Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (22 page)

“And if you don’t like any of these, you can read the paper.” He laid the late afternoon edition of the
Evening News
on top of the magazines.

As Ingrid stared at the paper, she couldn’t stop her mouth dropping open.

“What’s wrong? Are you OK?” Mills asked her.

Two portraits dominated the front page of the paper. The one on the left was the photograph of Darryl Wyatt taken by his girlfriend, sent to Ingrid by Detective Trooe in Savannah. The one she and Angela Tate had distributed to dozens of properties surrounding the dead Latvian’s apartment. The picture on the right was some sort of artist’s impression of the same face, but this one had much darker hair and clean-shaven chin and cheeks. Ingrid checked the byline, even though she didn’t really need to: Angela Tate.

The headline:
Have you seen this man?
was followed by a brief reminder of how the cherry-headed Latvian woman was murdered. Ingrid continued to read, fighting hard to keep her head clear, and discovered a witness living in the same apartment block had confirmed seeing a man fitting the description of Wyatt visiting the Latvian’s apartment regularly for the last few months. He even occasionally stayed over.

“What is it?” Mills asked again.

The clincher came in the next paragraph. A fact that Ingrid had not revealed to Tate: the witness had also confirmed he’d seen a distinctive rose tattoo on the man’s left forearm.

“He’s definitely here.” Ingrid swung her legs over the side of the bed. “There’s no doubt now.” The facts about Cory Ellis and his connection to both Matthew Fuller and Barbara Highsmith swam up through layers of murky memories and finally surfaced in her mind. “Darryl Wyatt. Cory Ellis. Whatever he’s calling himself now.”

“Who?”

“Help me find my clothes. I’ve got to get out of this place.”

35

Mills finally located Ingrid’s clothes in a large green plastic sack shoved into the bottom of the bedside cabinet. Just as he was handing them over to her, the door opened. McKittrick marched in. A man in smart suit pants and a short sleeved shirt trailed after her. The man raised both eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of surprise.

“I do hope you weren’t thinking of going anywhere, Ms Skyberg,” he said.

“First of all, it’s
Agent
Skyberg, and I am thinking of getting the hell out of here.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The registrar—McKittrick had apparently dragged him all the way from the Emergency Room—spent the next five minutes running through tests: checking her blood pressure, temperature, oxygen absorption and reflexes, before finally giving her the OK to be discharged.

“A nurse will be along in a while to remove the cannula,” he explained.

“Can’t you take it out for me?” Ingrid lifted her arm toward his face.

“I’m afraid matron wouldn’t allow that.”

“All right—I’ll rip it out myself.” Ingrid tugged on the adhesive transparent tape and managed to loosen a corner. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Stop that! Good grief.” The registrar quickly washed his hands, grabbed a pair of disposable gloves from a dispenser above the bed and carefully unpeeled the adhesive tape. When the cannula was out he told Ingrid to apply pressure to a folded dressing on the needle site for a minute or so.

“
Now
you can get the hell out of my hospital. But there is absolutely no way you’re returning to work. I’m discharging you into the care of a responsible adult on the clear understanding that you rest for the remainder of the day.” He looked from Ingrid to McKittrick and back again.

“He means you, Natasha. How responsible are you feeling?” Ingrid peered at the needle puncture. It oozed a little more blood. She pressed the dressing again.

“Well I’m definitely an adult—that’ll have to be good enough. We’ll get you fixed up at mine, in the spare room.”

“I’d be perfectly fine on my own.”

“I didn’t hear that,” the registrar said, and left the room.

*

Ingrid and McKittrick were sitting in a taxi stuck in traffic, just a few hundred yards from the hospital when Ingrid decided to make her escape. She reached for the door handle.

McKittrick grabbed her arm. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to get to work. I’ll pick up another cab.”

“You’ve been released into my care.”

“Jennifer’s perfectly capable of looking out for me in the office. I’ve already taken up far too much of your time. You need to get back to work too.”

“No way. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“But I need access to the Bureau database. I know who killed Matthew Fuller. And the Latvian woman. I need to put together a profile of the perp to try and work out where he might be now.”

“Fine. But not today.”

“Tomorrow might be too late.”

“Tough. Call someone. Get your boss to handle it for you.”

“It’s my case. I’ve worked damn hard on it.”

“You’re in no fit state. You’re coming home with me and resting. You can watch a bit of television maybe. But mostly, you’re going to be lying down and dozing. Carbon monoxide poisoning isn’t something you can just shrug off.”

“I’ve had a night in hospital. I’m fine now.”

“Are you still talking? I’m not listening anymore.”

“At least let me make a couple of phone calls.”

“OK—but make them quick.”

Ingrid found her cell phone buried deep in the bottom of her purse and scrolled through the contacts list until she found the name she was looking for. She hit call and waited. And waited. The call was finally answered just as she was about to give up.

“Agent Skyberg, so good of you to get back to me.” The sarcasm in Angela Tate’s tone was unmistakable. “I’ve been leaving you messages all morning.”

Ingrid glanced at McKittrick, who was staring out of the window. “I’ve been a little… tied up.”

“Seems those flyers worked a treat.”

“Have you reported all the information to the investigating team?”

“Of course I have. The witness is probably giving his official statement as we speak.”

“Who is this witness?”

“Bloke who lives in the upstairs flat in the same block as the Latvian woman. He’d been away for a few days. Couldn’t believe what had been going on in his absence. I got the impression he was rather fond of the woman.”

“He gave you the description of the man?”

“He noticed him coming and going. He’d asked Mary about her new boyfriend a couple of times, but she never wanted to talk about him.”

“This neighbor knew her name?”

“Only her first name.”

“And the name of the boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“How was he so sure the man he’d seen was the same as the one in the photograph?”

“He wasn’t one hundred per cent. But the likeness was close enough for him to call me.”

McKittrick cleared her throat nosily. Ingrid turned to her.

“I’ll take that bloody thing away from you. Hurry up and finish the call.”

“Who’s that?” Tate asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“So—is he your man? You never mentioned a tattoo to me.”

“Maybe. I need to do a little more research to be sure.”

McKittrick cleared her throat again. Ingrid held up a finger and mouthed “one minute” at her.

“When was the last time the neighbor saw the man?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Last Tuesday evening. That’s when he left for his holidays.”

“Can you give me the neighbor’s details? I’d like to speak to him myself.”

Tate told Ingrid his name and flat number. “Though you might want to wait a while. He’s rather tied up with the police at the moment. Perhaps you should liaise with them.” Tate hung up.

As Ingrid stared down at her cell phone, trying to work out the significance of the timing of the Darryl Wyatt’s last visit to the property, McKittrick snatched it from her hands.

“That’s enough. You already look paler. No work. And that’s final.”

“I have another call to make.”

“It can wait.”

“I don’t think it can.”

“What was that all about anyway?” McKittrick waved Ingrid’s phone in the air.

“According to the witness, my suspect returned to the property hours and hours after he killed her. I don’t understand why.”

“To clean up after himself, I expect. Didn’t you say no forensic evidence was found at the flat?”

“It’s more fundamental than that. If I’m right and the man responsible for the Latvian’s death also killed Matthew Fuller…” Ingrid’s head was just too fuzzy to figure everything out.

“Yes?”

“Bear with me here—”

“Wait a minute… how is this any different from you sitting at your desk working through things? I shouldn’t even be talking to you about it.”

“Matthew Fuller is on his hit list, he comes all the way to London to kill him. He watches him die a terrifying, painful death. Why not leave the country straight after? You’ve achieved your goal. Why stick around long enough to discover that your Latvian girlfriend is trying to screw money out of your old bank account in the US?”

McKittrick shrugged. “Maybe he had another reason to stick around.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I really shouldn’t be encouraging you. Let’s talk about it later, once you’ve settled into the spare room.”

“For God’s sake! I’m not an invalid.”

“Actually, right now that’s exactly what you are.”

“What possible reason could he have to stay in the UK?”

McKittrick shook her head. “Maybe he’s not finished yet.”

“What?”

“Is it possible there’s someone else on his hit list?”

“Huh?” The fuzziness in Ingrid’s head was starting to feel a little worse.

“Maybe he’s planning to kill someone else here.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Ingrid. “Someone else?”

“Isn’t that possible?”

“I guess. But it’d have to be someone connected to the original trial of his father. All the other deaths were.” Ingrid blinked hard, trying to recall all the details of the killings. “In each case, the method of killing was connected to the victim’s weakness, a vulnerability.”

“Any other similarities?”

“We’ve spoken about the cases. I’m having a little trouble recalling—” Ingrid hated to admit that her injuries were affecting her ability to do her job.

“Right that’s it—let’s talk about something else. This is too taxing.”

“No, wait.” Ingrid struggled hard to remember something she’d discovered that linked David Brite’s murder to Barbara Highsmith’s. After a few moments it came to her. “The date. Two of the victims were killed on the anniversary of the suspect’s parents’ deaths. May 15
^th
.”

“That’s tomorrow. So Matthew Fuller’s murder broke the pattern.”

Did two kills constitute a pattern? “You think maybe he’s planning to kill someone else on the 15
^th
?”

“You’re the one who can’t work out why he hung around after the City trader’s death. I’m just brainstorming with you.”

“I need my phone.”

“Later. All this talking has already made you a bit sweaty. You really are supposed to be taking it easy.”

“Please. It won’t take long, I promise. I need to find out who else was involved in Henry Ellis’ trial. Whether it’s possible they’re here in the UK.”

Reluctantly, McKittrick handed Ingrid her cell. Ingrid found Mike Stiller in her contacts list and waited for him to pick up.

“Hey, what happened to you?” he said as soon as she’d managed a ‘hello’. “You haven’t hassled me for more information for over eighteen hours. I was beginning to feel a little unloved.”

“I’ve been in the hospital.”

“Jeez—that open head wound of yours?”

“No… something else. It doesn’t matter. I’m feeling much better now.” She threw McKittrick a look.

“Is this going to take long? Only I’ve got a meeting to get to ten minutes ago.”

“No time at all. I won’t have access to the Bureau database for a while—I’m supposed to be convalescing—could you send me everything you can on the Henry Ellis investigation? I’m certain now his son is my suspect. And I know he’s right here in London.”

“What?”

“Come on, Mike, just this one favor for today.”

“How long have you been in the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I guess you didn’t get a chance to finish your research into Ellis, huh?”

“I didn’t. That’s why I’m asking for this favor now. Please, Mike.”

“I really gotta get going.”

“OK—send me the information after your meeting.”

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“About Cory Ellis being your suspect. And he certainly isn’t in London right now.”

“Quit kidding around, Mike. Just send me the information, will you?”

“There’s no point. Cory Ellis died in 2002.”

36

Ingrid woke up in the middle of the night with a desert-dry mouth. In the half-light, she managed to make out the glass of water sitting on the floor beside the bed. She grabbed it and downed the lot, but it did nothing to quench her thirst.

She wandered to McKittrick’s kitchen, her head full of questions she couldn’t answer. She’d been so sure about Cory Ellis, and his connection to Matthew Fuller and Barbara Highsmith. It had all fitted together so perfectly. Maybe a little too perfectly. At least she knew that a man fitting Darryl Wyatt’s description had been seen at the Latvian’s apartment. The Fuller and Highsmith murders may not be linked, but Highsmith’s killer seemed to be in London. McKittrick had called the team investigating the Latvian’s death on Ingrid’s behalf, giving them all the information Ingrid had managed to piece together with Mike Stiller’s help.

Just before she’d retired for the night, McKittrick had given Ingrid back her phone. Ingrid thought about calling Mike Stiller again. But all she could have done was whine to him about how certain she’d been and how disappointed she was her theory hadn’t panned out.

She refilled her glass from the faucet, and stood at the sink for a moment, enjoying how good the coolness of the tile floor felt beneath her feet. She thought about the kitchen in her own apartment and wondered when she’d be able to set foot in it again. Whether she ever would. She made a mental note to try calling the realtor in the morning.