“You have a last known address?”
“Virginia Penitentiary. ”
“How long has she been out?”
“A year, maybe less.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 4
Tuesday, April 4, 7:00 A.M.
Angie Carlson’s stomach tumbled with nausea the instant her eyes opened. She lay on her back and stared at the white ceiling of her bedroom as she counted to ten and drew in slow deep breaths. Cautiously, she raised her head as if handling antique crystal. Immediately, her temples pounded and her stomach lurched violently. Collapsing back against the pillow, she muttered a curse. Too many glasses of wine with her TV dinner last night had knocked her out cold. Now fully awake, she really regretted the number of drinks she’d downed. “It’s just an upset stomach. A headache. I can deal with this.”
Steeling herself, she rose slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The wood floor pricked her feet but she welcomed the distraction. Chilled toes trumped queasiness any day.
Moistening her lips, she moved out of her bedroom and down the center hall of her house. Located off Seminary Road near the Capital Beltway, the house had been built after World War II and came complete with plaster walls and crown molding in each room. Large fireplaces with marble mantels dominated the living room and original hardwood floors ran throughout the house.
The place was neat, clean and organized, but to say she’d attempted any kind of decorating would be an exaggeration. The kitchen hadn’t been updated in thirty years but she didn’t have an eye for colors and fabrics and couldn’t summon the patience to live among scaffolding and ladders. And considering her repertoire of meals included just toast and cereal, a fancy kitchen didn’t matter.
Angie dug into her refrigerator past bottles of wine and half-eaten discs of cheese to retrieve a bottle of ginger ale. She untwisted the top, savored the fizzing sound and filled a clean glass from the cabinet. She sipped the ale, enjoying the burn even as she prayed the liquid would stay down.
She leaned forward over the sink and stared out her kitchen window into the small yard that she paid a boy from the neighborhood to maintain. A large century-old oak provided protection from the summer sun but hogged so much water and light it choked the grass. A small round wrought-iron table and three matching chairs rested under the tree. She’d paid a small fortune for the table and chairs because she’d imagined leisurely Sunday breakfasts at the table. In the last two years she’d had a grand total of two meals in the shade.
In the last few months, her days had been consumed with her work as a defense attorney in the small but growing law firm of Wellington and James. In a regular year junior partners rarely had much free time, but this last year had demanded a punishing schedule. Her life had been consumed with her defense of Dr. James Dixon, a successful plastic surgeon who’d been accused of attempted murder.
Dixon who frequented prostitutes often had been suspected of killing several missing women whom he’d hired for sex. But no solid evidence linked the doctor to the missing women. Then a prostitute, Lulu Sweet, had fled his hotel room, screaming that he’d tried to kill her. Police had their first concrete evidence against the doctor. They’d arrested him for attempted murder. Angie had been able to demonstrate that the prostitute had lied about her drug use on the stand. In the end, she’d torn the young woman apart. The witness’s testimony had been struck and Angie had planted enough seeds of reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind to get an acquittal. Dr. James Dixon was now a free man. She’d become a minor superstar in the law community and had received offers to practice at larger firms. She’d opted to stay with Wellington and James.
Angie had asked Dixon if he were guilty and he’d sworn he was innocent. Despite nagging doubts she’d taken the case. She’d become a lawyer because she believed in the justice system, which demanded every defendant receive a good defense. And she’d delivered her best to Dixon.
That ideal had been as shiny as a new penny when she’d been in law school. She’d had visions of saving the world’s downtrodden from an unjust system. But five years of practicing defense law for too many clients like Dixon had tarnished that ideal. Now dreams of justice had been replaced by nightmares featuring the victims of her clients.
Angie sipped her ginger ale and turned from the window. Charlotte Wellington had promised that once the Dixon case had been resolved, Angie could do more pro bono work. Perhaps now she could get back to the law that had once excited her.
She took her ginger ale into the shower, setting it on a small tiled shelf before she turned on the hot spray. Closing her eyes, she dunked her head under the hot water, letting it wash over her pale skin. She lingered under the hot spray as long as she could before shutting off the tap and grabbing a towel. She dried her slim body and rubbed the terry cloth over her shoulder-length blond hair. Mascara added definition around her pale blue eyes and a little blush provided color to her cheeks. She chose a silk blouse and a dark pants suit and sensible flat shoes. A slim, gold crucifix dangled around her neck.
She grabbed her purse and briefcase and headed out the front door and hurried to her car. She slid behind the driver’s seat. As she backed out of the parking space, her cell rang. Caller ID told her it was the office.
She flipped open the phone. “Angie Carlson.”
“Doll, it’s Iris.” Iris Stanford ran the offices of Wellington and James. A paralegal/administrator/mom, she kept the firm’s three attorneys organized. Right now the two firm’s named partners, Charlotte Wellington and Siena James, were out of town. Just Angie was holding down the fort so she’d stayed tethered to her phone. “You got a call from your on-again, off-again client, Lenny Danvers. He’s been arrested again. He’s made bail but wants to see you. ”
She checked her watch. Lenny knew all the bail bondsmen that worked all night. “He always wants to see me.” Another tarnished penny. Thief, drug addict, manipulator.
“He says it’s important.”
“It’s always important.” She checked her watch. “Does he want me to defend him?”
“He didn’t say anything about defense. He says he’s got information on an active murder investigation.”
“That’s a new twist.” Two months ago he’d faked a heart attack to delay his testimony. Another time he’d had a breathing spasm. “Since he’s not requesting my counsel, let him stew. I’ve got other things to do.”
“Whatever you say, doll. ”
Garrison and Malcolm had been at the crime scene for the better part of the night. They had interviewed all of the shelter survivors and released them from the scene so that a city bus could transport them to another facility.
Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck as the bus drove away with the shelter residents. “No one else other than Ace saw the man with the bottle of flames.”
Garrison had hoped for corroboration of Ace’s account. “It’s disappointing.”
As the night had waned, Ace’s memory had drifted and he had a harder and harder time with the details. And a search of all the surrounding homes had not produced a camera. No “eyes” watched the shelter.
Garrison slid his hands into his pockets, staring at cold embers of the halfway house. “According to Macy, the fire’s point of origin was the front door. She found traces of accelerant, which was likely gasoline. That’s consistent with Ace’s story.”
Malcolm shrugged. “Low tech but effective.”
Forensics had sealed as much of the backyard as they could and swept it for any evidence. They’d photographed the area, sketched it and bagged several things—plastic food wrappers, a half-eaten apple and dozens of cigarette butts. But as Garrison replayed the scene of the body and how it had been so carefully laid in the yard, he doubted this killer had been careless enough to leave behind DNA evidence. It took time and planning to kidnap a woman and hold her for several days. “The medical examiner called about our Jane Doe?”
“About a half hour ago. A brand
ing iron likely burned the star shapes into the victim’s skin. She’s running a toxicology screen for drugs, but results will take days or weeks. Jane Doe had no track marks. Teeth were good, suggesting access to dental care. Recent breast implants and a nose job.”
“Prints shown up yet?”
“Not yet. But if we don’t have a match she said she could check the implants for serial numbers.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve been able to track down the director of the shelter, Sally Walton. ”
“What do you know about her? ”
“Just what I could get from her night manager. She told him she is fifty-two years old and has a Masters in Social Work. She also told him she has run several others over her career. She came here less than a year ago. He says she’s dedicated to her work and is a caring woman. The neighbors love her.”
“And where is she?” Garrison said.
“Monday nights are her night off. I just reached her on her cell phone and told her what happened. She sounded pretty torn up. She’ll be here by seven.” Malcolm checked his watch.
“Good. I want to ask her about that woman.”
“You’re still stuck on her?”
“She’s connected to all of this. I’m certain.”
Eva finally gave up on a good night’s sleep around seven A.M. She rose up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The springs in her bed squeaked as she shifted her weight. She grabbed her clothes from the end of the bed and unrolled her yoga mat. She spent the next thirty minutes moving through dozens of fast-paced sun salutations until her body glistened with sweat. The physical release eased the tension not only in her body but her mind. She’d discovered yoga in a book in the prison library. She’d started to practice just looking to kill time. What she’d found was a practice that gave her a mental peace that enabled her to endure her time behind bars.
She tiptoed into the bathroom. A shower, clean clothes, hair brushed into a neat ponytail warded off the last hints of fatigue and gave her a sense of control.
Eva headed down the back staircase to the pub’s kitchen and filled a teakettle with water and set it on the front burner. She turned on the gas flame and in the refrigerator found the tea bag she’d used yesterday, now carefully wrapped in a piece of foil. Each bag she’d discovered was good for two cups, three if she were really pushing it.
When the kettle whistled, she dipped the retrieved bag into a cup and poured hot water over it.
Helping Bobby last night stirred memories of her sister. She’d not seen Angie in over ten years. The last words they’d spoken to each other had been at Eva’s sentencing hearing. Angie had cried when the judge had passed sentence and his gavel had smacked against his desk. Eva was seventeen. Angie had been twenty-one. Angie’s eyes had been red from crying but Eva had possessed an odd calmness as if her soul had rose above her body.
The kitchen’s back door opened and closed with a bang, startling her back to the present. A blurry-eyed King strode in the back door with a bushel of potatoes. He set the bushel down on a stainless-steel prep table. The morning chill had left a rosy hue on his lean face and gray hair stuck out from under a Redskins football stocking cap. At his full height he stood five feet four inches and had narrow shoulders and a lean belly. He reminded Eva of a leprechaun more than a King.
The cold of the morning market still clung to his leather jacket. “I thought I heard you come in last night. Figured your shift didn’t work out.”
“The place burned before I arrived.”
“What!”
The story even sounded odd to her. “The place was charred rubble when I arrived. There wasn’t much for me to do but leave.”
He tugged at his belt, as if readying for a fight. “Damn, Eva. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I missed the whole drama.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You look like you slept five minutes last night.”