ONCE TRAPPED Read online

  Jared dutifully followed her instructions and soon began to relate everything he could find out about Julian Morse’s death. The man’s body had been found by a servant late one night, brutally stabbed to death when he was reclining beside his pool. No one was yet in custody, but the Birmingham police seemed to suspect a number of people—family members, servants, business partners …

  It doesn’t sound like he had any shortage of enemies, Riley thought as she listened to Ruhl.

  The cops were strongly considering the possibility that the actual murder had been carried out by a hired killer.

  Finally Ruhl managed to find the address for Morse’s home.

  As they drove westward past the vast amusement park outside of Atlanta, Ruhl began to ask Riley questions about her own career. At first she gave him polite but sometimes evasive replies. But when he started making nosy queries about her unconventional methods and her problems with authority, her answers became terse.

  She was worried that the two-and-a-half-hour drive between Atlanta and Birmingham could get combative. But by the time they crossed the border into the state of Alabama, they weren’t talking at all. This suited Riley just fine. Jared Ruhl wasn’t exactly growing on her. And she was enjoying the scenery—long stretches of woodland broken up by small towns and farms.

  Ruhl was fast asleep by the time Riley drove into Birmingham. She decided it was time for him to start earning his way.

  “Wake up,” she said sharply. “I could use some directions.”

  Ruhl directed her through the city, which he seemed to know pretty well. Riley had never visited Birmingham before. As she drove near a huge iron statue staring down on the city from a tall pedestal, she wondered whether it might be of some Confederate soldier.

  “That’s Vulcan,” Ruhl explained. “Roman god of the forge. Birmingham began as a big steel center.”

  Riley remembered what Van Roff had said to her about Julian Morse—that he was the heir to a family steel fortune. So far, the two murder victims seemed to have at least one thing in common. They’d both been very rich.

  Following the young cop’s directions, Riley eventually drove into a very high-end neighborhood, where huge houses nestled among trees. When they arrived at Julian Morse’s home, Riley saw that it was somewhat smaller than the Farrell mansion in Atlanta. When she’d visited Farrell the previous winter, she’d found the ostentation repulsive. This one didn’t seem to be trying quite as hard to look wealthy.

  Like the Farrell house, this one wasn’t gated or guarded from outside. But both were in wealthy neighborhoods where an intruder would surely attract notice. A killer would have to blend into the community well or be very skillful at what he was doing.

  She parked the car in front of the house, certain that security cameras were watching their arrival. When she and Jared approached the entrance and rang the bell, it was opened promptly by a tall, elderly man with a rather large belly. Clad as he was in an elegant black suit, at first Riley took him to be a butler.

  Except for one detail. His spotted bow tie was slightly askew, as if to deliberately suggest a certain casualness.

  The man looked them over carefully, especially scrutinizing Jared’s uniform.

  “May I help you?” he asked in a slow southern accent.

  Riley took out her badge and said, “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI. My colleague here is Officer Jared Ruhl of the Atlanta police. We’re here concerning the murder of Julian Morse.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “You’re not here to arrest me, I hope. I answered all the policemen’s questions last week, and I thought they’d accepted my alibi. You see, I was in my own home playing bridge when my brother was killed.”

  “Your brother?” Riley asked.

  “Yes,” the man said. “I’m Roderick Morse, Julian’s older brother.”

  Then he squinted and added, “But I would have thought you’d know that.”

  Riley squirmed a little inside and reminded herself …

  Our plan is to bluff our way through this.

  She just hoped that she and her new partner didn’t blow it somehow.

  Roderick Morse was glancing back and forth between Riley and Jared.

  “I must say, this is rather odd,” Morse said. “You, sir, are from Atlanta, and you, ma’am, must be based—where? The FBI is located in Virginia, I believe. Aren’t you both rather far from your regular stomping grounds?”

  Before Riley could speak, Jared started talking. Riley couldn’t help holding her breath, worrying whether he might say something grossly inappropriate.

  He said, “Maybe you heard that there was a similar murder in Atlanta—another rich guy by the name of Andrew Farrell.”

  “Oh!” the man said with a slight gasp. “Well, I assure you that I had nothing to do with that murder either.”

  Riley hastily said, “The killings were enough alike that we think they might be connected. That’s why we’re here. We’d like a look at the crime scene, if that’s all right.”

  “Well, I don’t see why not,” Morse said. “Come with me.”

  As Morse led them into the house, Riley saw that instead of the ridiculously dramatic staircase and pale carpets of the Farrell mansion, this one featured sparkling marble floors, huge arched windows, and huge crystal chandeliers. She found it all just as overwhelming.

  How could anybody possibly live in these places?

  Morse kept on talking as they continued on through the house.

  “I’m sorry to say that my brother and I were estranged during the last few years. But since he didn’t leave an heir, it’s up to me to settle the estate, which is why I’m here. This whole place and everything in it will have to be sold.”

  He let out a scornful chuckle and added, “I can’t say that I’m the least bit sad about it. My tastes and my brother’s were rather different. There’s a whiff of the postmodern in this conglomeration of styles that doesn’t agree with me. My own home reflects my own inclinations toward a good old-fashioned antebellum look.”

  He looked at Jared and said in a supercilious tone, “Antebellum means ‘before the war,’ by the way. I hope, as a fellow Southerner, I don’t have to tell you which war I’m talking about.”

  Riley could see Jared bristle at his condescension.

  “Yeah, I know which war.” Jared grunted. “But weren’t your folks in the steel business back when this town got started? That wasn’t until after the Civil War, if I remember my history right—when the carpetbaggers moved in.”

  Riley was alarmed to see Morse’s face redden with anger. She could tell that Jared had really hit a nerve. He was probably right that the Morse family hadn’t arrived in Alabama until the Reconstruction years after the Civil War. They’d never been hifalutin plantation owners, never lived like a family out of Gone With the Wind.

  Jared was turning out to be a sharp observer, but even so …

  Saying what he’s figured out isn’t helpful, she thought.

  She wished she could just tell him to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately, their host seemed to be keeping his ire in check—at least for now.

  Morse said, “I suppose you want me to show you the actual location of the crime.”

  He led Riley and Jared through the house and out the back door into an outdoor recreation area with a swimming pool and an array of chairs and tables.

  Riley felt a deep tingle as she walked toward a particular chair, where the cushions had been removed.

  A familiar instinct was kicking in. It was a sense of the killer’s mind.

  Then, without consciously willing it, she stopped in her tracks.

  It happened right here, she thought.

  This was where he killed Julian Morse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Riley breathed slowly and let that tingling sensation build up inside her.

  That feeling was, after all, perhaps her most powerful gift as an investigator.

  Of course, du
ring the last week, the crime scene had been cleaned of every drop of blood, any sign that the murder had ever happened.

  Even so, Riley was beginning to visualize the whole thing.

  Morse said, “According to the police—”

  “I know,” Riley said, interrupting him.

  She stared at the reclining chair and began to relate her impressions to Morse and Jared …

  “It was night, and Julian Morse was alone enjoying some moments of quiet relaxation after his swim. Half-asleep, he didn’t hear the intruder creeping up behind him—to directly where I’m standing right now.”

  Imagining herself holding a large knife, she crouched beside the chair.

  “The killer leaned over and stabbed him from behind—right in the middle of his abdomen, if he had any idea what he was doing. In order to deliberately inflict multiple stab wounds, he didn’t want the knife to get stuck between the victim’s ribs.”

  Riley began to act out the killer’s movements.

  “He pulled the knife out, and Morse began to writhe. Morse opened his mouth to scream, but that first wound shocked him into silence. His diaphragm may have been pierced—if so, he could no longer breathe. He could only make a horrible choking sound. He began to writhe and flail his arms.”

  She breathed slowly, then said …

  “The killer’s adrenaline was already high, and for a moment he was alarmed by Morse’s thrashing. I don’t think …”

  She paused to let the hunch sink in.

  “I don’t think he’d ever killed anyone before. He may have had a flash of self-doubt. ‘Can I finish this?’ he may have wondered. Suddenly the whole thing seemed a lot more difficult than it had a few moments before.”

  She felt more and more strongly what the killer must have felt …

  “He rallied his will and grabbed hold of the victim somehow, probably by using his free arm to seize him from under the chin. He plunged the knife into his body again and again …”

  Riley felt slightly uncertain now. She hadn’t seen the autopsy reports for either murder.

  She knew that both of the victims had died from numerous knife wounds—but where had those wounds been inflicted? Just in the abdomen, or in all the surrounding areas, including legs and arms? Riley had a strong feeling that the killer had gone wild once he’d gotten started stabbing, randomly piercing the man’s body all over the place.

  But what had he done with the knife?

  Had he escaped with it?

  That was a detail that had been left out of the news stories.

  Then she remembered something Morgan Farrell had said to her over the phone as she’d stood looking at her husband’s body …

  “The knife is lying right next to him.”

  Riley rose to her feet and spoke aloud again …

  “He dropped the knife right here beside the chair. He may have stood looking at Morse’s lifeless body, but only for a moment. Then he made his escape.”

  Riley turned to look at Morse and Jared.

  Morse’s face looked pale now.

  He said quietly, “Well … that’s considerable more gory detail than I heard from the police.”

  Riley suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious. She seldom carried out this disturbing exercise in the presence of civilians. It was hardly any surprise that Morse was shocked.

  Jared let out a grim chuckle at Morse’s discomfort.

  He said, “That’s because this is no ordinary cop. This is Special Agent Riley Paige of the BAU.”

  Riley noticed a note of pride in Jared’s voice. He definitely seemed to be pleased with himself for working with her.

  He’d better not get used to it, she thought.

  Then Jared said, “But how did the killer get here in the first place?”

  Riley looked up and noticed several security cameras pointing down into the pool area.

  She said, “The first thing he did was disconnect the security system, including those cameras. Probably just a matter of cutting wires.”

  Morse said, “Yes, that’s what the police said. Alas, Julian’s system seems to have been woefully out of date, and it was easy to disconnect. A wireless system would have served much better.”

  Riley stood still and looked around the perimeter of the property. On the side nearest the pool was a wooded area. She could see a high chain-link fence there among the trees.

  Riley pointed and said, “He went out over that fence, the same way he’d come in. See that branch hanging over the fence? Coming in, he climbed out onto it and dropped himself down right into this pool area.”

  Jared scratched his head and asked, “But wouldn’t going back the same way be a problem?”

  Riley walked toward the overhanging branch and looked at the ground under it.

  “Not really,” she said. “My guess is he’s pretty agile, maybe even athletic. Look, you can see the soil is disturbed here. These indentations are from where he landed. Going out, he was probably able jump up high enough to grab hold of the branch.”

  She turned again toward Morse and Jared.

  Morse’s mouth was hanging open.

  “Well,” he said. “This has been a … stimulating exercise in ratiocination. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Riley took another look around. She felt as though she’d gotten as much information from the murder scene as sheer intuition would allow. To learn anything else, she’d need access to police and coroner records—and that wasn’t possible, at least not yet.

  She said to Morse, “Thank you for your help. We’ll go now.”

  Morse led Riley and Jared back through the house again. When they reached the front hallway, Riley stopped in her tracks when something startling caught her eye. It was something she hadn’t seen before because it was off to one side, hanging over an ornate fireplace in a formal area.

  It was a full-length oil portrait of a beautiful woman of indeterminate age. She was standing in an elegant strapless gown with one hand resting on an expensive-looking period table. She was buxom and curvaceous, but her figure was not what most struck Riley.

  It was the expression in her eyes.

  It reminded her of someone—and it only took a second for Riley to realize who that person was.

  She’d seen that expression in Morgan Farrell’s face.

  The portrait artist had skillfully caught that look of helplessness.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Riley stood staring at the portrait for a moment, studying that expression.

  It was certainly troubling.

  The truth was, this voluptuous woman bore almost no resemblance to the thin and waiflike Morgan Farrell …

  Except for those eyes, Riley thought.

  The look in those eyes was exactly the same—pleading, desperate, terrified.

  Someone had deliberately decided to preserve those frightened eyes in an expensive portrait—someone who actually took pleasure in the woman’s look of fear.

  Probably not a whim of the artist, she thought.

  Surely that expression had to be required or at least approved by whoever commissioned that portrait.

  And Riley knew who that person must be—the man who had been murdered beside his swimming pool.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Roderick Morse’s voice.

  “I see you’ve taken an interest in the portrait. Rather lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Who is she?” Riley asked.

  Morse said, “Charlotte Morse, Julian’s wife—or widow, I should say.”

  Riley remembered the mention of a wife in the news clip that Van Roff had sent her, but her impression was that she was no longer in the picture.

  “She doesn’t live here, does she?” Riley asked.

  “Oh, goodness, no,” Morse said. “Charlotte and Julian were separated a good year or so ago. Nobody ever knew what it was about.”

  Still staring at the portrait, Riley asked, “Where can I find Charlotte Morse?”

  Roderic
k Morse looked intrigued at Riley’s question.

  “She’s moved into the Britomart Hotel, right here in Birmingham.”

  Riley asked, “Can you give me her contact information—phone, email, or whatever?”

  Morse shrugged and said, “Aside from the name of the hotel, I’m afraid not. The woman has become rather a recluse, I fear. She and I have had next to no contact over the years—I don’t remember ever even talking with her. I’ve only seen her at social gatherings. Still, I’ve always suspected that I’d like her better than I ever liked Julian.”

  Riley thanked Morse for his help, and she and Jared left the house.

  On their way to the car, Jared asked, “What do we do next?”

  “We need to pay Charlotte Morse a visit,” Riley said.

  “Why? Do you think she’s a suspect?”

  Riley didn’t reply to his question as they climbed into the car. The truth was, she wasn’t sure just what she was thinking at the moment. She doubted very much that the woman she’d seen in that portrait had killed Julian Morse, much less Andrew Farrell or anybody else. And yet …

  That expression! Riley thought.

  It had to mean something, although Riley didn’t know just what.

  Jared got out his cell phone and said, “I’ll call the hotel, see if they’ll connect me to her.”

  Riley remembered how quickly Jared had managed to antagonize Roderick Morse.

  “Um … I don’t think so,” Riley said, taking out her own phone. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Why can’t I do it?” Jared asked with a slight whine in his voice.

  “Because I don’t want you to piss anybody else off,” Riley said.

  “Aww, come on. I can be good.”

  Riley ignored him and found the number for the Britomart Hotel. When she got the front desk, she asked to speak with Charlotte Morse.

  The male clerk purred in an elegant voice, “I’m afraid Ms. Morse isn’t taking any calls. May I ask what this is about?”