And ultimately, I knew there was no way to weave that ugly, frayed strand back into the fabric of who I thought I was, into what I thought I was trying to accomplish by becoming a cop.
Chapter 18
But I tell none of this to Greene and Alderson of the FBI. They’re much more interested in my investigation for Paxton Rhoads into Clarissa’s death and Ridgefield. Alderson tells me to make a list, for my own reference, of anyone who comes to mind, including clients of mine, even if I can’t release that information due to confidentiality.
Let it “percolate,” he suggests. As if we have time for percolation.
I tell him I will.
Nervous energy pulls me up out of my seat to my kitchen window. Pale light hangs over the surrounding landscape. I catch a glimpse of a fox darting across my lawn and back into the fields, its bushy tail bright like a statement. I turn back to the agents.
“So, what’s next for people like me, who fit the CA’s target?”
“First, we’d like to find your earrings.” Alderson takes the lead. “If you don’t mind us looking. If we can’t find them, we’d like to dust, see if anything turns up.”
I groan, knowing the mess it creates.
“Does Wallace Scott have a key to your place?”
“No. And I’ve never told anyone where I hide my spare.”
“Which is where?”
“I brought it in the minute I got home.” I fish it out of my pocket and lay it on the table between them.
“Okay if we look around?” Greene asks again.
“Yes, but first, can you tell me how the killer did it? As you know, the police have kept it fairly under wraps.”
Greene and Alderson look at each other for a long moment. Finally, Alderson gives a shrug. Maybe potential victims get special privileges.
Yay for me.
“The man, Askens, the first, was execution-style in an empty park where he jogged in the morning,” Greene says. “Three shots. One in the back, two in the head. The second, the woman, Loman, was approached from behind and slit across her throat. In her garden.”
I stare at them both. A sick pit forms in my stomach.
“Why—different? Do you know?”
“We’re not sure,” Alderson says. “Convenience? Or they cared more about the sound with the second in a much more populated area. Or, the rage is growing, and the knife is more personal, more vicious. Worst case, there’s more than one person behind this.”
I swallow hard. I have three days and change left to figure this out. “Do what you need.” I motion to my place. “And I’ll help in any way I can.”
Finally, when they’re done making a mess of my house and come up empty, they take my spare key and mention they’ll send someone from the county’s CSI team to dust obvious places like doors and windowsills. They tell me they’ll post someone from the local force to sit in the drive as a precaution.
When I say not to bother, that I’m sure the locals don’t have the resources, Greene says, “Oh, they’ll find them.”
As if pressure from the Bureau makes everything possible.
And he’s not wrong. When I was on the force, we pretended that we didn’t jump when they called, but we always did.
Now that I’m alone again, my mind buzzes.
I go into my bedroom, where clothes on hangers lay strewn across my bed. I step around plastic sweater bins pulled from my closet, kneel before my safe, open it, and grab my gun. I remind myself to hit the shooting range. I take the gun upstairs to my home office and get to work.
First, I google the CA’s first victims—the man from Snohomish and the woman from Santa Monica—to remind myself about them. I’m looking for any common thread I can find. The two cities are eleven hundred miles apart, but who knows? It’s a stretch to think one rookie PI can spot something the FBI might have missed, but it feels good to be doing something. To get the best sense of their lives, I start with their social media.
No surprise: Their pages are overwhelmed by sympathy posts from friends and strangers. I scroll and scroll until I get to personal posts written by the victims themselves.
