When Fall Fades (The Girl Next Door Series Book 1) (4 page)

When, alas, there was no more time to dawdle under the covers, Sadie got up, threw on a pair of black yoga pants and a white tank top for work, and tied her unruly waves into a sloppy bun. Shoving some nicer clothes and her cosmetics bag in a duffle for her late lunch date with her mother, she dropped it by the door and went to fix some breakfast.

Sadie settled on the couch with a bowl of oatmeal and a steaming cup of breakfast blend and scanned the channels for the morning news. Curiosity drove her from channel to channel, seeking a report about Charlie.

After an unsuccessful peruse, she clicked off the tube and attempted to extricate herself from the comfort of the couch when something buzzed against her back. Reaching between the cushions, she retrieved a BlackBerry.

His
BlackBerry.

It must have fallen out of his pocket during the blessed interrogation.

She squabbled with herself, not quite sure what to do, but since she was having lunch with her mother downtown she could drop it off with someone at the front desk of the FBI office. That way she could avoid another awkward run-in with Agent Hayes today.

Chapter 5

Archer Hayes

“W
here is it?” Tossing cushions and riffling through clothes, Archer scavenged his apartment for his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to get a signal but remembered attempting to call Sadie Carson after she ditched the crime scene.

Since the last call, he had been to Sadie’s condo, the shooting range, his car, and his apartment. Archer ruled out the last two because he’d spent the past half hour ransacking both and would now be late.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, he raked his hands through his still damp hair. He hadn’t bothered to install a landline since he was never at home. Meaning he had no way to call his cell to assist his search. He also couldn’t call the shooting range or Sadie to see if it had turned up. And finally, he couldn’t call Sal to let him know that he would now be late meeting him at Westwick’s place. Another great start this week.

Arriving forty minutes late, he pulled in next to Sal’s vacant car. He scanned the area and saw Sal walking back from the condo three doors away, scribbling something on his notepad. Glad to see the rookie taking some initiative by canvassing the neighborhood.

At twenty-seven, Sal was young and idealistic, but even so he was really coming into his own at the bureau. Archer only had six years on him, which didn’t seem like a lot, but having been in the service made his thirty-three years feel a bit more like forty-three. The burden of war on the body was one thing; the war in the mind was another.

Not that he was complaining. In many regards, Archer knew he was lucky. He’d gotten out alive and served his country as an Army Ranger sniper with distinction, building a solid foundation for his work now with the FBI.

But so often when he looked at Sal, a twinge of something like jealously threaded through him. Archer was hardened, cynical. And though those things served him well in his profession, deep down he craved a restoration of innocence and trust. That just maybe he could see the world again as Sal sees it. But there were things a man just couldn’t unsee or undo.

Being in the FBI would eventually wear down some of Sal’s bright-eyed enthusiasm, but for now Archer would do all he could to protect his partner, who was fast becoming his best friend. Despite the unseasonably warm breeze the thought made him shiver. 

“Well, well, well, nice of you to show up. Dude, I called you like five times, I thought I had the wrong place.”

“Yeah I know, sorry. Lost my phone and couldn’t call to tell you I’d be late. So, did that keen ability to read people come in handy while canvassing the neighborhood? Anything catch your eye?”

“Yeah, your girlfriend when she pulled out of the lot in a 1969 Camaro Z/28. You weren’t kidding about her, man. Wowsa!”

Okay, Archer thought, maybe not so keen. “You’re crazy. I didn’t even say anything about her.”

“You didn’t have to. Saw it all over your face.”

“What kind of car did you say she had?”

When the cops had gotten her information from the scene and ran a background check, they’d found that she’d owned the title to a Jeep Wrangler. He’d also learned she was twenty-eight, and not married. Focused on his own thoughts, he missed Sal’s response but let it go for now and asked for confirmation on what was bothering him.

“Sal, how many twenty-something girls do you know that have a muscle car as an extra vehicle? And how do you know it was Sadie?”

Sal glanced over with a knowing and obnoxious smirk that Archer was tempted to knock off his face. “So
that’s
her name. Gimme a little credit, bro. The second I spotted her I saw what got you all hot and bothered.”

Before Archer could cross over to beat him down, Sal forged on. “Maybe she comes from money or has a sugar daddy, who knows? I mean these condos don’t look all that uppity, but this is a pretty wealthy part of town. All I know is it’s not a crime for a
fine
girl to be cruisin’ around in a fine car. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

Archer forced the balled fists at his sides to stand down. “Perhaps we can use that illustrious imagination of yours to help us search the vic’s house. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a talking mouse who witnessed the whole thing? Put your psychic vibes to good use.”

“Psychic vibes. Pff! Try sheer brilliance and wicked street smarts.” Sal trailed after Archer into Westwick’s condo, mumbling something to himself in Spanish.

The scent of pine and a twinge of tobacco rushed on the pull of air from the door. Archer had hardly taken one step in when he stopped. Frozen at the entrance, shoulder to shoulder with Sal, he surveyed Charles Westwick’s home, and let out a whistle.

“You said it, brother. What was this guy, some kinda hoarder?”

“Sadie said he was a pack rat, but this wasn’t what I was expecting.”

Both men wormed their way through the narrow entry, stepping around large stacks of what looked to be decades of newspapers in numbered piles, over a hundred aviation and engineering books about specs and up-and-coming technological advances, as well as dozens of bird-watching books and magazines. All stacked in chest-high rows in the hall and living room.

As Archer entered into the room—a mirror image of Sadie’s place—the first things he noticed were the ravaged boxes in the corner. Unlike everything else in the room, the boxes weren’t labeled and their contents were strewn in mountainous piles. He snatched up one of the books, surprised to see it was a hand-written journal. All of them were.

“Hey Sal, you gotta see this. There’s gotta be hundreds of journals in here, but none of them make any sense.” Archer watched Sal scan the page, his brows pinching. At an initial glance it looked like a normal journal entry. Upon further inspection, many words had been replaced by numbers and symbols, scrambling the message into a garbled puzzle.

“They’re coded, so no one can read ’em. This guy really was paranoid.”

“We’ll send these to the team at the bureau and see if they can make any sense out of them.” Archer moved on to search the rest of the room. Stopping at a collage of photos on the wall, he glimpsed the old man’s life—a young and glowing Westwick with his wife on their wedding day, Westwick standing in uniform near an old fighter plane, he and his son with fishing poles, and a few newer pictures of what Archer gathered had to be his grandson’s senior photo and a wedding shot. All of the photos portrayed a man that looked utterly contented with his life.

Of course, pictures were for show. A shiny little facade. Like his own family photos, everyone was smiling, no one was happy.

Come on, Arch, focus
.

The rest of the small condo, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the office, were relatively neat and unencumbered by excessive piles of junk. The kitchen housed the usual suspects for an elderly resident—instant coffee, canned goods, a carton of prunes, bundled twist ties, and an abundance of saved grocery bags filled the cabinets. Free magnets from banks and real estate agents cluttered the exterior of the small refrigerator along with grocery lists and illegibly scrawled reminders. A bowl filled with an assortment of hard candies rested on top.

Archer moved on to the office, finding an elaborate carved mahogany desk, two large matching filing cabinets, a pair of book cases packed with books and about eight pairs of binoculars, and a whimsical golden bird cage housing a small yellow parakeet. With this room on the other side of Sadie’s “paper wall” he was guessing the slamming drawer sounds she’d heard came from in here—not such a big leap considering it was an office with lots of drawers.

After inspecting the riffled contents of each drawer and not finding anything significant, he moved on to the first filing cabinet. He thumbed through numerous instruction manuals filed by category of use, and through organized folders of bills and receipts.

Perusing the paid bills he came across a rather nondescript medical bill for some kind of lab work. Following a hunch, he searched for medical files in the other cabinet and came across a folder with a myriad of lab results, physical forms, and prescription information dating back from before his wife had passed.

In the back of the pristine file, Archer found test results from six months prior diagnosing Mr. Charles Westwick with stage four adenocarcinoma of the liver. Archer raked his free hand through his hair, tightness banding around his chest.

Who would kill an old man who was dying of cancer?

Archer and Sal left Westwick’s place after hours of searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack. They needed a break and a fresh perspective.

What a frustrating day. Sadie still hadn’t returned home, so Archer couldn’t look for his phone. And because of his late start, he’d have to check her alibi another morning too. Not to mention that—other than the discovery of the terminal cancer and the mysterious journals—they hadn’t gotten very far in the mess of Westwick’s place. So for now they headed back to the office.

After Archer retrieved a cup of sludge masquerading as coffee from the break room, he found sanctuary in his office. He peeled off his jacket, eased back into the crunching leather of his chair and swiveled around, relishing a moment to breathe amid the chaotic normalcy he thrived on. When he saw the flashing light indicating waiting voicemails he zoned in and got to work. Noting a voicemail and return number for the medical examiner he made the call.

“Candice Stevens.” Despite her strides to disguise it, her New Jersey accent hovered over the line.

“Hi Candice, this is Agent Hayes with the FBI returning your call about COD on Charles Westwick.”

“Yeah, we have determined cause of death was a reaction to an anesthetic that appears to have been injected in the neck. Not a totally uncommon reaction on an operating table but I’m guessing his age combined with the drugs and the struggle … well, needless to say it resulted in cardiac arrest. We are trying to narrow down the exact strain of drug used so you might be able to track it down.”

“Anything yet on time of death?”

“Based on liver temperature and lividity, between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. What we can also tell, loosely based on the amount of rigor mortis, hypostasis—or what you’d call blood settling—and some other technical mumbo jumbo you don’t care about, was that the body was laid flat almost immediately after death and several hours later, around eight, before the body was found, it was forced upright in the car.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Great. And thanks for getting back with me so quickly. Keep me posted if anything else surfaces.”

“Wait now, Agent Hayes, you didn’t think that was all I had, did you?”

“Candice, you may be the fastest, and consequently my favorite ME so far. Let’s have it.”

“Well, so far no DNA from the killer has been discovered on the body, but we do have a hand size from the perimortem bruising I told you about on the arms.” She waited a beat before continuing, “
Large
hands, definitely a man’s.”

“Well that’s good news, thanks Candice.”

“Man, you FBI are so antsy. I’ve got one more thing.”

“We haven’t got all day, doc. We’ve got a killer out there. Now come on. Out with it.”

She let out an easy laugh before deepening her tone. “The man had advanced-stage liver cancer. If Charles Westwick hadn’t been killed, he would have been dead in a matter of weeks.” Candice paused and Archer was silent. “
Now
I’m done.”

“I actually discovered that today when I was searching his home. Keep me posted.”

“Not bad for a suit.”

No more than thirty seconds after the call ended, Sal poked his head into the office. “Let’s go get lunch. I’m starving.”

They hadn’t been there long but Archer’s stomach signaled in agreement. Grabbing his coat, they headed out of the office.

The moment they stepped outside, the throaty rumble of an engine drew Archer’s attention to a gunmetal gray Camaro with black racing stripes pulling up to the front of the FBI building.

The air kicked from his lungs when Sadie Carson emerged from the car and approached the building. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and he took the opportunity to retrieve a desperate gulp of oxygen and compose himself which, as he continued to look at her, became increasingly difficult to maintain.

If he’d thought she was pretty before, he’d been wrong.

She was freaking gorgeous.

A mesmerizing tumble of long, platinum waves tangled in the breeze. A white eyelet sundress hugged her ribcage alluding to those brain-liquefying curves and emphasizing the remnants of a summer tan on her smooth shoulders and slender legs showcased spectacularly beneath a flirty hemline. In contrast to the other times he’d seen her, today she was made up and he wondered how he could have mistaken her for a young girl.

He tore his gaze away so he wouldn’t slobber on himself and saw the heads of every man on the street turn. She seemed oblivious to the attention, which of course made her more attractive. Not good. When she finally saw him, she flinched, her steps faltering even on the flat gold sandals she wore. Small feet. Cute little unpolished toes.

Shoot me
,
Sal. Anything. Just make it stop.