Ashes, Ashes, They All Fall Dead (6 page)

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Yes, you did. You said it’s my print.”

“Normally I prefer not to make assumptions, but I feel safe assuming that you did
not
send the letters, even though the evidence seems to suggest otherwise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“What facts have we ascertained?” he asked.

“Aside from me
not
being a serial killer?”

“That’s not a proven fact. It’s an assumption. But yes, what else?”

She shook her head, clearly exasperated. “Okay, fact—my print is on the letters. But that’s impossible.”

“Facts are facts. You can’t change them because they don’t fit with the conclusion you’ve drawn. You need to open your mind to a different conclusion based on the same set of data.”

She straightened in her chair. “Okay, I’ll play. What other conclusion can I draw?”

“We know you touched at least a few of those letters or I wouldn’t have been able to assemble one complete print. That’s a fact.”

“Only if I accept that your scanner program fills in the fingerprint gaps correctly. You did say patent pending, and that it’s not admissible in court.”

He grinned. “For the purposes of this discussion, since my program has a solve ratio of three out of three for prior cold cases, in addition to hundreds of tests I performed on my own, I think it’s safe to hypothesize the scanner is accurate.”

“Fine. Go on.” She didn’t sound convinced, but at least she was still listening.

“We also know, because I accept your word about always using gloves when touching those letters, that you had to have touched the paper
before
it was received by the FBI. So, if you aren’t the person sending the letters, we can only conclude one thing.” He paused, waiting to see if she’d voice what seemed obvious to him.

A look of dawning crossed her face. “You’re saying . . . you’re saying I had to have touched that piece of paper before the killer printed the letter.”

“Correct. And unless you work part-time in a paper factory, that means . . .”

She swallowed hard. “I know the killer.”

T
ESSA CROSSED HER
arms and stared across the small office at her boss.

Several years ago Tessa had arrogantly assumed Madison McKinley was guilty of staging her own abduction and faking that she had a stalker. At one point she’d even believed Madison might be guilty of murder. At no time, though, even after learning Madison was innocent, had Tessa understood how devastating it could be to be innocent and have someone she knew and respected think she was a liar.

Until now.

And she never would have expected that the one person who believed her in her moment of need would be Matt Buchanan.

Casey was sitting behind his desk, staring down at the folder Tessa had given him. The skeptical look on his face was easy enough to read. He didn’t believe what she and Matt had just explained, that her print was on the papers but that she hadn’t been sloppy and touched them without using gloves. They’d explained their theory, that she must have touched the pages before the killer printed his notes, meaning she’d crossed the killer’s path at some point in her life, before he started sending the letters.

Casey didn’t appear to believe any of that.

Tessa imagined that if Pierce was here, he’d be in her corner, but he was working from home now because Madison was so close to her due date and experiencing sporadic contractions. So all she had was Matt.

He sat beside her, his jaw set. He looked like he wanted to punch Casey. Now
that
was the Matt she remembered, not the sexy, patient stranger she’d been working with all day at his studio. Seeing a glimpse of the Matt Buchanan she remembered from when they’d first met somehow made her world make sense again. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, waiting for Casey to decide what to do next.

After flipping the folder closed, he leaned back in his chair. “Let me get this straight. Matt, you want me to believe this scanner of yours—which hasn’t been proven or adopted by law enforcement—can mash up latent partials and create a single print. Tessa, you want me to believe that your print somehow ended up on these pages before the alleged killer printed those notes. And based on that, you both want me to authorize the destruction of a piece of evidence?”

“The scanner is reliable,” Matt insisted.

“I certainly didn’t touch those letters
after
they arrived, not without gloves,” Tessa said. ”And I didn’t write them, so what else is there to believe but that my fingerprints were on the pages before the killer wrote the letters? What part, exactly, do you doubt? That the print is accurate or that I’m
not
the killer?”

Casey’s eyes widened. “Is that why you look so angry? You think I suspect you of writing the letters? Well, we can get that out of the way right now. I don’t.”

Some of the tightness went out of Tessa’s shoulders. “Then what’s the problem? You asked Matt to help us develop a lead. He wants to take one of the letters to analyze it for particulates. That leaves twenty-two more letters. It’s not like we won’t have enough evidence to use in court once we find a suspect. Consuming one letter in a lab test won’t jeopardize a future case.”

“It will if the only murder we can tie to the killer is the one connected to the letter we destroy.”

Tessa shot Matt a look. They’d both discussed that possibility before driving into town, but she’d hoped—incorrectly—that Casey wouldn’t think of it. She and Matt had brainstormed all afternoon about anyone she might have come into contact with over three years ago who could be the killer. They hadn’t come up with any leads, which meant testing one of those letters was their best alternative—even if it meant taking the risk of destroying evidence they might later need.

“True,” she admitted. “That could pose a problem. But if we don’t do something to break the case wide open, we’ll never have to worry about what evidence we have in court. We’ll never have a suspect to arrest.”

Casey tapped his fingers on his desk. “I’m not convinced a lab test will produce anything viable or useful. Finding a certain kind of dust or pollutant is unlikely to help us narrow down a geographical area small enough to make a difference. We already know the killer is sending the letters from all over the South. Is there something I’m missing here?”

Matt scooted forward in his chair. “The odds are that you’re right. Whatever we do or don’t find on that paper may not help. But there’s also a small chance it will. There could be particulates unique to a specific geographical location. I can also test the type of ink and fibers in the paper to try to narrow down our focus. We won’t know if the tests will provide anything useful until we try.”

Casey was shaking his head before Matt finished speaking. “The answer is no. I’m not willing to destroy potentially important evidence over a theory that has a low probability of providing viable information.”

“But, sir, we don’t have any other leads,” Tessa said.

“This is still day one. You have six more days to find a lead. In the meantime, I want the evidence checked back in. You can leave the letters on my desk and I’ll take care of it.”

He didn’t trust her to check the letters back into evidence herself? That thought had her clenching her hands into fists. Sneaking around to try to solve a case she’d been ordered not to work on was one thing.

Tampering with evidence was another thing entirely.

She was about to confront Casey, but Matt popped open her briefcase and pulled out the large bag containing the smaller Baggies of letters and envelopes. He set it on the desk, grabbed the chain of custody form that was with the letters, and held it out to Tessa.

Since the letters had essentially just been turned over, she didn’t see the point of arguing now. She frowned at Matt to let him know she didn’t appreciate his interference, but she signed the form.

Five minutes later she and Matt were sitting in his sleek, black Cadillac CTS-V Coupe in front of the FBI building. Not for the first time, Tessa wondered how Matt could afford the luxuries and gadgets he had. He’d said he’d earned his own money. But what could a kid just a few years out of college do to afford a cabin on a large piece of property, as well as a car like this?

She rested her head against the seat and shoved those thoughts away. Matt’s finances were not her concern. This case, and her boss’s lack of trust in her,
was
.

“I can’t believe Casey didn’t trust me enough to check the letters back in myself. He knows me better than to think I’d tamper with evidence just because he refused a request.”

Matt’s mouth tightened as he accelerated away from the curb. “He’s protecting you.”

“Protecting me? From what?”

“From someone accusing you of destroying evidence because it had your prints on it. You’re lucky he didn’t flat-out take you off the case.”

She blinked in surprise as his words sank in. He was right, even though she hated to admit it. “I suppose if someone else in the office had been in a similar situation, I might have reacted the same way. After all, I did practically beg him to let me work on this case. He knows it’s important to me.” She thought about it a moment, then shook her head. “No, actually, if I were the boss in this situation, I
would
have taken the agent off the case. I wonder why Casey didn’t.”

As soon as she spoke those words, she knew the answer. Their deal. He’d given her seven days, had made her sign a document that detailed their agreement. He was making sure she got every one of those days so she’d never bring up the letters case again.

She sighed heavily. Casey was doing everything he could to help her, to let her work this obsession out of her system. She would have realized that herself, back in his office, if she wasn’t so emotionally wrapped up in solving this mystery. Which made her wonder all over again: Why did this case matter so much to her?

Matt made a turn and zipped down a side street. “You begged him for this case?”

“What?” She was still distracted by her thoughts.

“The case. You said something about begging to work on it.”

“Oh, yeah, well, beg might be too strong a word.” Or not. “I didn’t quite get down on my knees. And before you ask, no, I don’t know why. There’s something about the letters that’s gnawing at me. I can’t seem to let it go. I want to give it everything I can so if another letter comes in I won’t feel that I didn’t at least
try
to keep someone else from being killed.”

“That strengthens the theory that you might know the killer. It sounds like your subconscious recognizes something about the case that’s familiar, even if you don’t know what that is.”

“I agree, in theory. A lot of the names on the letters seem to . . . speak to me. While others don’t. But I still don’t have a clue who the killer could be.”

He gave her a sideways look, as if he were trying to piece some things together in his mind. She was about to ask him what that look meant when she noticed where they were—an industrial part of Savannah.

“Matt, where are we going? This isn’t the way to your studio.”

He parked next to a long, one-story white building made of uninspired concrete blocks.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“It’s a business I started last year, after some products I designed took off and made a good return.” With that cryptic answer, he shut off the engine and got out.

He owned a business other than his private investigation business? At twenty-four? Tessa was still wrestling with that new piece of information when he opened her door.

She slung her purse onto her shoulder and accepted his hand to help her out of the car. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her with him down the sidewalk.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

He towed her around the corner and stopped at the front of the building. When he let go of her hand and turned to face her, the intent expression on his face put her on the alert. He looked like he was ready to go into battle.

“I may have done something . . . slightly illegal,” he admitted. “But since we only have a handful of days to solve this case, I made an executive decision.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What are you talking about?”

The glass door swung open behind him. A woman stepped outside and headed down the sidewalk. As the door began to swing closed again, sunlight glanced off the small gold letters on the glass. Tessa’s stomach dropped when she saw the name of the company spelled out in those letters.

“Oh no, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his suit jacket pocket. Inside was a letter, and an envelope. “I switched the originals back at my studio, just in case Casey was unreasonable. You can either call the police and have them arrest me, or you can come inside and help me find your serial killer. Your decision.”

He went inside the building, leaving her standing out front with her mouth hanging open.

She pulled out her cell phone, ready to call the police, or Casey, or both. A minute passed. Then another. Why was she hesitating? Matt had admitted he broke the law. He should be arrested.

But what would that do to her deal with Casey? Would he consider the deal null and void? Would he let her continue on her own for six more days? Would he force her to drop the case? Or would he take a harder stance and make her pack up her desk, turn in her badge?

Either way, she was screwed. Damn Matt for putting her in this position. Her shoulders slumped. And damn her for wanting to solve this case so badly that she was about to cross a line she never thought she would cross.

She was about to break the law.

She shoved her phone back in her purse, cursing the entire time. Glaring at the gold letters on the door, she yanked it open and stepped inside.

Matt stood ten feet away, lazily reclining against the counter, chatting with the receptionist. He gave Tessa a confident smile, as if he knew all along she would give in.

She marched up and leaned in close so the receptionist wouldn’t hear her. “Wipe that Cheshire cat grin off your face before I shoot it off.”