HER LAST MISTAKE Read online

  She wasn’t sure what it said about her, but she knew that getting back to work would help her. She’d grieved considerably during the past week and a half and had managed to accept that Peter was gone—that Paige’s father was dead. Of course, she was also factoring in that she knew who had killed him and she could play a vital part in getting the killer. So in a way, the pursuit and capture of Lynch could very well be a form of her grieving process. And if that was indeed the case, she was fine with that.

  She was still wrestling with all of this when she pulled into the employee lot along the front edge of the field office. She didn’t feel excited or elated as she made her way through the doors and into the lobby, but there was a sense of moving on. Something terrible had happened and she was choosing to put it behind her and move on rather than stay mired in the muck. She had to do it for many reasons: to stay sane, to show her daughter a portrait of strength, to take a first step in bringing her husband’s killer to justice.

  Rachel felt a small surge of confidence as she entered the small waiting area by Anderson’s office. The receptionist at the desk was typing an email, looked up and saw her, and gave a nod. Rachel then entered Anderson’s office and when she passed through the door and saw Anderson and Jack waiting for her, it was almost as if the past ten days hadn’t even occurred. For just a moment, she’d stepped back into time, maybe even into some alternate universe where Peter had not been killed, and life felt the same as it always had even if for that one, brief moment.

  “Good morning, Agent Gift,” Anderson said. “Thanks again for coming in.”

  “Of course.”

  She and Jack locked eyes for a moment as she took the single available chair in front of Anderson’s desk. He smiled at her and that one simple gesture seemed loaded with a variety of emotions—sadness, uncertainty, relief.

  Anderson wasted no time, and when he spoke, he sounded both caring and professional at the same time. “Let me start by saying that there will be no expectations here. If you end up thinking you’re not ready to take on a case, I completely understand.”

  “I told him you may actually want to get back into work,” Jack said, almost apologetically.

  She shrugged and said, “Well, you aren’t wrong about that.” Then, looking at Anderson, she said, “The only thing that might make me think twice is if it’s a case that’s going have me hours away, having to stay overnight for a long period of time. I have to think of my daughter, too.”

  “Well, this case is in Fredericksburg, just an hour and a half away. Whether you come back and forth or stay there during the case is your call.” He then slid a folder over to her. She noticed that Jack didn’t bother looking, making her assume he already knew the details. As was Anderson’s usual approach, he went over the basic details of the case as Rachel read over them.

  “So far, we have two victims—one man, one woman. Both murders took place in their homes and it looks like they were both asleep when they were attacked. Initial reports state that both victims were strangled to death and then their bodies were staged in the bed to appear as if they were sleeping peacefully. No clues, no trail, no leads. Nothing yet. The only clue at all is a bit of footage from a camera on the doorbell but, as you’ll see, it’s useless.”

  Rachel flipped through the four sheets of paper in the folder, noting that the deaths were believed to be two days apart; the most recent had been two days ago and still, no progress had been made.

  “Based on what we know, the local PD up there didn’t even think the two deaths were connected until last night when the coroner reported that both deaths were indeed from strangulation,” Anderson said. “Still, based on the killer striking in homes and the close proximity, we thought this might be a good case to not only keep you active if that’s indeed what you want, but also an excellent opportunity to see if we can draw Lynch out.”

  It truly did seem like a no-brainer. The timing seemed right, the distance was perfect, and the case seemed simple enough. The clincher for her was the distance, though. That and the massive flexibility Anderson was offering her. It made her feel guilty about keeping her cancer diagnosis from him for all this time. If he knew about that as well, she knew there was no way in hell she’d still be working.

  “This seems perfect,” she said. “But sir, you have to understand…I just dropped Paige off at school. I can’t leave right now. If I’m not home this afternoon…”

  “Absolutely,” Anderson said. He looked to Jack and raised an eyebrow. “Any solutions you can think of?”

  “I can start communicating with the officers that have played a role in the case this far,” he said. “I can also reach out to the coroners. I can start compiling information while we wait to leave this afternoon. Hell, it may save us a bit of headache and time doing it this way.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, directing the question at both of them.

  “Yes,” Anderson said. “At the end of the day, as selfish as it may seem from all of us, the primary goal of this case—rather than solving it, of course—is to draw out Lynch. Given that I don’t really care when you leave, so long as we let the police force know you are coming.”

  “Then let’s do that,” she said. “And thank you both.”

  Jack smiled, while Anderson waved the comment away. “Would you be able to leave by five?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Without a problem.”

  “Then there’s the plan,” Jack said. “I’ll email you any information and documents as I get them throughout the day. By the time we get to Fredericksburg, we should be just as informed as the local PD.”

  “Rachel,” Anderson said. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard him use just her first name. It touched her, but it was also a bit unnerving. “Let me repeat: should you change your mind at any moment—”

  “I appreciate it, sir. But as soon as I can get things squared away at home and have a talk with Paige, I’ll be good to go.”

  “In that case, then,” he said with a rare smile, “I’m glad to have you on this one. You and Jack keep your minds on the case, and the bureau will keep our eyes open for Lynch. If all goes well, we’ll have a closed case and Lynch behind bars by the time this is done.”

  It sounded almost too hopeful. But when Rachel considered the news she’d gotten from Emerson earlier in the week, she thought it might be okay to hope. As long as it didn’t blind her to the reality of the situation, she thought a little hope might be exactly what she needed to fully reclaim her old life, in spite of her tumor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rachel did the driving, even though she knew Jack had reservations about her being behind the wheel. This was because of a car accident they’d been involved in when her tumor had still been wreaking havoc on her senses. But with nearly a month of no symptoms aside from a minor headache here and there, he seemed fine with it. She appreciated this to no end, as it was one of many small things she felt she could control—and not much had felt as if it had been in her control over the last two weeks or so.

  They were able to leave a bit earlier than they expected and, because Jack had done such a fine job of gathering information and putting their schedule together, they were able to travel directly to the house where the second murder had taken place, where they were to meet the detective that had been assigned the case.

  They parked in front of the house, listed as belonging to Gloria Masterson, just before seven. The sky had started to dim, but night was still at least an hour or so away. Gloria Masterson’s house was located in a respectable sub-division. The homes all looked expensive, but they were spaced out and fairly isolated. Groves of trees and three-to-five acres of yard separated them all.

  There was still a streamer of crime scene tape strung up between the porch posts, which Rachel and Jack ducked beneath. Jack opened the front door and poked his head in. “Hello? Detective Riley?”

  “Yeah?” a skeptical voice called out from elsewhere in the house.

  “It’s Agents Rivers and
Gift, with the FBI.”

  “Oh. Come on in! I’m upstairs.”

  When they stepped inside, Rachel saw that clear plastic runners had been laid down on the floor. Rachel took the time to scan the house from the foyer—a kitchen just barely visible beyond what looked to be a sitting room to the right, and a hallway to the left. Ahead, and just to the right, were a set of stairs, the railing and posts made of a gorgeous cedar.

  They headed upstairs, where a man was standing in the doorway of the first room along the hallway. He turned to greet them, and Rachel caught a glimpse of the bedroom over his shoulder. Everything looked clean and white, with more of the plastic protective sheeting on the carpeted floor.

  “Good to meet you,” Riley said, turning and shaking Jack’s hand. Riley looked to be nearing fifty, with the sort of moustache that made Rachel assume Riley had gotten a great deal of inspiration from 1980s detective shows on television.

  “Same to you,” Jack said. “Thanks again for everything you’ve been able to help coordinate over the phone.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  Rachel forced herself into the conversation, already feeling like she was a bit behind because she’d not been part of the conversations throughout the day. “I’m Agent Gift,” she said, offering her hand.

  Riley shook it, but his attention already seemed to be back on the bedroom. He gave a shrug and gestured to the room like he was almost embarrassed. “As you can see, there’s nothing here. Once Gloria Masterson’s body was removed, there was nothing at all to see here. Same as the other crime scene.”

  “The last time I spoke to you,” Jack said, “you’d indicated there might be a few more clips of interest from the doorbell camera out front. Did that ever come to anything?”

  “None. Nothing. It was just a doe and her baby strutting across the yard three days ago. As for the footage that might have helped us, well, you’ve seen that, right?”

  “I have.”

  Rachel had also seen it. She’d viewed it several times on the way over, but also felt the need to see it again as she stood in Gloria Masterson’s bedroom. She took out her phone and pulled up the footage as she and Jack walked further into the bedroom.

  The footage made it clear that the intruder had been planning this event. The clip showed a figure in a thick, hooded sweatshirt approaching from the road. They came up into her paved driveway and then made a direct line to her sidewalk. They did not come up on the porch, but walked around to the back of the house—lining up with details of the case notes that indicated there had been forced entry through the kitchen window.

  The figure was only filmed for eleven seconds and not once did they face the door. They kept their head down, everything hidden by the hood. Rachel pocketed her phone and looked at the bed. The case notes indicated that there had been no prints of any kind on the bed. In fact, the only thing that had been found in the bedroom that should not have been there was a stray piece of mulch that had come from Gloria’s flowerbed along the back porch, presumably tracked in by the killer.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Riley said. “This thing has me scratching my head. Not because it’s such an odd case. Quite the opposite. It’s pretty cut and dry. The guy strangled both victims and he did wearing gloves because there isn’t a single trace of a fingerprint anywhere. At this scene, he came in through the kitchen window, and at the second, he entered through the basement.”

  Rachel scanned the bedroom one more time. She could almost sense the confused movement of cops within the room from a day or so ago. The area had been thoroughly searched and even from looking at the pristine condition of it, she could tell there would be no answers here. If there were, they’d be pulled from the carpet or the sheets, but forensics had found nothing so far.

  “I think we should go look at the kitchen window,” Rachel said.

  “Help yourself,” Riley said. “I hope you don’t think ill of me, but I’m going to knock off. My shift ended half an hour ago and quite frankly…there’s just nothing here for me to do.”

  The three of them walked downstairs, Riley leading the way into the kitchen before he took his leave. He handed Jack a business card and, almost apologetically, said: “If you need an assist on anything at all, give me a call. The Captain told me to step off of this once you guys got on the scene—a lack of clues and all that. But let me know if you end up needing any help.”

  With that said, he made his exit. Rachel and Jack remained in the kitchen, starting to look around. Rachel started with the window and could see no signs of forced entry from the inside—no cracks, no prints, no scuffs. The window was large and sat just to the left of the kitchen sink, looking out onto the back porch and the half an acre or so of yard beyond. The counter to the left of the sink was clean; a small, clear decanter filled with tea bags was the only thing that would get in the way of someone entering through the kitchen window.

  She followed Jack outside onto the back porch, where they observed the window together. Here, the indicators of forced entry were clear, but still minor. There were twin scratches along the bottom of the window, and a small dent along the frame. The dent caused the frame to buckle outward a bit over a space of about four or five inches.

  “Crowbar?” Jack asked, leaning in closer to get a better look.

  “Maybe a smaller one, sure.”

  “No prints on the windows, none in the house, not even traceable footsteps in the grass…”

  “Well, he came straight up the driveway, then alongside the house. That piece of mulch makes me assume he made his way through the flowerbeds. And if it’s well mulched, he wouldn’t leave prints.”

  Jack nodded as he continued to study the window. Rachel made her way down the back porch steps and into the yard. She walked to the right side of the yard, the side the figure in the hood had used to come to the back porch.

  Sure enough, most of the edge along the house between the driveway and where the back porch started was occupied by a flower bed. There were two rose bushes and what she thought might be a basic hedge of some kind taking up the space. It all allowed for more than enough room for someone to pass through. Without stepping into the flowerbed herself, she looked down and saw that the area was indeed properly mulched. It would easily absorb footsteps, keeping any passing feet from leaving prints in the soil underneath.

  The question this presented was if the killer—presumably the man in the doorbell footage—had known all of this and had planned very well, or if he was just lucky. But the fact that there were no fingerprints anywhere indicated that he’d been wearing gloves. And that usually meant there had been planning and intent.

  Taking one last look at the flowerbed, Rachel started to understand that the only real clue they had was the way the killer had staged the victims. They weren’t going to find answers at the crime scenes themselves, but in the crime. And so far, all they had to work with were dead bodies.

  “Anything?” Jack’s voice asked as he came around the side of the house to join her.

  “Just roses.”

  Jack looked at the mulch and frowned. “Seems this guy really knew what he was doing.”

  “Seems that way,” Rachel said. “And I’m starting to think the only answers we might be able to get are going to be from the victims.”

  “From two dead bodies?” Jack said, puzzled.

  “Yeah. So let’s go see what they have to say.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was properly dusk when Rachel and Jack walked into the coroner’s office. They were promptly escorted to the examination room where both victims had been studied. When they entered the room, the coroner was signing a paper attached to a clipboard. He looked up and placed the clipboard on the edge of an examination table that took up the center of the room.

  “I was told the FBI would be here sometime soon,” the coroner said. He was in his late fifties, his widow’s peak treating him very unkindly. He had the sort of five o’clock shadow stubble that looked like it was probably
always there, even when he shaved. “You’re here for our sleeping beauties, I take it?”

  “We are,” Rachel said. She’d met coroners in the past that used a very dry form of humor. She had always assumed it was a way to cope with what they did and the things they saw on a daily basis. But this guy was irritating her a bit more than normal. She didn’t think sleeping beauties was an appropriate way to address two people that had been strangled.

  “Well, the first victim was taken to the funeral home this morning,” he said. “You’re welcome to view the second…we’d just need to pull the body back out here.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Jack said. “As you do that, would you mind providing us access to whatever records and reports you have on your findings of the first victim?”

  “Sure thing.” He walked to the left side of the room, where a stunted counter served as a workspace. He clicked around on a laptop for a moment, opening up a file and then stepping away. “Mr. Carl Jackson, age fifty-one. Help yourself. I’ll be back with the latest victim, one Mrs. Gloria Masterson.”

  He strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. As Rachel and Jack approached the workstation, Jack shook his head. “He seems to enjoy his work just a bit too much for my taste.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Rachel. “But I guess it’s better to work with a happy coroner than one that hates his job.”

  “Good point.”

  They looked through the file the coroner had opened for them. It was an eighteen-page document, complete with pictures that police had sent over of the victim at the crime scene. This was a bit unorthodox, but given that the method of murder seemed to go along with the way the bodies were staged, Rachel understood why it had been done. Between the coroner’s results, the police report they’d both read, and the photos—both from the crime scene and the ones the coroner had taken—a fairly clear portrait was presented.

  Carl Jackson had been strangled in his sleep. The bruising around his neck made this quite clear. Once he’d been killed, he’d been situated in a peaceful way, tucked under the sheets as if he were a child. The pictures made it look as if the sheets had been pulled snug. It almost looked like the killer wanted to make sure he was comfortable. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle…nothing.