowd his observations regarding the first and third murders. Detective Jean Channing from Alexandria spoke at length about the second victim. And then it was Keenan’s turn to go up. He expressed the various theories they were working on: they had a vicious, mentally disturbed individual on their hands who had admired the work of Jack the Ripper, or the killings were to hide the identity of someone who specifically wanted Billie Bingham out of the way.

  Before he continued, he found himself looking across the room at his new partner. Stacey was standing next to Detective Channing. The two had met and spoken briefly at the top of the day. He noted, too, that Stacey knew several of the Krewe members here: when they had arrived, she’d been greeted with friendly smiles.

  He’d realized she wasn’t just attractive, she was a beautiful young woman who downplayed her looks. She wasn’t attempting to be ugly, but she kept her raven-dark hair pulled tightly back and wore minimal makeup. She was dressed in a white cotton tailored shirt and a dark blue pantsuit—common apparel for an agent.

  She wore it well.

  Stacey was still, watching him, listening to him. He nodded slightly in her direction.

  “Or...there’s the possibility we’re looking for something entirely different. Someone who isn’t depraved and doesn’t get a sexual pleasure from this form of mutilation and murder. The killer—or killers—may have a devious plan going on. We have noted Ripperesque removal of the victims’ organs, but none have been left with the bodies. We could be looking for a businessman—or a business cooperative. These murders could be taking place specifically for the removal and sale of those organs. Naturally, all specifics are to be kept from the press, lest the media trip us up when we are moving in the proper direction.”