The deepest kill, p.11
The Deepest Kill, page 11
Billie and her husband Roland’s house at the foot of a mountain had been Ellie’s summer home while living with her grandmother, so it felt familiar to her, but Rosalie’s children had not been too happy about the arrangement. When Aunt Rosalie took them to the airport, she pulled each away from the others, one by one, for a quick heart-to-heart. Ellie had never asked what the others had been told, and to her, Aunt Rosalie said Ellie had to leave temporarily because Uncle Wayne did not feel well. He needed to heal, and they only had a few weeks of school left anyway, and they would all be back together for Christmas. Ellie should not feel worried or scared and if she did, to say her prayers and the Lord would protect her. But she did not have to worry about Uncle Wayne. Uncle Wayne would never hurt her, could never be a danger to her, or Maureen, or Margery, or Glennie. He loved them. Did she understand?
Yes, Ellie had said, though she didn’t, not with the strong feeling that love had nothing to do with it, that Uncle Wayne was very much a danger, and that now Rosalie would be alone with him with only the Lord to protect her. That might not be enough, but she and Maureen and the two younger ones certainly wouldn’t be, either. Rosalie was doing what she should do. She was being a good mother.
And she’d been right, in the end. Something did help Uncle Wayne. In the new year the three cousins moved back home to start the spring semester at their old school, and over the years Uncle Wayne had returned to being a husband, a father, a wage earner. He never quite lost the tinge of sadness around the mouth, but Ellie could chat easily with him now at reunions. He took an interest in her work and told her about the challenges of his security company. Aunt Rosalie had said he would be fine, and fine he was, and she had never doubted Aunt Rosalie again.
But Ellie had not gone back to their home. They had enough to handle with their own three, and Aunt Katey and Uncle Terry had stepped up. She’d started the second half of the seventh grade in Ansted, West Virginia.
For a moment now, her heart thudded just as it had then. Ellie was no longer eleven, but the man now in her garage could be every bit as dangerous as Uncle Wayne.
Chapter 17
He must have ducked under the door as it closed. Was he the only one? It had happened so fast and in the dim light of the garage, she couldn’t be sure. Would this basic door lock work? Should she barricade it with something?
Stop. Think. He had already entered, surely he wouldn’t add “breaking” to the crime. A legitimate news agency would never condone such aggression. But what if he was freelance or an unpaid blogger—or not a reporter at all?
She put an ear to the door. Had he left through the side door? The garage had nothing to steal other than some rakes and potting soil and a twenty-year-old bicycle. He could go through her car, which she kept scrupulously clean, but there would be her rental form and a GPS in the glove box . . . though what use that would be to anyone . . . She could set off the car’s alarm with the remote in her hand, blast his tender eardrums. The house also had an alarm with an ear-splitting shriek, but she didn’t know how loud it would be in the garage, and likely it would hurt her more than him.
At least she could picture him sweating in the hot environment with no breeze.
“Dr. Carr,” came a voice. He sounded almost patient, as if she were a spoiled child refusing to come out of her room.
Should she call the police? That sounded embarrassing, that she couldn’t handle kicking out a reporter by herself. Wouldn’t the guy leave once the sweat soaked his shirt? Or would others join him? They wouldn’t want to let him get a scoop, might trickle in until they once again surrounded her car. The one with the possibly substandard damage waiver.
She threw open the door.
It was the blond reporter, lounging against the rental’s bumper, a miniature camera in one hand and a microphone in the other. At least none of his colleagues had joined him. “Dr.—”
“Get off that car!”
He straightened, taking his time to step to the side. “What is your capacity in this case? What did you see at the Post bunker today?”
“What the hell are you doing in my garage?” If she opened the overhead to shoo him out like a pesky fly, would more rush in?
He smirked. “Bruce Dunning, Forester News Service. And don’t you mean your aunt and uncle’s garage?”
She walked up to him, knowing that she fumed, knowing his camera rolled. “Fine. My aunt and uncle’s garage. The point is, not yours. Get out.”
“Why is that, anyway? I would think the prestigious Locard could afford an Airbnb.” The sandy blond hair fell into his tan face, putting her in mind of a surfer. “Has it fallen on hard times since the murders? Are you hoping Martin Post can refill your coffers?”
She wanted to grab him by the ear and drag him to the door, but had more sense than to push, or touch, or do anything that could be later characterized as “attacking.” So from a foot away from his face she spoke, clipping off her words. “No comment. Now leave.”
“Hey, I get it. The Locard is a class place and you can’t help that your cousin was a psycho. This is a chance to repair your reputation. I can help you do that. We have outlets in all fifty states.”
She pulled out her cell phone, and dialed 911 with pointed concentration.
“This is the third-richest guy in the country, and he called you. There’s got to be a reason.”
Ellie gave the dispatcher her name, then: “I’d like to report an occupied burglary in progress at one-eighty-two Oleander Drive.”
The reporter’s eyes widened slightly. “Burglary? I’m not taking anything.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re inside the property. Yes, he’s inside my garage and refusing to leave.”
He spoke more quickly. “You’re going to have to talk to someone. It might as well be me. I’ll be sure to paint you in a good light.”
Into the phone she said, “I don’t know if he’s armed.”
“Let’s face it, you need all the positive publicity in the world to get your life back. We could work together.” But his face lost its veneer of sneer.
“I suppose he could be,” she told the dispatcher.
Bruce Dunning took a step back, both literally and figuratively. The garage didn’t have a lot of extra space and she didn’t move out of his way. He gave her one narrow-eyed glare to save face, then turned and walked all the way around the rented car with exaggerated measure. He reached the side door, looked back at her with the same pointed calm, and exited.
With no one else in the room and no need to save face, she ran to the door and locked it, flipping the dead bolt. “Okay,” she told the dispatcher, “he’s gone.”
“Are you safe?”
Ellie went inside and did a quick scan of the house, but other than water running in the hallway bath, the rooms appeared empty. She asked the operator to cancel the call and disconnected.
Halfway through a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, it rang again. Unfamiliar number. “What?”
“Dr. Carr?” The voice rang a bell, but she didn’t know which bell.
“Yes?”
“This is Tyler.” When she didn’t respond, he added with a touch of asperity, “From the FBI?”
“Yes. Yes, got it. Sorry.”
“Are—are you all right?”
In through the nose . . . She explained about the reporter in her garage.
Michael Tyler sounded utterly unsurprised, and asked the same question the dispatcher had. “Are you safe now?”
“Yes. I think so. I was safe the whole time, he just wanted a story, but that’s so bloody obnoxious to barge in like that . . .”
“Is your home secure?”
“Uh . . . I think so.” She did another quick scan of the rooms, aware that the lights flicking on and off made her actions clear to the crowd outside, no doubt to their amusement, but she didn’t care. At least she didn’t find any climbing through her windows like a bad remake of Night of the Living Dead. The water had stopped in the bathroom and Rachael called a hello as Ellie went by. In the living room, she went to the front window, leaving those lights off and staying well to the side of the glass before peeking cautiously through the miniblind.
She watched as Bruce Dunning regaled his colleagues with his tale of brief captivity at the hands of the humorless and slightly crazy forensic expert. The rest of them had apparently remained in the street instead of attempting a breach—unlike Dunning, his fellow reporters had the professional standards and the spark of integrity he lacked. “Yes. It’s secure.”
“Do you need protection?”
She hesitated. She’d love protection. She’d love to know that this would not be a repeat of several past cases, that someone would come and chase all those vans away and tell everyone to leave her alone. Paul and Joanna’s neighbors would probably like that as well.
But the reporters were within their rights and doing their jobs, and a camera and a microphone were hardly weapons to fear. “No. I’m fine. Sorry if I sounded freaked out. What—what can I do for you?”
“It’s Ashley’s blood. On the brush handle.”
“Wow, that was fast. Your lab must have really fired up the Rapid DNA and—oh.”
“Yes,” he said. “Oh.”
Next stop, they would have to compare the edge of the pole to the indentation in the victim’s vertebra. Neither she nor Rachael were qualified to do that; they would need a bone expert—or rather the FBI would need a bone expert—
“And the prints lifted from the handle all belonged to Greg.”
“Oh,” she repeated.
“Exactly. We’re getting a search warrant for all of Greg’s areas, including his man cave storage unit, to be executed tomorrow. Mr. Post wants the Locard to be present. So I’m delivering the message.”
“Sorry.”
He made a low sound that might have been a chuckle. “Don’t be, it’s okay. You found the pole our people missed, so maybe that lu—maybe you’ll . . . find more. And Mr. Post insists.”
And when Mr. Post insists . . .
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he went on, “how long have you known Martin Post?”
“Since about one o’clock this afternoon.”
“No offense, but if it’s nothing personal, why did he hire you?”
“He hired the Locard. I don’t need to point out their reputation.”
“Of course not. But he asked me to make sure you arrive at his house tomorrow at ten. Not you and Rachael, just you. He seems . . . focused.”
She explained the connection to her uncle, but added: “I don’t understand it, either. Maybe he figured that since I’d turn in my own cousin—”
“That you’d tell the truth, no matter what. Even if it’s not what he wants to hear.”
“I guess. But I’m not sure that quite makes sense.”
“Nothing about this case quite makes sense,” Michael said, and hung up.
Rachael walked into the kitchen, dressed to relax in a fresh tracksuit. “I have unabashedly gone through your aunt and uncle’s cabinets. For dinner options we have canned soup, frozen vegetables, or dry cereal.”
Ellie cast a vote for “all of the above.”
Chapter 18
They passed around stale crackers and equally stale soft drinks, taking care not to spill any on the pages now covering the dining room table. Ellie gave her boss a condensed recap of her encounter with the reporter, and they both cast a nervous glance at the door leading to the garage. A courier had already collected the samples from the boat to get to the Locard so that the scientists there could work their magic. Rachael had arranged to work with the FBI bone expert to compare the brush handle threads to the bone indentation.
Ellie said, “Though we already know whom the blood and the prints on the weapon—if we can call it a weapon yet without confirmation—belong to.”
“For the sake of argument, yes, it’s the weapon. Which means things aren’t looking good for the cute young husband. With whom you spent the afternoon alone on a boat.”
“Don’t you start. Michael already bitched me out about that.”
“The boat, in fact, which could also be considered a murder weapon because without it, Ashley Post Anderson might not be dead. What do you think of him?”
“Michael?”
“No! The delectable Greg Anderson.”
Ellie almost spit Diet Coke across the table. “I thought you thought he was guilty!”
“I do. I also think he’s delectable.”
Ellie rose to dig through the pantry for some peanut butter, belatedly hoping that Rachael’s deception detection wouldn’t peg that as evasive. “Not quite the word I’d use. Young. Strong. Maybe hiding a bit of insecurity.”
“Insecure about his place in the Post world, or insecure because he’s not sure he can get away with murder?”
“I’d guess the former. It can’t be easy living in the orbit of a billionaire genius.” She emerged from the pantry, jar in hand. “And that house.”
“That house. Gorgeous.”
“Cold. This should still be good, right? Peanut butter never goes bad.”
Rachael inspected the contents of the jar. “Looks okay to me. Do you mean the temperature or the overall aura?”
Ellie regained her seat, armed with the jar and a butter knife, the silverware still in the same drawer it had been when she lived there. “The temperature was perfect. The furniture is perfect, the pictures are hung in a perfectly straight line, the windows sparkle, the bedrooms play music as soon as you walk in, whatever kind you like. Apparently Ashley liked Beethoven. Or Greg, can’t be sure.”
“I wouldn’t guess Greg for a classical fan. He doesn’t get a choice in the music playlist?”
“Who knows? Maybe it knows one person from the other and it was Martin’s playlist. It seems to me a little weird that they live there at all, but then, I wouldn’t let pride keep me from that kind of luxury.”
“You didn’t even like the place!” Rachael laughed.
“Just the decor. Minimalist isn’t my cup of tea,” Ellie went on. “It was too minimal—you couldn’t tell, from looking at the place, that real human beings lived there. But everything else was appropriately fabulous.” Ellie wondered if the words were true even as she said them. Something about living under Martin Post’s eye did not appeal to her.
But to Ashley, of course, it would feel like home. Or it didn’t, and Ashley lived there because Martin wanted her to, and it never occurred to her to do anything other than what Martin wanted. When we’re discouraged from questioning as a child, Ellie knew, sometimes we never pick up the habit again. The narrative gets cemented into the young mind and heals over, never to be fully exposed again.
Rachael said, “But with all the technology, there’s no video surveillance?”
“Nope.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’m not sure. Not sure at all.” She told Rachael about the electronic house assistant Deborah, and Rachael reacted just as Ellie had.
“His dead wife? How does the second wife feel?”
“I didn’t ask. But I thought she was sweet, didn’t you? Very caring.”
“Maybe.” Rachael built a cracker sandwich to chew as she thought. “Thanks for the protein. I did a quick survey of the supplies but I didn’t want to be searching through your aunt and uncle’s things.”
“Nonsense! Search through anything you like if you need something. Paul and Joanna won’t care. They’re pretty minimalist themselves, and aren’t here more than they are.” Ellie wondered if that was why Martin Post had been Paul’s patient. Kindred spirits. Both craving for more meaning in life than possessions. Difference was, Martin could afford the possessions as well. “If we stay here much longer we’re going to have to stop somewhere and get some real food.”
She noticed Rachael frown, peanut-buttering another cracker with a great disinterest, and said, “I hope you’re comfortable enough here. If you aren’t we could—”
“No, no. This house is great. I just . . . hate being away from my kid.”
Ellie didn’t know what that would feel like, so she gave her boss a moment or two of silence to deal with it. Then she asked, “What did you think of Dani?”
“She seems pretty straightforward. Her man’s in pain and she wants to do whatever she can to help, whether that’s managing his schedule or waiting quietly on standby. Maybe she’s a trophy who knows what side her bread is buttered on. Maybe she’s the evil stepmother who’s slipping it to that cute Tomas from the garage, killed her rival, and plans to stay under the radar for the duration.”
“Is that possible? Do we have a timeline?”
Rachael wrapped up the remaining crackers. “Martin seemed to think I’d already know it, since the media has printed so much about the case. The family of four had breakfast together. From there, Martin spoke at a luncheon of tech company start-ups at the Naples Ritz. Dani toiled at researching and distributing over two million dollars in charitable funds from their foundation, breaking only when their cook brought her lunch. Greg left the property to go to his workshop—apparently, it’s a rented office-slash-man cave. So okay, maybe the unrelenting luxury of his father-in-law’s place does get to him from time to time.”
“The warrant covers that.” Ellie told her the plans for serving a search warrant the next morning.
“You’ll have to tell me about it. I’ll be with the FBI’s anthropologist. Want to bet this man cave is more about porn and video games than writing code?”
“I only make bets I’m sure will win.”
“Where’s the challenge in that?”
“There isn’t one. That’s the point.”
“Anyway, the security guy let Greg out of the gate just before nine. And Deborah said Ashley went out the front toward the boathouse at nine-fifty. Martin came back about two-thirty and found Dani still working. About four, Martin went to ask Ashley something, couldn’t find her, asked Deborah, and realized she was still out on the boat. Called her cell, nothing, but they’d been working balls to the wall on this satellite defense system and sometimes she turns her phone off so she can concentrate. Greg returned after five, they all got more concerned, called her cell, still nothing, checked the boat tracker, no signal. The boat tracker’s battery has gone coincidentally dead. Don’t like that, but turns out the other boat—”
