“It’s all a great theory, but we have no forensic proof,” Vaughan said.

Zoe could feel the pieces of the real story swirling around but refusing to connect. “All the women look like Hadley.”

“I’ll have the forensic team see if anything from this dumpster transferred to any of Mark Foster’s clothing or shoes. There’s no way anyone could spend any time in there and not pick up something. I’ll also put a call in to missing persons,” Vaughan said. “For now, we have to stay focused on finding Hadley and Skylar.”

Zoe nodded but continued to stare at the body, wondering who this woman was. Her clothes were intact, but that did not mean sexual assault had not been a motive. Some assailants redressed their victims after they were dead. But again, another question for the medical examiner.

Zoe watched as the technician covered the body’s hands in paper evidence bags. Later, there would be finger scrapings, which hopefully would recover DNA for testing.

Finally, two technicians laid a fresh tarp over the exposed portion of the dumpster floor, lifted the body, and placed it on the plastic. If there was any DNA on the body, this would ensure it was not lost in transport.

Grabbing the ends, they lifted the tarp and body and handed it to the officers outside the dumpster, who then gently placed it on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Zoe knelt by the body and for the first time could see the truly deep gashes in her chest. To stab someone in the chest required close contact. This manner of death was as personal as it was violent.

“The reason behind a murder is generally simple,” she said, thinking out loud. “Husband discovers affair. Wife confesses and demands a divorce. Husband hatches a plan for revenge that won’t implicate him.”

“You’re saying this woman and Galina were decoys?” he wondered aloud.

“He knows he’s going to kill his wife, so he sets it all up to look like a serial killer? Maybe he wanted the practice. One thing to plan murder but another to do it.”

“That’s one cold son of a bitch.”

“Yes, it is,” she said softly.

Zoe approached the forensic tech and gave him her card. “Have the medical examiner’s office call me when they schedule this autopsy.”

The guy tucked the card in his breast pocket. “Sure.”

Zoe and Vaughan got into his car, and he started the engine. His phone rang. “It’s Nikki McDonald.”

“So soon? Should be interesting,” Zoe said.

He accepted the call and put her on speakerphone. “Ms. McDonald. I don’t have anything for you yet.”

“I’m the gift that keeps on giving, Detective. Mr. Foster has a lawyer, a Rodney Pollard,” Nikki said.

“Pollard is his neighbor,” Vaughan replied.

“Well, Mr. Pollard showed up at the Alexandria Hospital a half hour ago and checked out Mr. Foster. They are planning a press conference at the Foster house in about thirty minutes. Seems they want to make a direct plea to the public for the safe return of Hadley and Skylar.”

“How do you know this?” Zoe said.

“I have a few friends in the media who would love to have my footage of the Marsha Prince discovery. Which means they’ll toss me the occasional bone. Regardless, I’m headed to the Foster house myself.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Vaughan said.

“Remember your friends.” She hung up without waiting for a reply.

Vaughan muttered a curse as he dialed dispatch and requested a couple of marked cars be sent to the Foster house. “I need that crime scene preserved,” he said to the dispatcher. “Spread the word that I don’t want anyone in the home.”

He pulled out onto Route One, into the sea of red taillights. Zoe drummed her fingers on the door handle as she reflected on the news.

“Interesting he’s trying to circumvent the police,” Zoe said.

“He’s a desperate man.”

“Desperate to find his family or shift blame?”

“Good question.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tuesday, August 13, 9:30 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Just over Fourteen Hours after the 911 Call

Vaughan wove through various vehicles, tightening his hands on the steering wheel as he negotiated the snarled traffic. He dialed the police department’s public information officer to get an update on the press situation.

“Britta Smith.” The woman’s voice was young but clear and direct.

“This is Detective Vaughan, and I have FBI special agent Zoe Spencer with me. You’re on speakerphone.”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Britta said.

“I’m minutes from the Foster home.” Vaughan flipped on his dashboard light and cut right, driving up the shoulder until he reached yet another shortcut.

“I’m in DC right now and have no chance of making it in time.”

“What about Captain Preston?”

“He’s on board with you taking the lead. He’s spoken to Agent Ramsey, who wants Agent Spencer on site at the press conference as well.”

“I can do that,” Spencer said.

“Call me after it’s finished,” Britta said. “Nikki McDonald has already texted me and said she’ll be livestreaming the event.”

“Understood,” Vaughan said before he hung up.

“Mr. Foster is putting his wife and daughter at risk by doing this. The abductor would have made contact by now if this attention is what he wanted. He could panic under the extra attention and kill one or both women,” Spencer said.

“Do you think they’re alive?” he asked.

She stared at the strip malls and cars racing past in a blur of whites, reds, and neon. “No.”

They arrived at the Foster home, and Vaughan parked the car behind the forensic van that still had personnel working the interior of the home. He clenched his jaw as he calculated the next complication in this already convoluted case.

Out of the vehicle, the two crossed the street and approached the yellow crime scene tape, where Foster and Pollard faced off with a young uniformed officer. Foster was wearing a gray sweatshirt and pants, sneakers, and a Nationals ball cap. A sling was wrapped around his shoulder, holding up his injured arm, and he appeared to wince as he scooted to the door. Pollard, a portly man with thin graying hair, wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and polished black shoes.

Nikki McDonald was on scene and ignoring another reporter who was trying to get her attention. Vaughan had to give her props for her dogged pursuit of this story.

Pollard glanced at Nikki and then Vaughan before he whispered a few words to Foster. Like a windup doll, Foster stumbled toward Vaughan.

“This is my house,” Foster shouted. “I have a right to go inside. You can’t keep me out!”

“Yes, we can, Mr. Foster,” Vaughan said calmly. “This house is a crime scene, and we need to preserve as much evidence as we can.”

A few of the neighbors appeared on their porches or in front windows. Two news vans rolled up at the end of the block with their reporters and camera crews spilling out of them.

“The house is covered in my wife’s blood!” Foster shouted. “It’s not right.”