The last time she had slept in this room had been the night Jeff had died. She had been unable to go home to the apartment they had shared, and Jimmy had been the only refuge that had felt remotely comforting. The old man had welcomed her in with open arms.

Before she had left for her last trip to Nashville, her single act of making this house her own had been to change the sheets on the guest bed, which, to her great relief, were seductively comfortable.

Hanging above the bed was one of the best forgeries she had ever seen of Monet’s Impression, Sunrise. If Uncle Jimmy had known anything, it was how to paint the best fakes. Over the last few years, Zoe had often had dinner with Jimmy, and over a bottle of Chateaux Margaux, he had shared the tips of master forgers like himself. Jimmy had given her the skills to become the agent she was.

Her phone rang, and she fished it out of the back pocket of her jeans. Caller ID displayed Jerrod Ramsey. Her boss had a reputation for not sleeping, which she had been warned was a hazard of the job.

Zoe took another sip of coffee that had cooled. “Agent Ramsey, how did you know I was awake? It’s my day off.”

He chuckled as if she had made a joke. “You met with Vaughan yesterday?”

“I did.” He never called for idle chatter. “Do I still have the next four days off?”

“Technically, you do. And technically, I’ve had five vacations in the last four years, but I’ve worked through every one of them.”

She pressed the mug to her temple, grateful her plans to unpack today were officially shot. “What do you need?”

“Hadley Foster.”

Her interest perked. “I met her yesterday. I went with Vaughan to make the death notice.”

“She’s missing, along with her daughter. The father is in surgery right now. He told the responding officer that he was stabbed by an unknown intruder.”

There should have been a universal law forbidding evil on such beautiful days, she thought. “I can be at the residence in a half hour.”

“Good. The media has already gotten wind of it, and I’m sure you realize there’s a lot of pressure to find the mother and daughter as quickly as possible.”

“Vaughan and I spoke to Nikki McDonald yesterday as well.”

“She’s no doubt leading the charge from the media.”

“Understood. I’m on it.”

He ended the call, and she quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. She toweled off, dressed in a dark pantsuit, and coiled her long auburn hair into a twist. She drained the last of her coffee and then, securing her badge and gun to her belt, grabbed her purse and headed down the stairs.

Out the back door, she cut across the long narrow backyard, past Jimmy’s private garage, currently crammed full of God only knew what, and through the tall privacy gate to the street. Up a block, she found the spot where she had parked her Ford Explorer. She made a mental note to clean out the damn garage.

After tossing her bag in the car, she slid behind the wheel. She had thought after last night it would be a while before she would see Vaughan again, if ever. It had felt a little too personal, and a long break was in order. But here they were, working together again. At least this morning she had left him a note.

“No rest for the wicked,” she muttered as she pulled out of the space.

 

AMBER ALERT

Seventeen-year-old female Skylar Foster and her mother, thirty-five-year-old Hadley Foster, are missing and considered in EXTREME DANGER. The family’s 2017 black Lexus is missing and presumed stolen and was last seen in Alexandria, Virginia.

CHAPTER NINE

Tuesday, August 13, 8:00 a.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

One Hour after the 911 Call

The call played in Vaughan’s mind as he scanned the Fosters’ suburban street and the neatly maintained yards. Today, the safe, upscale neighborhood had been invaded by a collection of marked police cars parked on the street, the department’s forensic van, and three news station vans. Channel 5 and their primary anchor, Rick McGuire, were on scene. No sign of Nikki McDonald yet.

He ducked under the tightly strung yellow crime scene tape and paused to speak to the uniformed officer. He extended his hand. “Oscar, what’s going on?”

“It’s a mess inside,” he said.

Officer Aylor was young and had been in the department less than a year. The first homicide or truly gruesome death often shook up the rookies. He had wiped the blood from his hands, but his shirt and pants were stained.

Vaughan could still recall his first homicide. A woman had gutshot her husband. The smell of that scene had lingered with him for weeks. “I understand Mr. Foster called 911?”

“He did at 7:00 a.m. He was lying in the foyer when I arrived at 7:05 a.m. He was barely conscious, but he kept insisting that we find his wife and daughter.”

“Did you ask for a description of the assailant?”

“Foster kept saying the guy wore a mask, and he didn’t see his face.”

“Did you search the premises?”

“The ambulance was seconds behind me, and when they took control of Mr. Foster, I searched the house. No sign of the wife, daughter, or perpetrator. But it’s clear whatever went down happened in the master bedroom.”

Vaughan would see for himself soon enough. “Thanks, Oscar. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Vaughan removed latex gloves from his pocket and slid them on his hands. As he climbed the front steps, he glanced left and right into the flower beds, thinking there might be footprints or a discarded item that would indicate what had happened here. It was the crime scene’s job now to tell him the story.

When he saw nothing that caught his attention, he reached in another pocket and removed paper booties. When he reached the front door of the house, he slid the booties over his shoes.

“Detective Vaughan!” A woman called his name, and when he looked back, he saw Nikki McDonald. She was dressed in a lightweight red pantsuit that showed off her figure. Her hair hung loose around her face, and her makeup was flawless. “Do you have a comment or an update?”

“What time did you post your story?” It wasn’t a matter of if but when with her.

“Five a.m. The story is up, as are the comments. Nothing unusual yet. Can I ask you a few questions?”

The release to the media had gone out minutes after he and Spencer had spoken to her, so she could not be blamed for revealing any secrets. “Not now.”

“When can you talk to me?” Her high-heeled shoes clicked against the pavement as she walked up and down the yellow tape framing the sidewalk. Rick McGuire was crossing the street toward them.

Reminding himself he might need her, he kept his voice even and steady. “Soon. I don’t know what I have yet.”

Nikki glanced back at Rick, offered a small salute, and returned to her car as a Ford Explorer pulled up on the other side of the street, several houses down. Agent Spencer got out of the vehicle.

Her dark suit emphasized her long legs, which ate up the distance between them. Her gaze hitched on his briefly as she slid gloves on her hands. She climbed the stairs and slipped on the booties Vaughan handed her. “Thanks.”

“Not how I expected to spend this morning,” he said.

“You and me both.”