She breathed in deeply, the icy air clearing her lungs and her mind. She willed the feeling away, as she’d learned to do six years ago when the sense of being watched by unseen eyes never left her, day or night, in public or locked in her bedroom.
It worked. She smiled to herself and continued toward the restaurant, where her brother was most likely irritated that she’d made him wait.
THREE
Noah Armstrong had been assigned Roger Morton’s homicide less than twenty-four hours ago, and every answer he received led to twice as many questions.
True to his word, Hans Vigo had provided Noah with all of Morton’s files. Morton pled on two counts of felony rape and one count attempted murder of a federal agent, but mandatory sentencing guidelines had been tossed out the window. Scott had been killed while evading authorities, and all they’d had was Morton’s word that he’d turned over everything. And while Noah understood the necessity of plea arrangements, this one seemed grossly circumspect. Six years? Hardly enough time for what he’d copped to doing—and there were dozens of other charges that had been dismissed. Lives had been on the line, but it seemed that the investigators had been desperate. And desperation breeds mistakes.
Morton had been released from federal custody and put on probation, the federal system’s concept of parole. The terms of his probation were rigid: he could not leave the state of Colorado, where he had secured a job with a cousin who owned an auto body shop outside Denver. He could not possess a firearm, enter any adult businesses such as strip clubs or sex shops, engage in any of his previous activities in legal or illegal pornography, and could not communicate with any of his former associates or attempt to contact any of his victims. Any violation would have sent him straight back to prison.
Noah’s new partner on the case was Special Agent Abigail Resnick, a ten-year veteran of the Bureau who’d started in Washington but transferred to Atlanta five years ago. Abigail was in her mid-thirties, efficient, and moved into the cubicle next to Noah’s with authority. She seemed pleased to be back in D.C. She had a slight accent, but Noah didn’t think it was Southern—it had more of a hint of Boston.
Abigail hung up the phone at her temporary desk, where she’d already spread out, and spun around in her chair before leaning back with a wide grin. “So Morton flew from Denver International on the last flight out on January fifth, arriving at Dulles at five-forty a.m. the next day. According to his probation officer, Morton was required to meet every first and third Wednesday of the month and submit to inspections. The last time probation saw him was on the fifth at four-thirty in the afternoon.” She glanced up from her notes, her eyes sparkling. “My guess is he left the meeting and headed straight to the airport. He bought the ticket online same day using his cousin’s ID and credit card. The cousin swears he didn’t give Morton permission to do it.”
Noah shook his head. “Hard to prove he did, but we should send a pair of agents to shake the cousin and see what else falls out of his pockets.”
Abigail made a note. “Monica Guardino heads the white-collar crimes squad in Denver. She’s familiar with Morton’s probation and is headed now to his apartment.”
“Did Morton have a return flight?”
“Nada. One-way ticket, Denver to Dulles. No other reservations under his name or his cousin’s name. He could have picked up a fake ID here or in Denver.”
Had Morton planned on returning to Denver? Or was he planning to go underground? Why was he in D.C. in the first place? A temporary stop before leaving the country? Though he’d ostensibly turned over all his offshore accounts to the government, they’d have no surefire way of knowing. But why now and not when he was first released? Why wait six months?
“Hello?” Abigail said, knocking on her desktop. “You there, Armstrong?”
“Sorry, thinking.”
“Think out loud, buddy. We’re partners, right?” Her eyes widened as if in warning.
He was used to working alone, but Abigail had a point. “I was just wondering what he had planned in D.C., and whether this stop was permanent or a layover before fleeing the country.”
“He’d need a fake passport. His cousin doesn’t have a passport issued to him.”
“Not impossible,” Noah said. “Check the State Department and see if there is a pending application under the cousin’s name and social.”
“Got it.” Abigail made a note. “I read over the autopsy report again. Morton’s body was found at seven a.m. The coroner puts his time of death at eleven p.m. Friday night.”
“Security cameras?”
“Nope. I was going to go check it out, just to get a feel of the layout and where the vic was found, but the local police did a thorough job when they were first called in. I read through all the interviews of the marina employees. The last staff left at five-thirty p.m. on Friday. After the murder, they checked boats and supplies and told police that nothing was taken or disturbed.”
“Footprints? Evidence?”
“No prints—the ground is hard as concrete. It’s friggin’ thirty-one degrees right now, did you know that?” She shook her head in disgust. “Morton’s clothing was sent to the FBI lab for trace evidence. There was nothing found on his body—no identification, no hotel card key, no keys at all. It is possible he brought nothing, or the killer robbed him.”
“What would he have to steal? The crime appears to be motivated by revenge based on the attack to Morton’s genitals.”
“But it’s still an execution. No rage in a single bullet to the back of the head.”
Noah considered that point. “Morton must have been taken by surprise.”
“That would have been hard to do—did you look at the crime scene photos? It’s open, right there on the river, near the dry docks.”
Noah had looked at the photos. “The killer could have been waiting among the boats. They’re stored close together.”
“But Morton’s body was found in the open.”
“Suggesting a meeting.”
Abigail nodded. “But no car was found. We’re checking rental agencies and motels.”
“He could have come with someone. There’re no drag or scuffle marks to indicate a fight or body dump.”
“Why the marina?”
“Convenience. But it wasn’t a body dump—the evidence proves that the victim was shot where he was found.”
“I have an analyst contacting motels starting with those closest to Dulles and working out toward D.C. If we find where Morton was holed up, we might get a much better idea what he was up to.”
Noah looked down at his notes. “What if he threatened his last known victim? Or Kate Donovan, the agent who took him down? Maybe she killed him in self-defense.”
Abigail shook her head. “If Morton threatened either Kate or Lucy Kincaid and was killed as a result, they had cause.”
“Maybe. Though if it was a justified shooting, she should have come forward.”
“You don’t know Kate Donovan.”
“Well, I will now. We’re going to her house this afternoon.”
Abigail sighed. “This is a conversation I’m not looking forward to.”
“Why? If she’s innocent in Morton’s murder, then we need to know.”
“She’s very protective of her sister-in-law. Do you know what happened to Lucy Kincaid?”
“I read the file.” It had been rather slim. Lucy Kincaid had been kidnapped and held hostage on an island off the coast of Washington State. For nearly two days she’d been repeatedly raped by Morton and two men unidentified in the records, before being rescued by Agent Donovan and others. What made the crime even more heinous was that her assault was shown live on the Internet and several thousand people had paid to watch. Worse, they’d voted on how she was supposed to die.