I See You (Criminal Profiler 4)

“How long have you been here?” Vaughan asked the young officer.

“Five minutes. Paramedics have been called, but there’s no way Foster is alive.”

“How did he die?” Vaughan asked.

“He cut his wrists.”

Vaughan looked past the officer toward Nikki, who was standing next to one of the police vehicles. Her arms were folded over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of interest and worry.

“Ms. McDonald,” Vaughan said.

“Detective. Agent.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why did you enter the residence?”

“Foster said he’d give me an exclusive interview. He said he had a lot to tell me, but not a lot of time.”

“Tell you what?”

“I wish I knew.” She pulled in a breath, as if inhaling a cigarette. “He was dead when I found him.”

“Did you disturb anything while you were in the room?” Vaughan asked.

“You’ll find my fingerprints on the back door, but I didn’t touch anything else. When I found Foster, I called the cops right away and got the hell out.”

“Why didn’t you call when he first contacted you?” he asked.

She leveled her gaze on him. “Because I’m chasing a story, Detective. Like you, I want to do my job the best I can.”

“When you say he contacted you, how did he do it?” Spencer asked.

“He texted.”

“Could he have sent you the text at the beginning of the summer regarding Marsha Prince’s remains?”

“It’s not the same number. I double-checked.”

“What else have you found out during your investigation?” he asked.

“I’ve given it all to you.”

“Were you wearing your camera when you entered the house?”

“No. I didn’t want to spook him.”

“How did you know the text really was from Foster?” Vaughan asked.

“I wasn’t sure.” A grin tugged at the edges of her lips. “But you know how it is: you got to play to win.”

“Can I see your phone?” Vaughan asked.

She dug it out of her purse and handed it to him. The screen saver image featured a PR shot of Nikki at the station.

“Password?” he asked.

“Search warrant?” she countered.

“I’m not in the mood for games,” he said.

“Neither am I,” she said. “What little I have of a life, I have on that phone, and I’d rather not give it over to the cops.”

“I can get a warrant.”

She grabbed her phone back. “And that will take time.”

“I want the number of the person who texted you.”

Nikki typed quickly, and seconds later, his phone dinged with several texts. “Why would he kill himself if he didn’t murder Hadley and Marsha Prince?”

Vaughan turned away from the reporter. “No comment.”

Vaughan and Spencer pulled on latex gloves.

“Why come here?” Spencer asked. “Why not make a run for it?”

“If the guy had any good memories, they’d have been wrapped up in this house,” Vaughan said.

They each had their hands on their weapons as they approached the back door. Vaughan took point while Spencer covered him as they went through the house toward the study.

A clock ticked in the hallway. The two exchanged glances and moved forward; he checked the living and dining rooms while Spencer stood watch. They continued this methodical search through the downstairs and garage before they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Skylar’s room was untouched. Like the other parts of the house, there was no sign that Foster had been here.

They entered the master bedroom. Vaughan stepped around the earlier bloodstain and glanced toward the red arch of spray on the wall before he checked the last space in the house.

He pushed open the bathroom door and instantly smelled the copper scent of blood in the room. This was not stale but fresh.

He rounded the corner and found Mark Foster lying in the tub. He had slashed both wrists.

Holstering his weapon, he reached for a pulse. Foster’s skin was pale, cold to the touch. There was no heartbeat. Foster’s wounds were from his wrists up his forearms. They were deep and deliberate with no hesitation.

“The paramedics are two minutes away,” she said.

“He’s gone.”

“Why did he summon her here?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you see any kind of note?”

He stepped back from the body and scanned the room. That’s when he spotted the mirror over the double vanity. The words were written in Hadley’s red lipstick. They read I did it. I’m sorry.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Thursday, August 15, 6:00 p.m.

Fifty-Nine Hours after the 911 Call

Alexandria, Virginia

Within hours, the brass was considering the Hadley Foster case on the way to being closed. Captain Preston was calling it open and shut. Wife had been having an affair, told the husband she was leaving, and he lost it and stabbed her to death. Only after had he realized what a shit storm he had created. He had tried to cover it up by stashing his kid, ditching his wife’s body, and creating a narrative that involved a masked stranger. The nonthreatening cuts to his arms were self-inflicted.

Zoe crossed the parking lot of the police station to her car. She did not trust the open-and-shut verdict in this case. There was likely enough evidence to have convicted Mark Foster, but the pieces felt forced.

Her phone rang, and an unknown number popped up. “Agent Spencer.”

“This is Jewel,” she said softly.

“Jewel, how are you?”

“Okay.” In the background, another girl was speaking, and Jewel’s reply to her was too muffled for Zoe to make it out.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s another girl like Galina.”

Zoe closed her eyes. “Was she killed?”

“No. She got away.”

Adrenaline rushed through Zoe. “Did she see his face?”

“Yes. She got a good look at him. Can we try the sketch again? I can bring her to you.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a motel down on Route One.”

“I’ll come right now.”

“Just you,” Jewel said. “My friend is spooked by men right now.”

“Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, Zoe swung through a drive-through to pick up burgers and sodas and then parked in front of the room Jewel had indicated. She grabbed her bag, which held her sketch pad and pencils, and knocked on a door with chipped blue paint and tarnished brass numbers. She moved her jacket away from the grip of her holstered gun and stepped back to the side. A chain rattled on the other side.

Jewel peered at her through the cracked door with wide dark eyes that telegraphed a mixture of fear and relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I said I would.” She held up the burgers. “Can I come in?”

Jewel glanced back in the room, as if to get approval, and then nodded. “Yes.”

As she stepped into the dimly lit room, her gaze skipped from Jewel to the young girl standing by the bathroom. Not more than sixteen, the girl was thin, and her long hair was dyed a brassy blond. Mascara was smudged under her eyes, as if she had been crying.