Edge of Black (8 page)

Chapter 13

Fletcher couldn’t believe what he was reading.

There was a DNA profile, a confirmed match between two identical sources. He read the name on the bottom of the page, and his suspicions began to grow.

The DNA profile belonged to Congressman Peter Dumfries Leighton.

Fletcher’s mind immediately raised all sorts of questions—why do they have a file on Leighton, where did they get the DNA, why do they have DNA, what the hell is this?—but he flipped the page and started to digest.

The top sheet was a summary police file from 2004, a cold-case murder from Indianapolis, Indiana. Christine Hornby, age sixteen, found beaten and raped in a ditch off the side of a state road leading into town. No one was ever caught, despite a solid DNA profile put into the system.

Fletcher flipped further. There was another cold-case murder, this time from 2006. Diana Frank, seventeen, also from Indianapolis, Indiana. Another beating and rape. In 2008 there was one more, Brandy Thornberg, seventeen, from Terre Haute. Three in all. Christine Hornby, Diana Frank and Brandy Thornberg, all brunette teenagers murdered by the same person. DNA matched all three of their cases, and no killer had ever been identified.

A deep knot began building in his stomach. He turned back to the front sheet, the DNA profile.

Tried to fit the pieces together.

Peter Leighton—congressman, soldier, father—a serial killer?

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

Bianco was back. She handed him a steaming cup of coffee, sat at the table next to him.

“Now you know why I wanted the gossip along with the facts. It started when he was making his first congressional run back in 2004.”

“This is hard to believe.”

“Trust me, I know. I received the report this evening, after the DNA profile matched.”

“Why was Leighton’s DNA run? And how did you get it?”

“He tossed out a soda with a straw last week. McDonald’s. It was retrieved. They extracted the DNA and sent it in to run through CODIS.”

“He was being investigated for the murders?”

“I don’t have all the details. Indiana Bureau of Investigation was handling this until three hours ago. I haven’t been fully briefed yet. All I know is it was brought to my attention the moment word got out that he was dead. We have to take into consideration that he knew about the investigation and used the attack this morning as a cover to commit suicide.”

“Suicide by asthma attack? Isn’t that a bit hard to manage?”

“You stated very clearly that the chief of staff had to find his inhaler and give it to him, and the autopsy found no evidence of use of an EpiPen. The briefcase where he normally carried these items is still missing. It’s not impossible to get yourself into respiratory distress if you’re already compromised.”

“Or that someone knew about this and decided to kill him.”

“Yes.”

“Or that this is just a wildly crazy coincidence.”

“That, too. What do you think?”

Fletcher closed the file and slid it back to her. “Too early to draw any sort of conclusion. If the samples from the three autopsies match, then we know it was a coincidence. If they don’t, then you can look at the other scenarios. But I’d make sure I crossed every T and dotted every I before I went forward with allegations like this.”

“I’d like you to look into this for me.”

Fletcher didn’t answer right away. He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. JTTF did a better job with their brew than his homicide office did, that was for sure. More funding, better coffee. He’d always thought that was hearsay, but here he was, in the exalted offices of the best of the best, finding out firsthand that the rumors were true.

And now he was starting to understand why they wanted him on the JTTF.

“What about the text message he received this morning? How does that fit into this?”

“Again, Darren, that’s under your purview. You have free rein to do whatever you feel is necessary to uncover the truth here. You will have all the resources you need to do a thorough investigation into the congressman’s every move for the past eighteen years. All we ask is that you keep your inquiries discreet, and not share your task with anyone. Even your bosses.”

Bianco was leaning forward, and the top of her blouse was gaping just the tiniest bit. He caught a hint of lace and cream, dutifully looked away and went back to his coffee.

“Well?” Bianco asked.

He sighed. “This could be a suicide mission,
Andi
. Can you imagine the headlines if we fuck up?”

“Can you imagine the headlines if you don’t? You’ll be a hero. Some would say this was a gift.”

He saw what she’d done.
We
to
you.
This is your problem now, Fletcher. We’re going to wash our hands of it and let you take the heat, keeping the JTTF’s nose clean in case somewhere along the way, someone else screwed up.
Some would say this was a gift
. He caught her meaning—who was he, a lowly homicide dick, to look a gift horse in the mouth? A huge story, earth-shattering news, at least a couple of weeks in the news cycle, Fletcher’s name and fingerprints all over the bloody mess.

It was a setup. He felt it immediately. There were stakes he wasn’t aware of.

Worse, what had he done to deserve this? He’d pissed someone off. Two years from his twenty, a decent career under his belt, and he was being thrown to the wolves on a case that looked damn close to a foregone conclusion.

Something else was up. Something big.

“I have to think about it.”

Bianco actually sat back in her chair and smiled. She had a nice smile, her parents had sprung for some orthodontics and her teeth were even and white. She ran her bottom lip up over the edge of her top teeth. The effect made her lips fuller, a move that he associated with prolonged use of a headgear. His son, Tad, had the same habit.

Stop thinking about her lips, Fletch.

He looked down at the file before him. What a mess.

“Of course you do. Go on home and get some rest. I always find a good night’s sleep helps me think clearly.” She stood then, stretching her back a little, almost as if to say,
See, I’m tired, too. I’m working hard. I’m all kinked up and I know, I understand, what you’re going through,
and shook his hand, effectively but kindly dismissing him.

He found Inez back at their respective desks. She had her nose deep in her laptop.

“Anything new?” he asked.

“No. Everything cool with you?”

“Sure,” he replied. “I’m going to go home and catch some z’s. You should, too. Meet me back here at nine, okay? We have a big project to tackle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Inez?”

“Sir?”

“You can call me Fletch.”

* * *

Fletcher left the JTTF office buzzing with adrenaline. Hand chosen to handle a fuck-all dog of a case that could wind up being his death sentence with Homicide. He wanted out, sure, but not like this. Not on a case that smelled to high heaven.

He lived in a row house on a quiet Capitol Hill street, catty-corner to the Longworth House Office Building, the very place he’d spent the better part of his afternoon trying to glean enough detail from the monosyllabic answers of Leighton’s staff to figure out what the hell was going on.

He kept a light on in the foyer so it looked like someone was around, though the neighborhood itself was very safe, and most of his neighbors knew he was a cop and kept an eye on his place in addition to their own. But tonight it was off. He had to think back—had he turned the switch off when he left God knows how many hours earlier? No, that was impossible, he never did. Maybe the light was out...but he had one of the new long-lasting compact fluorescent bulbs in there that was supposed to burn for five years or more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed it, but it certainly wasn’t five years ago.

Curious.

He put his hand on the butt of his Glock and slid his key in the lock. The bolt was thrown, the bottom lock engaged, just like he left it. He twisted the knob and entered his foyer at an angle, sliding against the wall. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the normal night sounds of his house, the refrigerator rumbling quietly in the kitchen, the barometer clock on the wall by the door ticking the seconds away.

He moved quickly, clearing the house room by room, then returned to the foyer.

The switch had been turned off.

He holstered his weapon and flipped it back on. Sloppy of them. Whoever
them
was.

Shit. At least his instincts were right on the money. Something else was going on with the congressman’s case.

He searched the house again, more thoroughly this time, but saw nothing out of place. If it weren’t for the faux pas with the light, he wouldn’t have had any idea that someone had tossed him. A stupid environmentally conscious crook who couldn’t leave the light on had just left behind his markers.

It had to be someone from the JTTF, checking up on him. Making sure he wasn’t going to embarrass them. That he didn’t have a blow-up doll girlfriend or a drawer full of latex and whips.

Jesus, whatever happened to asking a man about his sensitive proclivities?

Then again, perhaps that was the mistake they had made with the congressman in the first place.

Sleep was dragging at him. He’d deal with this in the morning. He didn’t bother with his bed, just stretched out on the couch, his usual resting spot, kicked off his shoes and shut his eyes. He’d be able to figure all of this out later, after his batteries recharged.

Darkness enveloped the room, and he didn’t see the tiny glowing light secreted on the back edge of his television, a dusty Bermuda triangle that never got cleaned, or noticed.

* * *

Fletcher slept without dreams for four hours, then woke to the clamor of his cell phone. Cursing, he reached for the offending object, managed to open it and grunted, “What?”

“Fletch, thank God. I was starting to worry. I’ve been calling you for hours.”

Sam.

Fletcher groaned and rolled onto his side.

“Time is it?”

“Almost 7:30. Are you okay? You sound horrible.”

“Up late.” He struggled into a seated position, hand shielding his eyes from the sun spilling in through his blinds.

“I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“In person, Fletch. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. Can you come to the house? We have something to show you.”

We
. He hated that term where she was concerned. Hated it even more that he actually liked Xander Whitfield. It would be easier if the man were a tool, but he wasn’t, not in the least. He was rugged and outdoorsy and smart and decent looking, if you liked the tall, dark and handsome set, which most women did.

He looked at his watch. He needed to be at the JTTF to embark on his suicide mission at 9:00 a.m. “Yeah. Give me fifteen. Make some breakfast, will ya? I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days.”

Sam laughed under her breath. “Anything for you, Fletch. Now hurry.”

WEDNESDAY

Chapter 14

Washington, D.
C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam had used a couple of belts of Scotch to get back to sleep after Xander’s bombshell, and was feeling frachetty. She’d only managed two hours of sleep, had gotten up as soon as she woke to try and reach Fletcher again. Her mission finally accomplished, she was happy to fulfill Fletcher’s demand—a hot breakfast to soothe his tired bones. It might help give her and Xander some energy to make it through what was certainly going to be a long day.

She grabbed a quick shower, threw on a pair of gray summer-weight wool trousers and a cream short-sleeved cashmere T-shirt, and put her dark, wet hair in a bun. It was getting longer, her bangs growing out so they swept to the side and tucked behind her ears. She liked the new look, thought she’d go ahead with it for a while. When she was working back in Nashville, she kept her haircut appointments with military discipline; the shoulder-length bob she’d worn for years served her well, accentuating her heart-shaped face and staying out of her way while looking both chic and practical. Now that she wasn’t going to be spending her days bent over a dissection table, she could let things go a little, be freer. The professors she’d met thus far had long hair. They wore loose-fitting clothes, comfortable and roomy, sometimes even scrubs, and smelled faintly of patchouli. She wouldn’t go that far—she was too attached to her sumptuous fabrics and Chanel No. 5—but a bit of leeway wouldn’t hurt.

“Xander?” she called as she went down the stairs.

There was no answer.

She assumed he had gone for a run; he did that often when he was here in the city. Her house was close to the canal, which was his favorite path to follow. She’d gone with him a few times, but she knew she held him back. Years of daily PT made him strong, streamlined and seemingly unstoppable. He had reserves she couldn’t come close to emulating.

A canal run up the Potomac meant he’d come home starving, so she decided to make blueberry pancakes and eggs and bacon. That should sufficiently feed her men.

Her men.

She had a pang of inconsolable grief at the thought. She’d moved from daily, all-consuming sorrow to the sneak attacks, images and smells and memories that came at her out of the blue like snipers’ bullets. As much as she wanted to, Sam couldn’t replace Simon with Xander and Fletcher, couldn’t use the new people in her life to erase the ones who were gone.

Matthew and Madeleine, her twins, had adored blueberry pancakes. It was a Sunday morning ritual: after church, they would go to Le Peep in Belle Meade, just a mile from the huge house she’d grown up in, and have a family breakfast. Sometimes her friends Taylor and Baldwin would meet them, sometimes Simon’s parents. It was a tradition, built purposely so the kids would have a memory, a habit, to cling to as they got older. So they’d understand the value of a treat. Of family. Of togetherness.

Church. Sam hadn’t been back since they found their bodies. She couldn’t believe in a God who’d strip a woman of her family. She was surprisingly comfortable with the decision, considering she’d been a devout Catholic before the accident. It was freeing, not having to share all her little venial sins. Not taking the comfort she’d always found in communion, that feeling of magic watching the transubstantiation. She had believed in all of it. Believed down to her bones. Until she didn’t. She’d never known faith could be like a switch on a lamp, on one minute, off the next. When they died, she hadn’t even bothered trying to turn the switch on again. She never would. That ship had sailed while she scattered their ashes, the winds at the top of Xander’s mountain whipping their beings away into the ether, taking the part of her that believed in magic and mystery and faith along with them.

She put the pancake mix back in the pantry and retrieved two baking potatoes instead. Hash browns would fill them up just fine.

* * *

Fletcher arrived on her doorstep just as she was sliding the bacon from the pan. She dumped the shredded potatoes into the skillet to let them cook in the rendered grease, and went to the door, wiping her hands on a towel.

He looked like something the cat dragged in. He’d showered, but barely. Stubble bristled from his jaw, and his blue eyes were shadowed with deep pockets of dark skin. He had on a suit that was rumpled, and mismatched socks. Fletch on a case was a sight to behold.

“You want to use my bathroom, try again?” she asked.

He just shot her a look and came into the house. She looked to the northwest for a second, down N Street toward Georgetown University, wondering how long Xander would be, then decided feeding and watering Fletcher took precedence. Her stove had a warming setting; she’d put Xander’s plate in there and he could eat when he returned. She shut the door and went to the kitchen, where Fletcher had already grabbed a mug and was filling it from the coffeepot.

She flipped the hash browns and started to assemble their plates. Fletcher sat at the table with his coffee, sipping and groaning in the kind of earthy delight only men who can appreciate decent coffee and women’s backsides could pull off.

She slid a plate of food under his nose, then joined him with her own. He dug in immediately, shoveled three forkfuls in before taking a breath.

“God, this is good. Thank you. What do you need?”

“We should wait for Xander. It’s his story.”

“Where is he?”

“I think he went for a run. He was gone when I got up. So he should be back shortly. What’s happening with the investigation? The TV said there were no more deaths overnight, and a few of the victims would be released this morning. That’s good news, right?”

He crunched his bacon. “You know as much as I do right now.”

“But you’re working with the JTTF, right? I figured they’d have all the scoop.”

“They do. I don’t. I am tasked with something else. A smaller part of the investigation.”

She heard the annoyance in his voice. “Want to tell me about it?”

“I can’t. Not yet. Suffice it to say, one misstep and I’m toast.” He ran his forefinger along his throat in a slash.

“Really? I can’t imagine Armstrong letting you get into trouble.”

“He doesn’t know about this. I’ve been asked to keep the ‘nature of my investigation’ to myself. And trust me, it’s something I want some cover on. A single fuckup, and I’ll be on the first train out of town with pitchforks and brands thrown at me.”

“Are you in trouble?”

He ate some more, took a big drink of his coffee. “I don’t know yet. But I have to make some decisions pretty damn quick. So let’s get a move on. You can tell me what’s up, and when Xander gets back, he can fill in the blanks.”

She glanced at the clock. He should have been back by now.

“Let me just call him. He usually takes his phone with him when he’s in the city.”

She grabbed her cell. Xander’s phone rang once, twice, then he picked up without a greeting.

“I wondered when you were going to call.”

“Where are you? Fletcher and I are about to eat your breakfast.”

His voice changed. “Fletcher’s there?”

“Yes. Remember, we were trying to touch base so we could tell him your theory?”

“I do. And so you may.”

“Where are you, Xander?”

She heard the noises in the background then, a familiar squelch, and realized exactly where he was.

“Oh, come on. That is so not fair. Where are you going?”

She could almost hear the smile in his voice. “You’re good, Dr. Owens. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Xander, we need you here. You need to show Fletch what’s going on.”

“He has enough to deal with. Just let me figure this out, and see if I can’t track them down, then I’ll tell him exactly where they are, and he can swoop in and scoop them up with all the fanfare he wants.”

“Xander—”

“Samantha, honey, I don’t want to jam up these people if they have nothing to do with the attack.”

“And if they do?”

“They don’t. I know it. I just need to have enough proof so they won’t be arrested.”

Fletcher was watching her closely now, as if he knew already the situation at hand.

“You kept something from me. You do know who they are, and where they are,” Sam said flatly.

“I have a sneaking suspicion.”

“This isn’t your fight, Xander. Come home. Let’s deal with this together.”

His voice deepened. “It most certainly is my fight. They’re calling for me to turn off my cell, sweetheart. I’ll be in touch.”

The phone went dead. Sam didn’t know whether to curse or throw her cell across the room. In the end, she chose a few deep breaths and set the phone gently on the glass kitchen table.

Fletcher set his fork down on his totally clean plate. He watched her expression, then sighed and said, “If he’s not coming, can I have his breakfast, too?”