Cold Heart Page 18

  “You have to tell me everything,” I said. “There’ve been two attempts to kill Lincoln Teller, Emilie Soto nearly died, and I’m a sniper’s target. So keeping a secret isn’t an option for you.” I picked up an egg and started making stripes on it with crayons. I would make up in color what I lacked in finesse.

  Fern looked surprised at this. “You know June had Paige. Why do you need me?”

  “She’s not telling us what she did, what she knows. To get her to talk, we need leverage. A witness would be perfect.”

  “She’s my friend!”

  “You know she’ll say she was taking care of the baby . . . it’s all a misunderstanding. She’ll call Harry Edwards and she’ll get off.”

  Fern nodded. “Harry’s a good lawyer. And you’re right. She was worried about Paige’s welfare. The father was a louse and June thought the mother couldn’t be any good, leaving her baby with him. June was going to call social services until she heard about the murder.”

  “Was Paige at June’s house the entire two days?”

  “Yup,” Fern said. She dipped her egg in a brilliant turquoise. This time she’d made a dozen tiny butterflies, complete with segmented bodies and elaborate wing markings. Mine was starting to look like a Peruvian blanket.

  “So were you.”

  “Oh yes.” Fern managed to look both defiant and guilty.

  “Who else knew? Your entire painting class? Even Iggy?”

  “Not Iggy. Just Ursula Budd. Ursula is very good at secrets. She’s got more secrets than Merle has fleas.”

  I decided she wasn’t insulting my dog, just being colorful. I pondered my next step. “If the DA learns about this, you and Ursula could be arrested as material witnesses.”

  “How silly. What good would that do?”

  “It’s called justice, Fern, not goodness. Laws were broken.” I took my egg out of the purple dye and patted it dry, pleased with the crude, vibrant results. “But I agree, basically. I want June to talk. And Harry will advise her to cooperate, once he knows we have witnesses. So my problem is, how to let him know, without going through the sheriff or the DA?” As I posed the question, the answer was obvious to both of us.

  “I’ll call Harry,” said Fern. “You go home, you look terrible. Do you want to take your egg, or should I sell it?”

  “I’ll take it, thanks. I need a little color in my life.”

  Before I collapsed into bed, I checked my email. The Firearms and Tool Mark Section had completed a ballistics analysis on the rifle Anselmo took from Erwin Devon on Monday.

  Erwin’s gun had fired the bullets injuring Emilie Soto.

  The shooter couldn’t be Erwin. He was too disabled. His wife, June? What possible motive could she have? Nikki, their niece, was in and out of their house frequently. Had she taken the gun?

  Two other guns still to be identified: the 9mm pistol that shattered a mirror in Emilie’s office, and the sniper’s rifle from today. I could probably find its bullets lodged in my car seats. But I didn’t dare take them to the SBI Lab for analysis. Maybe Hogan’s call to the county sheriff would pay off with ballistics evidence.

  Anyone in North Carolina can buy a rifle, no permit required. Over a half-million state residents have permits to carry a concealed handgun.

  So be nice, people. You don’t want to piss off someone in my state.

  As I seemed to have done.

  CHAPTER 27

  Thursday morning

  Hogan and I sat in Richard’s office. My side was bandaged and bound. It hurt only when I breathed.

  Richard wanted an update. He was dapper in a muted gray suit, shirt, and tie, enlivened by a bright orange pocket square in an origami fold. He held a cigar in one hand and a guillotine-like cigar snipper in the other. “Lincoln Teller is missing,” he said.

  “How can you lose someone that famous?” Hogan asked, looking up from his phone. “Call Entertainment Tonight and tomorrow we’ll have a hundred sightings.” Next to Richard, Hogan looked drab in wrinkled chinos and a polo. Neither of us enjoyed ironing.

  “Stella, where’s your man?”

  “This is the first I heard he was missing, sir. He’s not at the sister’s in Durham?”

  “No. She said he took off early this morning,” Richard said. “What’s going on with him?”

  I shrugged. “Avoiding our questions? Or, after two attempts on his life, he’s afraid. Or, Clementine has kicked him out and doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “Or, foul play?” Hogan was texting, probably love notes to his latest online conquest. “Three strikes and he’s out.”

  “Let’s not go there,” I said.

  “Why not? Are you the only one allowed to have theories?”

  Richard waved his unlit cigar in the air. “Now, children, play nice.”

  “Think how difficult it would be to take Lincoln against his will and leave no trace,” I said.

  “No trace? You haven’t even looked for him,” Richard said.

  “I’ll start right now.”

  Hogan put away his phone. “I’ll help. No problem.”

  I smiled. “No problem” was how Hogan replied to every request.

  Clementine greeted me at the door of her sister’s condo. She looked as smooth and put together as ever, her hair caught by a red headband matching the flowers on her linen shirt. But her puffy, dark-circled eyes revealed her exhaustion.

  “We’re miserable,” Clementine said. “There’s no space for the boys to run around. I’m terrified they’re going to break something.” She was right. The condo wasn’t a suitable place for two rambunctious little boys. Porcelain collectibles, flowers in vases, and dozens of framed pictures were arranged decoratively on many little tables.

  “Actually they’ve already broken stuff. I asked Peg if I could put things away while we were here, but she wouldn’t hear of it. So I’m going home today. No one’s trying to kill me, and Lincoln’s disappeared.”

  “When did you see him last?” I asked.

  “He left real early this morning, saying he needed to get out,” Clementine said. “When he came here from the hospital, he was too quiet, not really himself. He didn’t want to talk to me or the kids. I thought it was the shock of the accident, the surgery, and the attempt on his life in the hospital, you know? But there must have been something else bothering him, something he didn’t want to talk about. He took my car, which, needless to say, has left me stranded.”

  “Give me a list. Friends, relatives, places where he fishes or hunts or plays golf.”

  “He wouldn’t be playing golf or fishing after that accident.”

  I felt depressed. I realized how much I liked Lincoln, how he represented what a husband and father could be, how he respected and loved his wife and helped her with the children. If he had walked out, then any man could—as Fern had always preached to me. Come home, Lincoln, I thought, and prove Fern wrong. And talk to me about Mercer’s blood on your shoes.

  Hogan called. “The four CDs you left for me Tuesday? I turned them over to computer guys in the Digital Evidence Unit. The files were encrypted, that’s why you heard nothing. I found the encryption software purchase in Mercer’s credit card statements and contacted the vendor with a subpoena.”

  The “computer guys” turned out to be Libby, a young Asian-American woman. When we reached her office, two floors up from Hogan’s, she handed us each a CD case. “A copy of the decrypted files,” she said.

  “Wow.” The SBI computer guys always impress me. “Was it easy?”

  “Uh, define ‘easy’?” She laughed. “Without getting too technical on you—I needed two keys. The vendor supplied one, then I chucked a dictionary at the login, hoping Mercer had used a dictionary word. Most people do. It worked, and I was able to decrypt the files.”

  I scanned the document she gave me, a transcript, organized by the four dates.

  “They’re recordings of voices, some phone conversations. Original files plus lots of altered copies—spliced or pa
tched. Here’s an example of splicing.” Libby inserted a CD, moved the cursor to “preview,” and clicked the mouse.

  Temple’s voice suddenly filled the room. I had heard her speak these words before, from the CDs in Paige’s closet. She was reading to Paige from a children’s book. “It was a happy little train, with such a jolly load to carry. Where’s your bathing suit?” The second sentence had been pulled from a different conversation.

  “How’s this done?” I asked.

  “There’s software for editing audio files. I’ll show you.” She opened a new program. “The file is displayed as a waveform, see?” She pointed to a jagged graph on the screen. “The lumps are words. Here, I’ll play this bit again. Watch the marker move across the waveform.”

  We heard Temple say, “Where’s your bathing suit?” as a vertical line moved across the screen, crossing a blob with each word.

  “It’s like editing a text document,” Libby said. “You can cut and paste, insert, delete. You can reduce background noise, add sounds.”

  “Can you make a new sentence? For example, could you make her say ‘Let’s go surfing’?” I asked.

  “Not quite. If the individual words were recorded somewhere, you could splice them together. But the intonations and emphasis of the words would be all wrong.”

  “So it wouldn’t sound like a spoken sentence,” Hogan said.

  “Probably not.” Libby clicked on the file to close it.

  I had told no one except Hogan about these CDs, and even he didn’t know where I’d gotten them. I recoiled at the thought of listening to them, suffering through hours of eavesdropping on Lincoln’s and Ursula’s commonplace calls, Bryce’s drug deals, Kent’s stories, Paige’s singing. But I had no choice. These might contain additional recordings or evidence I had missed earlier.

  Hogan gave me a lead on Lincoln’s whereabouts. He’d headed north, using an ATM in Richmond and buying gas with a credit card in Fredericksburg. He’d registered at the Cumberland Hotel in Reston, Virginia, just an hour ago.

  I pondered my next move. I could ask the Reston police to take him into custody, then send a marshal up there to bring him back for questioning. They knew him around there—he’d played for the Washington Redskins as a rookie right out of Gardner. If he chose to resist, it could get ugly. Lincoln’s enormous size could be threatening to some cops, who’d be afraid of trying to physically restrain him and might use their guns instead.

  I decided to go to Reston myself, convince him to turn himself in and explain Mercer’s blood on his shoes. I could be there in two hours by air. I left Anselmo a voice message but I didn’t want to talk to my boss, Richard, about it. He’d want to go by the book and notify the Reston PD, we’d argue, and he’d win.

  I took Merle to a doggie day-care center he loves, The Bone-A-Fido. It’s a ranch where the dogs roam together all day. Merle gets re-socialized as a pack animal, reminded that he is a four-legged creature with extra-special communication skills. If he could grin, he would’ve, as we turned onto the road leading to The Bone.

  CHAPTER 28

  Thursday afternoon

  A nice man sat next to me on the flight from Raleigh-Durham airport to Dulles. I should never have admired his smart watch. He showed me its many clever little features, then asked me to sleep with him—not in those exact words, but that’s where he was going. I seriously considered it.

  Steven was about my age, spoke intelligently, and had a soft, russet beard I was dying to pat. We talked shoulder-to shoulder, sharing recycled air, for the hour-long flight. He traveled five days out of seven, managing a consulting contract with the postal service.

  “What about dinner?” he asked. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you and I hate to eat alone. I’m staying at this boutique hotel in Alexandria with great food.” He handed me his card and a brochure for his hotel. “I’ll be here all week.”

  When I say I considered it, I mean my intellect flashed up red stop lights as my libido tore through them. I looked wistfully at the photos: a canopy bed, double whirlpool surrounded with flickering candles, and the breakfast options—pecan French toast, mimosas, spinach-mushroom strata. I wondered briefly why I wasn’t offended by his offer of champagne, fine cuisine, a night of energetic sex followed by a fantastic breakfast. I decided it wasn’t offensive enough. “I like that tub,” I said, handing the brochure back to him.

  “So, how about it?”

  “I have to work tonight.”

  “You’re a US marshal, right? I noticed the holster.”

  “Department of Justice.” He didn’t need to know.

  “You’re after a suspect?”

  I nodded. “Wanted for questioning, as they say.”

  “So, you’ll be working.”

  “I will. I probably won’t even stay overnight if I can find him quickly.”

  “What happened to your head? Someone shoot and miss?” He chuckled at his little joke. I’d tired of artfully pinning my hair up and reverted to my usual braid, which didn’t hide the gauze-covered lump very well.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Are you all right?” He put his warm hand over mine. Inside I felt a slow turning begin, like the coiling of a spring. I barely heard the static-filled blare of announcements as the plane descended. “Sea-blue eyes,” he said. “You don’t ever blink, do you?”

  The flight attendant leaned over Steven to rudely tap my tray. “Tray up, please,” she said. I complied, still bemused by his touch.

  The plane landed and taxied to the gate. “Well, I’m sorry you’re busy,” Steven said. “If circumstances change, give me a call. I’d love to get together.” He put away his papers and checked his watch for messages. I stared out the window at the luggage handlers, feeling tired and depressed. My case, stalled for so long, had been cracked open by a lab tech’s curiosity. The number one suspect in Kent Mercer’s murder was now Lincoln Teller. Finding and questioning him—as I was about to do—would earn me a gold star.

  But I was rooting for his innocence, even if it meant the gold star would shatter into rusty shards.

  I drove east on the Dulles Toll Road in a rental car. A few miles later I exited onto Fairfax Parkway, a ten-lane mega-road crammed with SUVs piloted by harassed-looking moms issuing commands into cell phones as they hauled their kids to Suzuki lessons and Little League games. The traffic reminded me why I live in Verwood. I reached Reston and pulled into the Cumberland’s underground parking lot.

  I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and knocked on Lincoln’s door. No one opened it, and I didn’t have a warrant so I decided to wait in the lobby. I picked a seat with a good view of the lobby doors, the elevators, and the restaurant. Wafting toward me were wonderful smells from the open-air kitchen, accompanied by the sounds of many diners merrily enjoying today’s special, salmon with grilled polenta. My stomach growled.

  While I waited, I watched the people, a homogeneous group of government contractors—women and men in dark suits, sensible shoes, short styled hair and manicures. Perhaps because I was so clearly out of place in black jeans and a red leather jacket, a middle-aged man felt empowered to hit on me.

  “Ah, a pretty girl, all alone,” he said, folding himself down on my couch. He had a black mustache and matching soulful eyes that crawled all over my body, finally settling on my hand as if to take it in his, perhaps kiss it. “I am Hasan. I think you are wanting company, no? Did you have an accident and get a boo-boo on your head?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m waiting for someone.” I didn’t mention my company might not be back for hours.

  “I am doing business with AOL. What is your business?”

  I looked at him calmly. “Law enforcement.”

  “Oh-oh-oh. Are you FBI? Are you going to arrest me?” He scooted a few inches away.

  “Not if you go away right now.”

  “Okay, of course. Nice to meet you.” Hasan rose and sauntered through the lobby. What was it today—did I have a lonely, please take me home sign on
my back? I watched Hasan chatting up the bell captain. Probably asking him where to find compliant women who would be impressed by his AOL connection. In my irritation, I almost didn’t see Lincoln Teller come out of the restaurant.

  He went through the revolving door just as a valet pulled up in his car, the Volvo wagon Clementine usually drove. He tipped the valet and drove off. I had to know where he was going, but it would take fifteen minutes to get my car out of the parking garage. So I jumped in the first cab lining the circular driveway, and told the driver to “follow that Volvo, the silver wagon.”

  “Lady, you make my day,” said the cab driver. “Is this a bust?” He was an elderly fellow with pictures of his terrier dog pinned around the windshield.

  “Sort of,” I said. “I want to know where he’s going. What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Puffy. She’s my soul mate.” We talked about our dogs as he followed Lincoln, a few cars back. Lincoln didn’t get on the toll road, but crossed under it, then drove about fifteen minutes on a winding two-lane road. After a few more turns, he pulled into a parking lot.

  “Don’t follow him in, just drive by,” I told the cabbie. I looked at the sign on the four-story brick building—Anxiety, Phobia, and OCD Clinic of Northern Virginia.

  Well, I felt like the punchline to a sorry joke. Hotshot agent executes trans-state search and daring car chase, corners celebrity criminal. Finish the sentence—consulting his ailing wife’s doctors.

  I paid the cabbie and walked over to Lincoln’s car. I sat down on the concrete parking barrier. It was hard, and my bottom started to hurt, which served me right. Sitting that low was awkward, so I took my boots off. When it started to rain, I scampered into the doorway, where I waited about a half hour until Lincoln came out of the building.

  “What the heck?” he said. “You’re everywhere, like an Elvis sighting. How did you find me?”

  “I followed you from the Cumberland.” I got to the point. “The SBI wants to interview you again. I thought maybe you’d come back with me, explain some things. And Clementine was worried.” My arms were folded casually across my middle, though my right hand, hidden inside my jacket, gripped my gun firmly. I held my breath, unable to predict Lincoln’s reaction.