Midnight Fear (8 page)

T
he man stood on the hotel plaza, gazing up at the illuminated exterior. He scanned each window, wondering which room was hers.

She was a honey-blonde, too. Just like his wife had been. He had gotten a good look at her today, at least until she noticed him and he had been forced to retreat back into the pulsating crowd.

The night had gotten colder, the relative warmth of the sunny fall afternoon disappearing as blue sky faded to evening. Pulling the thin jacket more tightly around his chest, he tried to ignore his feet that hurt from hours of following her around the District.

Seeking a distraction, he closed his eyes and concentrated on her cool beauty, thinking of her oval face with its delicate features and graceful ballerina’s neck. But her image distorted until it became someone else entirely. Someone who was even more beautiful to him. He saw his wife—laughing at the beach on a summer weekend, helping their daughters wrap presents
at Christmas. Cooing over the West Highland puppy he’d given her on their tenth anniversary. The memories wrapped around him until he felt dizzy with anger and need.

I’m so tired,
he thought, grinding the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t been home in two days.

When he looked again, the valet under the hotel portico was holding open the glass doors, revealing the posh lobby and its sparkling chandeliers.

Reid Novak walked outside.

They had crossed paths before in the federal court-rooms—on business and on another more intensely personal matter. He stepped back into the shadows, watching as the FBI agent tipped the valet and drove off in an SUV. By all accounts, Novak was a good officer, fiercely intelligent and possessing a high moral character. Which made his involvement with her even more confusing.

He of all people had to understand she was tainted by evil, didn’t he?

But when the man had trailed them from the restaurant back to the hotel, he’d noticed the way Novak’s hand lingered against the small of her back. He felt a wave of hurt and betrayal.

Peering up again at the hotel facade, his eyes were drawn to a corner room on the third floor. Golden light emanated from its arched window, silhouetting the slender figure of a woman who looked out. He couldn’t make out her face at this distance, but her hair was long
and blond. His fingers curled tightly against his palms, his unkempt nails pressing half moons into his flesh. The unfairness of it nearly choked him.

“I want my wife back,” he whispered into the darkness.

“A
gent Novak.” Hal Feingold tipped his pilsner glass toward Reid, who had entered the wood-paneled Ambassador Bar near Capitol Hill. “You saved me a trip.”

“And how’s that?” Reid took a stool at the bar next to the former reporter. He’d already been by Feingold’s house and was told by his wife where to find him. Judging by the cell phone on the bar top and the fact that Feingold didn’t seem surprised by his appearance, Reid guessed he’d been forewarned of his arrival.

“I’m working on a book about the Cahill family. As lead investigator on the Capital Killer case, you’re on my interview list. You want a drink?” Feingold lifted his hand to signal the bartender.

“Not for me,” Reid said.

“Suit yourself.” Feingold shrugged thick shoulders under a tweed blazer. His balding pate reflected light from a wall-mounted television turned to C-SPAN. Accepting a refill from the bartender, he took a drink and wiped the foam from his mouth. “So how’ve you been,
Novak? I contacted the VCU offices a few weeks back and was told you were on medical leave. You’ve been ill?”

“I’m better now.”

“But you’re not on the job yet, are you? You’re missing your firearm.”

Feingold had hangdog eyes and the heavy jowls of a chronic drinker, but Reid knew his mind was sharp as a scalpel. He’d covered the crime beat for the
Washington Post
for nearly three decades before leaving to pursue a career as a true crime author.

Reid redirected the conversation. “I understand you’ve been trying to make contact with Caitlyn Cahill?”

“Having her cooperation on the book would be a bonus.”

“She’s not interested.”

Feingold grinned. “What did she do? Make an official complaint? The Cahill name must still carry some weight if they’re letting her use FBI agents as messenger boys. Or is that just what they have you doing until SAC Johnston lets you off the porch?”

Reaching for a dish of salted peanuts, he popped a handful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “But as long as you’re bringing it up, I’ll tell you. I’m writing the book with or without Ms. Cahill’s permission. I covered the Capital Killer investigation and her brother’s trial, and I have five cardboard boxes full of notes that I don’t plan to let go to waste.”

“Caitlyn’s been through enough. She doesn’t need
to see a book about the worst part of her life on store shelves.”

“And that’s precisely what will make it a bestseller. The Cahills were Washington royalty before one of them turned into a hot, psychotic mess. But Ms. Cahill can relax—she’s going to come out looking like the only sane one in the family. The only moral one, too.” He crunched more peanuts, studying Reid with curiosity. “Why do you give a damn about Caitlyn Cahill, anyway? Her daddy nearly got you busted down to the Omaha field office, if I recall. There’s nothing in Nebraska to investigate but cow wrangling, Agent.”

Reid made no comment. Instead he said, “Caitlyn had a break-in at her home outside Middleburg a few nights ago. Nothing was stolen, although some files in her home office appeared to have been disturbed—”

“You think I’m breaking into homes now?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

Feingold snorted. “Get back to me when you have some actual proof to back up that screwball theory.”

“It’s not unreasonable. You’re the one writing a book about the Cahills.”

“I’ll use one of your phrases, Agent. No comment.”

Reid massaged the back of his neck. He’d figured talking to Feingold wouldn’t glean much information, but at least he could apply some subtle pressure about leaving Caitlyn alone. Slapping the flat of his hand on the bar to signal his intention to leave, he stood.

“So Ms. Cahill won’t deign to give me an interview, and she sent in the Feds to make her point. Message re
ceived.” Feingold stifled a belch with a closed fist. “But what about you, Novak? I’ve got my digital recorder right here if you want to tell me a little about your infamous run-ins with Braden Cahill. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go with my third-party accounts—”

“See you, Feingold.”

“You don’t want to talk about the copycat?”

Reid looked at him. Feingold gave a knowing wink. “I heard the Bureau got an ID on the second vic this morning. Too bad I’m not in the newspaper business anymore. I’d give my left nut to be the reporter who breaks that story wide-open. Regardless, it’s going to make a nice epilogue for my book. A new killer on the loose and all that.”

Feingold still had contacts within law enforcement, apparently. Although the media had reported both murders, they hadn’t yet been publicly connected, nor had the possibility of a copycat killer been released. Reid knew it would now only be a matter of time.

“How about if I keep my mouth shut in exchange for an interview?” Feingold suggested. “I hear Braden was a real son of a bitch. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to unload? Tell your side of the story?”

“The man’s dead. Forget it,” Reid answered tightly.

“Good for you, Novak. Always the Boy Scout. Tell Ms. Cahill I’ll be seeing her on the bookshelves.”

Reid walked out of the bar with Feingold’s phlegmy chortle in his ears.

Inside the graceful Georgetown home, images of Caitlyn’s childhood flitted through her mind. She saw
herself with Joshua, playing on the curved mahogany staircase, as well as the Christmas tree that graced the two-story foyer each year, decorated with crystal ornaments and plaid bows in honor of the family’s Scottish ancestry. Under the wide, arched doorway leading into the study, she had posed for a college graduation photo with her father, his arm wrapped around her as he beamed with pride. Caitlyn stood alone in the same location now, feeling a bittersweet sadness wash over her.

The visit with her mother, Caroline, at the nursing home earlier that day had not gone well. Once again, her mother hadn’t recognized her. The nursing staff had warned that her mother was having one of her
off
days, and that it was possible she wouldn’t be responsive. Still, Caitlyn had sat with her, holding her hand and talking to her in hopes she might somehow be able to reach her. But Caroline had stared at her daughter with vague curiosity before pulling her fingers away and gazing off toward the hallway, as if she expected some other visitor who was yet to arrive.

She had looked frail and small in the lilac sateen pajamas Caitlyn had bought her, and far too young to be struggling with Alzheimer’s, if that was indeed her affliction. Caitlyn couldn’t be sure since the doctors had never fully confirmed the diagnosis. All she really knew was that her mother’s mental state had begun to deteriorate when the FBI arrested her son. She had gone from vibrant D.C. socialite to a recluse who refused to
leave the haven of her home, fearing the questioning reporters camped along their fashionable street.

Two days after Braden Cahill’s stroke, Caroline had disappeared on her way home from the hospital. The District police had found her wandering the National Mall and unable to tell them her name or address. It was as if her mind had shattered right along with her family and social standing. Without those facets of her life, Caroline Cahill ceased to exist.

Caitlyn blamed herself.

She looked around the house that was cloaked in unbearable silence. White sheets now covered much of the remaining furnishings that would soon be auctioned off in an estate sale.

It had to be done. Caroline would never be coming home again, and the adult care facility where she now resided was costly. Caitlyn had found the nicest and most highly recommended center in the District, taking some comfort in the knowledge that at least her mother would still be in close proximity to her beloved Georgetown.

With a sigh of resignation, she climbed the stairs, stopping at the large window that overlooked the tree-lined, cobblestone street comprised of quaint shops and well-kept Federal, Georgian and Victorian townhomes. If the house sold soon, Caitlyn realized, she might never see this picturesque view again. But she couldn’t live here, either—the memories would consume her. She gazed down onto the sidewalk, expecting to see the bobbing heads of passersby. Instead, what she saw was
a man’s face lifted up toward the window. He frowned in hard concentration, the deep lines bracketing his mouth, belying his relative youth. Recollection sent a slow shiver curling up her spine.

It wasn’t just any man—it was the same one who had been watching her yesterday. Caitlyn took a step back, placing herself out of view. Curiosity and annoyance raced through her. Bolstering her courage, she hurried down to the main floor, her rapid footsteps echoing off the stairs. It was broad daylight—she would be safe enough. Throwing open the front door, she nearly let out a scream, not expecting the veranda to be occupied.

“Caitlyn?” Bliss Harper stood with her hand poised in midair, preparing to use the door’s brass knocker.

“Bliss.” Caitlyn sounded breathless.

“Am I…early?” Pushing her flaxen hair off her shoulder, she checked her Cartier wristwatch. “You looked surprised.”

Caitlyn scanned the street behind Bliss, but no longer saw the man. “No—no. You’re right on time.”

The two women gave each other a meaningful hug. Bliss had gone to school with Caitlyn and was one of the few friends with whom she had kept in touch after Joshua’s arrest and trial. Recently divorced, Bliss was now a Realtor specializing in estate homes, a lucrative profession for her since she traveled in the same circles with the people who could afford them. Caitlyn had contacted her last week about putting her family home on the market.

“You seem preoccupied,” Bliss noted. “Should we reschedule?”

Caitlyn looked past Bliss and once again searched the street, but her mystery follower was definitely gone. She shook her head. “No. Let’s do this now.”

“It
is
a down market,” Bliss reminded. She wrote notes in a leather-bound journal as they stood in one of the upstairs bedrooms. In a gentle voice she added, “And this house has a bad history, honey.”

The listing price she’d recommended was well below what Caitlyn knew the home was worth. But she was also aware Joshua’s infamy had cast a pall over it. Even though it wasn’t his residence at the time of the murders, it was where he’d grown up. And the FBI had served a warrant to search the residence after Caitlyn had turned over the journals, giving them cause.

“This is one of the best-preserved Victorians on the street, not to mention the largest,” she said quietly.

“We can up the asking price, Caitlyn. But be prepared to come down. Bad karma doesn’t sell well.” Bliss looked around the bedroom that had once belonged to Joshua, biting her lip. “Why don’t we go back down to the dining room? We can spread the paperwork out on the table.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Once she was alone, Caitlyn took in the large room with its wood floors and wide bay window that offered a view of Montrose Park. An image of Joshua, around ten, sitting cross-legged on the upholstered window
seat and reading a book, sprang into her head. She pictured his dark, intelligent eyes nearly obscured by his shaggy hair as he concentrated, a rainy afternoon visible through the window behind him. His child’s voice became part of her memory as he read favored passages aloud. But that had been years before the schizophrenia diagnosis. Before the psychiatric evaluations and antipsychotic medications.

The room was unheated, and Caitlyn ran her hands over her arms as she studied the bookshelf still lined with Joshua’s boyhood favorites.
The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table
. She removed one of the books to get a closer look at its front cover, then returned it to its resting place. Her eyes traveled over the antique writing desk where Joshua had done his homework. He had carved his name into its top, the childlike etching making her heart ache. Absently, Caitlyn opened one of the desk drawers. What she saw caused her breath to freeze inside her chest.

She removed the blond-haired Barbie doll, her heart beating rapidly. The doll was nude, its hands and ankles bound with pipe cleaners. Another pipe cleaner had been wrapped around its throat. Straight pins were buried deep into the rubberized pink flesh, inserted into the breasts and groin area. A red felt-tip marker had been used to simulate blood.

Her hands shook. Caitlyn placed the doll back inside the drawer and closed it with a hard shove.

Had Joshua done that when he was a child? Had it been here, waiting all this time for someone to find it?
If that were the case, Caitlyn was certain the police would have taken the doll during their search. Besides, the doll looked brand-new.

Someone else had been here and left it behind. Somehow, they had gotten inside. Feeling a flutter of anxiety, she thought of the man who had been watching her for the past two days.