Kiss Me, Kill Me (13 page)

Her job was to find Kirsten Benton, and she’d share what she knew of Jessica’s double life on the
Party Girl
website if the FBI didn’t already know about it.

First things first. Deliver these tamales to Josh Haynes and find out what he knew about Kirsten, aka Ashleigh.

She knocked on his door.

It took Josh several minutes to answer. Wearing pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Yeah?”

“Lauren asked me to bring these tamales up for you.”

Josh sighed and opened the door. “She thinks food is going to make everything better.”

Lucy walked in and put the tray on his small counter. The kitchen was not bigger than her bathroom—which was tiny—just a small alcove with a narrow stove, small refrigerator, and sink. The tray took up half the available counter space. The rest of the apartment was nice. Though not spacious, it had high ceilings and tall, narrow windows.

“She means well,” Lucy said.

“Yeah.” He stared out the window.

“You cared for Jessica.”

He didn’t say anything. “Are you Lauren’s friend or Jessie’s?”

“Neither. I’m Lucy Kincaid. I’m trying to find a friend of Jessica’s, Ashleigh.”

“Why?”

“She’s missing.”

“God, this is so fucked. You think something happened to her, too?”

“I don’t know, but I think Ashleigh was supposed to go to a party with Jessica the weekend she was killed.”

“
I
took Jess to that party.” Josh sat heavily on one of the two kitchen chairs. “She was acting weird that night. I should have stayed with her. She would still be alive.”

“Josh, you don’t know that. You don’t know what might have happened. What do you mean Jess was acting weird?”

“Just, I don’t know, skittish. Stressed. I thought it was because of her classes; she was taking a tough schedule. She couldn’t relax. And then she asked if I’d take her to the party, and I thought it was her way of making up, but then she was all weird about that, too. She didn’t talk on the subway, and I was mad because she wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? Am I that big of a jerk?”

Lucy touched his arm lightly. “She asked you to take her to the party. That says something, don’t you think?”

“Then why didn’t she ask me to stay with her? If she was scared of something, why didn’t she want me to protect her? And why go to the party in the first place?”

An excellent question. Lucy suspected the answer also had to do with why Kirsten went to the party. Maybe it wasn’t that Jessie was scared for herself—maybe she wanted to tell Kirsten to be careful.

“Josh,” she said, sliding over one of her new cards, “here’s my number. If Ashleigh contacts you, would you please let me know? It’s important. If she’s in trouble, we can help. And if she knows anything about who killed Jessica, we can protect her.”

He stared at the card.

“Do you think Wade Barnett killed her?” Josh asked.

Lucy hesitated. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t know who Wade Barnett was, but at the same time, she wanted to know why Josh had asked the question.

She replied, “I can’t honestly say; I’m not investigating her murder. Did he know Ashleigh or Jessica?”

“I think Jess met him, here at one of my parties.”

“One of the underground parties?”

“No, right here.” He waved his arm around his space. “I have five neighbors on the floor, and they’re cool with it. My friend across the hall opens up his apartment and we take over the floor. A couple times a year.”

“Was Ashleigh at any of those parties?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember. She always disappeared when I was sober, and really, I just wanted to be with Jess. I should have told her how I felt about her; I just thought—I don’t know, we’re both in college, we both like to have fun.” He shrugged, his eyes red.

“Did the police mention Wade Barnett as a suspect?” she asked, surprised.

“No, I told the cops about him. They were asking about the underground parties and I said they should talk to him because he keeps tabs on the best parties.”

“Did you see him at the party where Jessica died?”

“No,” Josh admitted, “but there were hundreds of people there.”

“I’m sure the police talked to him, and they know what they’re doing. Let them do their job. I need to do mine. Remember, if you hear from Ashleigh—or even talk to someone who heard from her—call me. It’s important.”

   Sean wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving Lucy on her own the first time she was in New York City, but she wasn’t reckless and he wanted her to rebuild her shattered confidence. He’d left her a block from Jessica’s apartment, and the cathedral would provide a distraction if she was done early. Still, he wanted to get his trip to Brooklyn over with as quickly as possible.

The three-story, U-shaped Clover Motel looked much better online. Situated in a desolate neighborhood, with faded blue paint, peeling in more places than not, its weather-damaged doors might have once been green but now looked puce. The entire structure and grounds were in dire need of repair. There didn’t seem to be much of anything in the area except a few businesses and several boarded-up buildings.

Sean parked where he could see his GT from the office. The room was small, and the clerk sat behind a thick sheet of Plexiglas.

“Sixty-four dollars a night single room, or three hundred for the week, paid up front.”

Sean said, “I’m a P.I. looking for a missing girl.”

The clerk looked at him with disinterest. He was chewing tobacco, his lips stained, a bit of snuff caught in his greasy black mustache. “So?”

Sean held up the picture of Kirsten. “She called the motel a week ago, on Friday, about eleven p.m.”

“Like I’m going to remember a call.”

“Do you recognize her?”

He shrugged, but Sean saw him looking closely while pretending to be nonchalant.

Sean slid him a twenty through the narrow slot in the window. “Well?”

“She rented a room for two nights. Paid cash.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“Not that I saw.”

“When did she check out?”

“She didn’t. People don’t check out all the time, they just leave the key. I didn’t think anything of it until the maid got there Monday to change the sheets and found her suitcase.”

“Did you call her?”

The clerk sighed and spat a wad of chaw into the cup. “Nope.”

“Where’s her suitcase now?”

“In the back.”

Sean tempered his anger at the drawn-out questions and answers. The clerk knew what he wanted.

He slid another twenty through the slot. “Can I see it?”

The clerk palmed the twenty and slowly stood and sauntered across his small space. He reached under a table and pulled out a small black suitcase with wheels, the kind seen en masse at any airport. Bright pink duct tape had been wrapped around the handle.

The clerk opened the door and handed Sean the suitcase. “It’s all yours; just sign a receipt. I’m keeping her deposit, because she didn’t leave the key—it wasn’t in the room. You know how much it costs to rekey the locks in this place?”

The clerk wrote out a sloppy note, and Sean scribbled a signature.

“When did you last see her?”

“I checked her in late Friday, but I don’t work weekends.”

“Had she stayed here before?”

“I’d never checked her in. I’d remember that hot blonde in a heartbeat.”

Sean stared at the old pervert with distaste, couldn’t summon a thank-you at that point, and left with Kirsten’s suitcase.

He put the suitcase in his trunk and opened it. Clothes. Toiletries, shoes. Enough for two or three days. Inside the zippered front pocket was a canceled Amtrak ticket from D.C. to New York, plus an unused return ticket for last Sunday at 3:10 p.m. A hundred dollars in twenties was tucked away in the same pocket.

He closed her suitcase and the trunk and sat in the driver’s seat.

Had he found the suitcase but not the message Kirsten had sent to Trey, Sean would think she was dead. But something had happened over the weekend that had left her disoriented, and possibly injured, and she was in hiding.

He pulled out his phone and saw that Lucy had sent him an email.

Jessica Bell is dead. She was murdered last weekend at a warehouse party in Brooklyn. Maybe you can check it out if you’re still there? An article about four identical murders is attached.

Both Jessica’s roommate and her boyfriend recognized Kirsten as “Ashleigh,” and the boyfriend saw her a few weeks ago. I’m going to talk to a couple neighbors to get a better idea of the last time they remember Kirsten visiting. What if the other three victims were also on the
Party Girl
site? I’m going to check into it before meeting you at the church.

Sean read the article Lucy had found. Nowhere in it did it mention
Party Girl
or Jessica’s alter ego “Jenna.” Had the police made the connection but were keeping it quiet? Lucy was smart; she’d discover if there was a connection. If there was, maybe Kirsten had a legitimate reason to go into hiding.

Sean understood people, but he understood computers and networks better. He might not be able to trace Kirsten’s steps after she checked into the Clover Motel, but he
could
retrace her steps on the
Party Girl
site; namely, all her contacts. Like Jessica Bell, there were probably others Kirsten trusted, people she could turn to if she was in trouble.

Or, he thought, someone who
was
trouble. If
Party Girl
was the connection to the four murders, then a psycho was targeting girls from the site. Sean would have to turn that information over to the police, but first he wanted to check out the abandoned warehouse where Jessica had been murdered. He didn’t expect to find any clues to Kirsten’s disappearance, but it would help for him to know where she had been, and where her friend had died.

He plugged the location identified in the newspaper into his GPS. The abandoned warehouse, a former printing supply chain, was only a few blocks from the Clover Motel.

THIRTEEN

Suzanne risked Friday afternoon traffic and drove directly to Whitney Morrissey’s place from Hamden. The twenty-four-year-old lived in Brooklyn, in a warehouse that had been converted into artist studios, with two businesses on the ground floor: an insurance agency and a rental company.

She buzzed 3A, Whitney’s apartment, and waited. Then buzzed again. She had tried calling when she was driving, but there had been no answer. She hadn’t left a message.

“Yeah?” A scratchy voice came through the intercom.

“Whitney Morrissey?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI and I have some questions regarding your cousin, Alanna Andrews.”

Dead silence. A good thirty seconds later, the door buzzed open and Suzanne entered. She walked up two flights of stairs to the third floor. Whitney stood in her doorway. She wore an oversized NYU T-shirt and had long bare legs. Thick blond hair fell halfway down her back in a tangle of wild curls.

“FBI?” Whitney asked.

Suzanne handed her a business card. “I have questions about the month your cousin lived here.”

“Here?” Whitney glanced behind her. Suzanne couldn’t see what or who she was looking at.

“Is that a problem?”

“I have a friend over.” She bit her lip.

“I also have questions about the party in October where Alanna was murdered.”

“Can we talk later?”

“No, we can’t.”

If the woman played hardball, Suzanne would have to get a warrant, and that took time and paperwork.

Suzanne despised paperwork.

Whitney sighed and shut her door, closing off her apartment. “You don’t mind talking out here?”

Suzanne shook her head. Whitney would be more forthcoming without an audience. “How many of the underground parties did you take Alanna to when she stayed with you that summer?”

“Two or three.”

“And did she meet anyone?”

Whitney looked at her as if she were an idiot. “They were big parties. I’m sure she met lots of people.”

Suzanne didn’t like this girl. “I should clarify. Did she meet anyone at any of the parties who she continued to see afterward?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me about anyone.”

“Were you at the October thirtieth party in Harlem? The Haunted House?”

She hesitated.

“I’d like to state that this is an active police investigation and if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll keep digging until I hit the truth.”

Whitney curled her lip. “I showed up for a while, but left early.”

“How early?”

“Two.”

Two in the morning was early?
“Did you see Alanna there?”

“Yeah. For just a minute. She was with a guy.”

“Anyone you know?”

She shook her head. “I’d seen him around, but I don’t know his name.”

“Were you at the Brooklyn party last weekend?”

“The one near the docks? I heard about it, but I didn’t go. I had an art show that weekend and needed to sleep.”

It had the ring of truth, but Suzanne made a note to follow up on it. “What kind of art?”

“Charcoal drawings, mostly. Some watercolors.”

“Would you mind showing me something?”

She looked skeptical. “Why?”

Suzanne shrugged. “Just curious.”

Whitney opened the door and walked away but didn’t let Suzanne in. Through the narrow opening she saw one large room with a wall of small-paned warehouse windows left over from the original building. The far wall had an intricate painting directly on the wall in black and greens that looked like a mosaic of the New York skyline. She couldn’t see anything on the right except for a closed door. The place smelled like paint cleaner with a faint undercurrent of marijuana. Now Suzanne understood why Whitney didn’t want her inside.

Whitney came back with a sketchbook and handed it to Suzanne, along with a postcard. “This was from my show. It was in Central Park.”

“I remember,” said Suzanne, surprised. “I was jogging through the park when they were setting up on Saturday morning.”

She glanced through the sketchbook, not really interested, just wanting something tangible to confirm that Whitney wasn’t making up the art show alibi. She couldn’t help but notice that Whitney had talent. Most of the drawings were faces, a few buildings, and New York landmarks.

“You’re really good.”

Whitney smiled sheepishly as she took the sketchbook back. “Thanks. But it’s hard to make money with these sketches. And the last thing I want to do is go into commercial art.”

“Sometimes you have to make a living doing what you don’t particularly like so you have the time and money to do what you love to do.”

“Exactly!” Whitney said. “Alanna and I weren’t really close, but I liked her and I feel bad about what happened. You don’t have any idea who killed her?”

Suzanne didn’t answer the question, but asked, “You’re an artist and have a good eye for detail. Would you mind looking at three pictures and telling me if you remember seeing any of these women?”

“You’re talking about the other victims.”

“Yes.”

Whitney nodded, but bit her lip.

“Did you see their photos in the paper?”

“Yeah—”

Suzanne took out the folder and showed her the pictures one by one. Whitney recognized them, Suzanne was certain of it, but she didn’t say anything right away.

“I may have seen them before, but I don’t know when or where. All three look kind of familiar, but I didn’t know them, like their names or anything. I’m sorry.”

“I have a favor to ask,” said Suzanne.

Whitney eyed her suspiciously.

“The guy you saw Alanna with the night she died, would you be able to draw him?”

“You think he killed her?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to talk to him.”

Whitney closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them and said, “Yeah, I think I can.”

“Call me when you’re done and I’ll pick it up. It’s important—the sooner you can do it, the better.”

Suzanne left Whitney’s apartment and called her office as she turned the car around. She verified that the autopsy report from Jessica Bell was on her desk, and that the blood and tissue samples had been sealed and sent via courier from the coroner to the FBI lab. If anything came from them, the chain of evidence had to be preserved or the court would throw all the material out. Everything was moving quickly on her end, but anytime they were dealing with lab work, speed wasn’t really an option, regardless of what the movies and television touted.

She was talking to her squad’s chief analyst when Vic Panetta called. “I’ll call you back,” she told Chris. She clicked over to Panetta. “Got a lead on a witness. A guy the first vic’s cousin saw with Andrews the night she was killed. We’re working on a sketch.”

“Good, but we have another problem. The security company overseeing the old printing warehouse in Brooklyn just called me about a prowler. Caucasian, six foot one to six foot two, dark hair, wearing jeans and a black jacket.”

“I’m still in Brooklyn; I’ll check it out.”

“The security guard, our ex-cop Rich Berenz, is on scene but he’s sitting back and watching. He’ll detain if the trespasser tries to leave.”

“Call him back and tell him my ETA is six minutes.”

She turned around again and headed straight for the warehouse.

Killers often returned to the scene of the crime to relive their sick thrills, and Suzanne hoped that was the case this time.