“Can you spell Jason’s last name for me?” Nikki asked.

“Dalton: D-a-l-t-o-n.”

“Right, that’s what I thought,” she lied. “When Marsha went missing, Hadley said nothing to the police about Jason,” Nikki said.

“If she had, then Mark would have found out about Jason, and she didn’t want that to happen.” Rose tapped the side of her cup, hesitating about what she was going to say next. “Once, Marsha told me she kept a diary. She kept it hidden under the floorboard of her bedroom closet. Maybe you should go look? It might still be there.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Wednesday, August 14, Noon

Alexandria, Virginia

Twenty-Nine Hours after the 911 Call

Zoe and Vaughan arrived at the medical examiner’s office, and within fifteen minutes, they were gowned up and standing in front of a stainless steel gurney with the draped remains of Hadley Prince Foster.

The room was thick with the scent of death and decay. Some cops liked to put Vicks on their upper lips to mask the smell, but Zoe had learned over the years that there was no escaping death. Keep breathing it for a few minutes, and the body’s olfactory system would adjust and block out the smell. The trick was not to get a big lungful up front and then fight it.

Baldwin adjusted his eye protection and mask as he moved to the head of the first table, where a sheet-clad body lay. He pulled back the sheet to reveal the pale, slim body of Hadley Foster. Ravaged by the August heat, rodents, and insects, her skin barely looked human. The eyes, hooded by drooping lids, were milky white. The jaw gaped open in an odd deathly expression of surprise.

“I’m going to autopsy this afternoon and do a complete workup. I also can tell you with almost certainty that the knife wound to her neck severed an artery and caused her to bleed out in minutes.”

Like Galina, she’d suffered an irrevocable injury that a doctor could not have fixed in time. “Any signs of drugs? Sexual assault?” Zoe asked.

“No. She did have intercourse shortly before her death, and we were able to collect DNA. It’s been sent off for processing. We’ll let you know if there’s a match.”

“Do you have an estimate for her time of death?” Vaughan asked.

“Based on her liver temperature, I’d say between 4:00 and 9:00 a.m. yesterday,” Baldwin replied.

“Mark Foster placed the 911 call at 7:00 a.m.,” Vaughan said.

Zoe felt a sense of relief when the doctor pulled the sheet back over the victim. She could handle death but was never truly comfortable with it.

“As you have likely noticed, Hadley Foster’s knife wounds are not similar to Veronica Manchester’s and Galina Grant’s. In the first two cases, the knife wounds were deeper, as if they were more aggressive, and in each case, there is a distinct neck wound. Hadley’s wounds, though deadly, weren’t as deep, and the cut to her neck appeared to be a glancing and not a direct blow. All her significant wounds center around her heart.”

“Different people?” Zoe asked.

“Maybe,” Baldwin said.

“Or different circumstances,” Vaughan said. “The killer was alone with the first two, but he had Mark and Skylar to contend with in Hadley’s case.”

“Why open himself up for a challenge?” the doctor asked.

“Assuming it’s the same perpetrator, I would say he’s raising the stakes to keep his adrenaline rush,” Zoe said.

“What about the type of knife?” Vaughan asked.

“Similar knives were used in the first two killings. They were serrated, wide, like a hunting knife. But the knife used on Hadley Foster was smooth, long, and narrow.”

“Similar to the boning knife missing from the block in the Fosters’ kitchen.” Zoe pulled up the pictures taken of Mark Foster’s injuries at the hospital yesterday. “These are the wounds the husband sustained.”

Baldwin examined them. “His wounds are even narrower, suggesting a smaller knife than the one used on his wife.”

“You’re saying the knife that killed Hadley is not the same one used against Mark Foster?” Vaughan asked.

“I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty, but the wounds vary enough to make me suspicious,” the doctor said.

“Anything you can tell us about Hadley Foster we don’t already know?” Zoe asked.

“Not really. She was healthy and in peak shape, just like the other women.”

“What about a toxicology screen?” Zoe asked.

“Blood’s been drawn and sent off, but that’ll take a couple of weeks,” Baldwin replied.

“We don’t have weeks,” Vaughan said. “Skylar has been missing almost thirty hours, and the golden hours have long passed.”

“I wish I could tell you more,” Baldwin said.

“Thanks, Doc,” Zoe said.

Vaughan’s phone rang, and Captain Preston’s name appeared on the display. “Captain.” He listened, his frown deepening. He ended the call.

“Mark Foster just showed up in Captain Preston’s office.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to tell us what really happened yesterday.”

 

Nikki pulled into a parking lot and around the side of the building across from Jason’s garage. After removing an ice pick from her purse, she drove it into a tire and, when the air hissed out, smiled. Back in the car, Nikki circled the block a couple of times, and when the tire light lit up her dashboard, she drove toward the auto shop.

She parked in front and walked into the main office. A man behind the counter looked up, and she explained, “I have a flat. I don’t know if I picked up a nail or what, but it’s going flat fast, and I have a meeting out in Fairfax in an hour. Can you help me?”

“Sure, pull around back to the last bay on the right. I’ll get Jason to change it for you.”

“Perfect.”

She maneuvered the car around to the back and edged toward the empty bay; she shut off the engine but left the keys in the ignition as she waited. She had done some reading on Jason Dalton. He was on probation and had done time in Florida for assault charges after a bar fight. He had put a guy in a coma. He had been sentenced to twenty years, but thanks to budget cuts and his demonstrated remorse to the parole board, he had been released early.

When he came around, his head was ducked, and he was wiping grease from his hands, but the instant she saw him, she had to admit he was a fine-looking man. He was long, lean, and muscled, and the tattoos on his arms and the thick shock of hair gave him a bad-boy look few women could ignore.

The instant their gazes locked, she knew he recognized her. Though she had been off the air four months now, most who lived here had probably spent more time with her each day than they had with many of their friends and, sometimes, family.

He acknowledged her with a nod and a grin she found utterly charming. He moved to the left rear tire, which was now completely deflated. He knelt and ran his finger over the tire and whistled. “Looks like someone is out to get you.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked, moving closer.

“Sidewall has a puncture that’s not from a nail.”

“Are you kidding me?”