Stalked (12 page)

There was no way of knowing if Peter had gotten help as a child, if he grew up with any semblance of normality, or if he had become twisted and vengeful over the years. She sent Sean an e-mail, hoping he had some news for her about Peter. Sean responded immediately.

I confirmed what you already knew or suspected. And it appears that while he never legally changed his name to Peter Gray, he used that name when he registered as a freshman at a Newark high school. He moved back in with his mother when his grandmother died, but ran away a year later. Pilar McMahon remarried and relocated to Houston, Texas. Aaron McMahon has lived in Seattle from one month after Kreig was convicted. That's all I have now—still working on it.

Lucy had a list of every person mentioned in the book and how they were portrayed. The parents, Aaron and Pilar McMahon, would likely be the most upset by what Weber had written. It would be easy enough for the authorities to find out if one or both of them were in New York when Weber was murdered.

Still, why now, ten years after the book was published? Lucy had checked the publisher's Web site and while the book was still in print, there was no new version or reissue.

Weber had both condemned and commended the police investigation by being critical of how the local police first responded to the missing-person call, and because they did not immediately question the parents' story when they found evidence of a party at the house, but she also highlighted the methodical police work that went into disproving the McMahons' statements and gathering physical evidence from Rachel's bedroom. Fifteen years ago, forensics had seen a surge in importance, and the FBI used all their available resources to help local police figure out what had happened. A rookie cop, Bob Stokes, had been the first to the scene after the 911 call, and Weber had written that his concerns about the McMahons had been “dismissed” by his superiors until the FBI arrived.

Tony had been mentioned throughout the book because he was the lead agent, but he was never directly quoted. All FBI quotes were attributed to the media information officer, Dominic Theissen.

It was obvious to Lucy, after reading Tony's notes, the reports, and the book, that any delay in finding Rachel's murderer was directly related to the misinformation the McMahons had given police in the first critical twenty-four hours. However, evidence later proved that none of that mattered—Rachel had been killed hours after she was taken from her bedroom, likely before anyone in the house woke up.

Except Peter McMahon.

If Peter knew the facts of the case, he knew that his sister was alive when he didn't find her in her bedroom at three in the morning. But every way Lucy thought about how the investigation could have gone even if the police were notified at 3:00 a.m., she didn't see how they would have figured out Benjamin Kreig had kidnapped her or where he was holding her until after he'd taken her to the woods and killed her.

But did Peter know that? Did he harbor guilt because he didn't wake up his parents when he couldn't find his sister? She hoped not; that kind of psychological self-torment could severely damage anyone, especially a kid who had grown up as Peter McMahon had.

There were other people who might have reason to hate Rosemary Weber. She'd named several of the people who had been at the McMahon house that night and exposed their sex lives for their friends and family to read. Benjamin Kreig was still in prison, and he had family who claimed to have distanced themselves from him, but what if they had been ostracized in their towns because of how Weber portrayed them? She'd written that Kreig's mother was “demanding and critical of everything Kreig did” and his father was an “alcoholic, known to pick up prostitutes.” In fact, Weber revealed that Kreig's father had hired a prostitute for his son's eighteenth birthday when he learned his son was still a virgin.

One dysfunctional family after another.

Lucy thanked God that she'd had two parents who loved her and her brothers and sisters. The Kincaids weren't perfect, but they were family in the truest sense. Her oldest brother, Jack, had been the closest to their dad, both Army, until something happened and the two didn't speak for twenty years. Their relationship was still strained, but at least now they were talking. And after Justin was killed when he and Lucy were seven, Lucy's sister Nelia had stopped speaking to her. Though she'd come back to the family, Nelia still avoided Lucy for reasons Lucy didn't understand. While her psychologist mind told her Nelia grieved for Justin and unconsciously wished Lucy had died instead of her own son, Lucy didn't understand why even now Nelia couldn't overcome the pain. Guilt for her feelings? Pain when she saw Lucy?

What if that was how Peter had been treated? What if his parents looked at him and he thought they'd rather have had him die than their daughter? If his parents blamed him in some way, verbally or not, a young boy would pick up on unspoken accusations born from grief and guilt.

It was hard to assess the parents based on what she'd read, instead of watching them at each point in the investigation, but it was clear that they'd stymied the investigation and then come clean. What if they turned that self-loathing against their son? Blaming him for not speaking out at three in the morning? Had he harbored that pain all these years? What was he like today?

Lucy had always had the nagging feeling that if only she'd done something different, Justin would still be alive. She'd often spent the night with her nephew, or when his parents worked late he came over to her house. But that week, she'd been sick. She didn't remember why, but she hadn't gone to school for three days. She wanted Justin to come and play with her because she was bored, but Nelia said no, she didn't want Justin getting sick.

Lucy's cell phone rang and she grabbed it. It was Tony. “I'm in my office,” he said. “Are you done?”

“Yes. I'll be right there.”

She grabbed the McMahon file and left.

Several new agents were in the downstairs lounge watching different baseball games on the two televisions—one showed a game with the San Diego Padres, Lucy's home team.

Carter and Eddie were studying in the corner, one eye on the game. Carter whistled. “Kincaid! I thought you were a diehard fan.”

“I had work to do.”

“So do we.” Carter held up his book.

“It's only the bottom of the fourth; I'll be back before the seventh inning.”

“You say that now.”

She looked at the screen. Tied at 1. “Okay, I'll
try.
” Lucy liked baseball, but mostly because her family were die-hard Padres fans, particularly Patrick and Carina. They could talk baseball with the best of them. Patrick had played baseball in college and could have had a shot at the majors if he'd stuck with it. But then Justin was killed and Patrick ended up becoming a cop.

Tragedy changes everyone it touches.

Lucy waved to Carter and Eddie and went down the hall to the staircase that led to the basement. She waved her ID in front of the security panel and it clicked open.

No one was working this late, and the offices were quiet. She knocked on Tony's door. He didn't respond. She looked at her cell phone—no bars, so she couldn't call him to see where he was. He'd said he was in his office, he could be on the phone.

She stepped in. As soon as the door opened, she saw Tony slumped in his chair, his face pasty, eyes closed, and mouth open.

“Oh, God.” She dropped the file on the table by the door and rushed to his side to check his pulse, shouting, “Medics! I need a medic, stat!” Then she realized that no one else was in the basement; it was nearly ten at night. She put Tony's desk phone on speaker and pressed “0.”

“Security.”

“It's Lucy Kincaid. I need a medic and gurney in Agent Presidio's office stat. He's unconscious.”

At first she thought he was dead, but she finally felt his pulse—slow and weak.

“Dispatched,” Security said. “Stay on the phone.”

In times of crisis, relying on training kept Lucy sane. “I'm checking for external injuries—I don't see any.”

“Did you check his vitals?”

“He had a pulse when I came in, but now I can't feel anything.”

“Do you know CPR?”

“Yes.”

She pulled Tony out of his chair. His bottle of Glenlivit Scotch teetered but didn't fall over. She laid him as carefully as she could on the floor.

“Kincaid, you there?” Security said over the speaker.

“Administering CPR.”

“Is he breathing?”

She checked. “His pulse is thready. Skin pasty. He's unresponsive. Starting second set of chest compressions.”

Tony, please, don't die.

The staff doctor and a medic rushed in. “We'll take over. Security, you there?”

“Yes.”

“Call the Quantico Medical Center and have them dispatch a helicopter to fly Agent Presidio direct to Prince William Hospital. He appears to be in cardiac arrest.”

Why hadn't he called someone? A heart attack could be sudden, but he was in his chair; at some point he would have known it was serious enough to call for help, wouldn't he? She'd spoken to him less than twenty minutes ago.

The medic hooked Tony up to an automatic compression machine and put an oxygen mask over his face. Lucy stood out of the way. The seriousness of Tony's situation hit her now that she had nothing to do but watch. He could very well die.

The medic checked Tony's pulse. “Nothing.” He and the doctor slipped Tony onto a board, which they then lifted up and secured to the gurney.

Security said over the phone, “Medical transport helio, ETA three minutes.”

“Let's get him upstairs,” the medic said. “Kincaid, call the elevator.”

Lucy ran ahead and held the elevator open so the doctor and medic could wheel Tony inside. She held his clammy hand on the ride up.

Please, God, don't take him.

They pushed Tony down the hall and out the front doors. Lucy heard the helicopter nearby and watched as the spotlights filled the parking lot, the pilot searching for a place to land. She stayed with Tony up until he was loaded inside. Thirty seconds after landing, the chopper took off with Tony.

“We did everything we could,” the medic said as they watched the chopper leave with Tony and the doctor.

“Why didn't he call for help?” Lucy whispered.

“Maybe he didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.”

“So he sat back until he lost consciousness?” It didn't make sense to Lucy, but nothing made sense to her right now. “Can I go to the hospital?”

“You'll have to talk to the chief,” the medic said. He watched the helicopter disappear from sight. “I'll call and see if I can find out what's going on.”

“Thank you.” But Lucy had watched and listened to the doctor and medic, and by the time they put Tony on the helicopter, they couldn't find his pulse.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

New York City

“You didn't show.” Joe DeLucca filled Suzanne's doorway, all six feet, two inches of solid Italian muscle.

“I told you I wouldn't.”

He made a move to enter, but she blocked him, her hand on the doorjamb.

Don't let him inside.

He raised an eyebrow, giving Suzanne his sexy half-smile that used to melt her, but she held firm. She was crabby and tired from too little sleep and too many questions. “I didn't want to be dragged into this case, DeLucca.”

“I didn't want to hear that your agent buddy leaked information to Banker at the
Times
without consulting with me first.”

“I called and told you.”

“Left a message.” He made another move to enter, and she didn't budge.

“I wasn't going to chase you all over town.”

“Do you think he's right?”

Suzanne had waffled on Tony Presidio's theory all evening, but in the end she admitted it was a smart play. “Let's just hope the place our guy pawns the ring has security cameras.”

“I sent out another notice about the ring, just to keep it fresh. Told the brokers to handle it as they normally would, write down everything, call me immediately.”

“Good.” She nodded curtly. “Good-bye.”

“I also brought you a copy of the final autopsy report.” He held it out, a carrot that she couldn't resist. She let go of the doorjamb to grab the file and Joe weaseled his way inside.

She rolled her eyes. “Come on in.”

She closed the door and tried to ignore Joe's smug grin of victory. She crossed her small, fifth-floor loft apartment and stood by the window, putting distance between herself and Joe. Stand firm, she told herself. She could withstand his charm and sex appeal.

You have to. Remember what happened last year.

With new resolve to focus only on the case, she read the coroner's findings.

Weber was stabbed with a narrow metal stiletto six inches long. The killer had at least some knowledge of anatomy, because the blade went in below the sternum, through the lung, and pierced her heart. Death was nearly instantaneous. No hesitation marks, no second stabbing. Marks on the victim's right biceps indicated that the killer was facing her, grabbed her with his left hand, stabbed her with his right. He withdrew the weapon, let her fall to the ground after she was already dead. Confirmed everything the prelim had said, with some added details about the possible weapon. Tox reports showed Weber had a BAC of .03, well under the legal limit, and confirmed her sister's report that she'd had wine before leaving for Citi Field.

“So we're looking for a medic of sorts, someone with training—EMT, paramedic, pre-med maybe. Nothing we didn't already know. You didn't need to bring me this.”

Joe walked over to her kitchen table and spread out the crime scene photos.