“Why would Hadley hide the picture in the back of an office desk drawer?” he asked. “If it upset her that much, why not just destroy it?”

“My guess is she wanted to, but something held her back,” Zoe said. “Guilt. Remorse. Fear.”

“Have you ever seen this picture?” Vaughan asked Sharon.

“About three weeks ago, I saw it on her desk, but as soon as I came in her office, she put it away.”

“She would have been about seventeen when this was taken.” Zoe showed the picture to Vaughan.

Interest flickered in his gaze, but he said nothing. He snapped a picture of the photo with his phone and removed a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

“No. No. If you think it will help find Hadley and Skylar,” Sharon said.

“Thank you, Sharon,” Zoe said. “Detective, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Neither spoke as the beat of music, the clink of weight machines, and the whoosh of elliptical trainers followed them out through the glass front doors. The parking lot was thinning as the ten o’clock closing time approached.

When they reached his car, she asked, “What did you make of the note?”

“Written by someone who knew Hadley before her sister vanished.”

“What do you think the chances are that we’ll pull a good print from the photo?”

“Slim. But it’s worth a try.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tuesday, August 13, 10:30 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Just over Fifteen Hours after the 911 Call

The police tip line lit up within minutes of the press conference, and as predicted, it was generating dozens of leads. Several callers said they had seen either one or both of the Foster women, but each time a uniformed officer followed up, the lead took them nowhere.

Vaughan was pulling into the police station when his phone rang. “It’s the medical examiner.”

Spencer checked her watch. “They’ve had the Jane Doe from the dumpster for two hours. And Galina Grant for almost two days.”

“Detective Vaughan.” It had been less than two days since he’d dropped Nate off at school, but it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago.

“This is Baldwin.”

Phil Baldwin was the medical examiner, and the two had worked together on many cases. “Phil. Sorry I didn’t get by today for the Grant autopsy.”

“I watched the news and know you have your hands full. I wanted you to know the examination of Galina Grant is complete. As you suspected at the crime scene, it was the knife wound to her neck that killed her. Even if she’d been in an emergency room seconds after it happened, it would have been nearly impossible to save her.”

That gave Vaughan little comfort. “I also sent a Jane Doe your way.”

“After I conducted a preliminary external examination on this victim, I expedited her autopsy.”

“Why?”

“Her wound patterns are almost identical to Galina Grant’s.”

Vaughan was silent for a moment as he weighed this new development. “Special Agent Zoe Spencer and I can be there in half an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The drive west to the Commonwealth of Virginia Medical Examiner’s Northern Virginia office took almost forty minutes. He looped around the I-495 beltway but was quickly brought to a standstill on I-66 thanks to a fender bender. It was past eleven o’clock before he pulled up in front of the modern building outfitted with large windows.

Both showed identification to the night guard, who called down to Baldwin. Minutes passed before the elevator doors opened and Baldwin stepped off. Dressed in scrubs, Baldwin was a tall man in his late thirties with wide-set shoulders and thick dark hair. A five-o’clock shadow blanketed his square jaw.

His athletic shoes squeaked slightly as he crossed the lobby. He extended his hand. “Vaughan. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you in the cycling group.”

“Launching Nate has been all-consuming for the last few weeks,” Vaughan said.

“He has been delivered to college?” Baldwin asked.

“Thirty-six hours ago.”

“I’d ask you if you missed him, but judging by the news, I’d say you’ve not had time.”

Vaughan knew life would slow, and he would have real time to miss Nate. He dreaded it. “This is Special Agent Zoe Spencer.”

“I believe we spoke on the phone over the summer,” she said, extending her hand.

“The Jane Doe skull, a.k.a. Marsha Prince. I saw the pictures of your facial reconstruction work,” he said. “Nice job.”

“Thank you.”

“As you know, I did examine the bones and found knife marks on one of the ribs.”

“Can you inspect the bones again?” Spencer asked. “Look at the neck vertebrae especially.”

“You think the same killer?” Baldwin asked.

“I don’t want to rule it out,” she said.

Baldwin nodded, letting out a sigh. “I can tell you how Jane Doe died. Come on down to the autopsy suite, and I’ll brief you.” They rode the elevators down a couple of floors. The doors opened to a long white hallway lit by high-wattage fixtures. Vents blasted cool air as they made their way to the storage room.

They each donned latex gloves as Baldwin crossed to a bank of drawers reserved for the dead. He opened number 202 and pulled out a slab that held a sheet-clad body.

Baldwin carefully drew back the sheet to expose a drawn face that was blackening due to decomposition. The chest was marked with a sutured Y incision.

“She’s a Caucasian female in her mid- to late thirties,” Baldwin said. “Judging by her teeth and bones, she enjoyed reasonably good health and nutrition. She was approximately five foot three inches tall, and she died as a result of multiple stab wounds. The lethal cut was across her neck, severing the carotid artery.”

“Like Galina Grant?” Vaughan asked.

“Almost identical, and judging by the jagged marks on the wounds found on both women, I’d say a similar knife was used. The wounds were also deep. There were no minor stab wounds, which would have suggested hesitation.”

“Which would suggest worry or inexperience,” Spencer said. “This guy is comfortable with killing.”

“I would agree,” Baldwin said.

“Were you able to get fingerprints from Jane Doe?” Vaughan asked.

“Yes, we were able to get an impression of the right index finger and roll a print. It’s with AFIS now, so we should know something within a few hours. And we also found a parking pass in the back pocket of her pants. Decomposition fluids made it tough to read, but one of my techs was able to confirm it was issued at the deck on the five hundred block of King Street.”

“King Street?” Vaughan asked.

“Near Old Town,” Baldwin said.

“And one block away from the gym where Hadley Foster worked.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened with interest. She dropped her gaze to her phone and pulled up the location on a map. “Was there a date on the pass?”

“We think the first week of August of this year, but the numbers are hard to read. Forensic is putting the paper under the microscope. Based on the insect activity found on the body and the body’s state of decay, which would have been accelerated in this heat wave, I’d say she’s been dead about seven to ten days.”