Dead Ringer (5 page)

"Kendall!"
Warwick's sharp voice had cut through the fog.

Her
eyes had fluttered open. Fierceness had mingled with fear in his eyes. She'd
moistened her lips but couldn't seem to hold on to consciousness. God, but she
had been tired. Her eyes had slipped closed.

"Open
your eyes," he'd commanded. "Help will be here soon. Hold on."

Hold
on. It had sounded so hard. It would just have been too easy to let her grip
slip.

"Listen
to me. You are a better fighter than this."

"I'm
not." She'd been fighting for so long--against her mother's illness and past
secrets--suddenly she had become tired of struggling.

"Listen,
you bitch," he'd hissed by her ear. "Open your goddamn eyes."

Bitch
had been what had gotten her attention. Her eyes had opened and she'd felt a
rush of fire and outrage. "Jerk," she'd muttered.

Satisfaction
had gleamed in his eyes. "Good girl."

The
paramedics had arrived seconds later. They'd rushed her to the hospital and the
doctors had taken her into surgery almost immediately. She'd not seen Warwick
since.

And
now as Kendall faced him she felt a rush of embarrassment. He'd seen her
well-cultivated veneer shatter in that basement. He'd seen her terror. She'd
given up.

She
could play the badass diva reporter for everyone else, but Warwick knew under
it all she had cracked in that basement room. Shame had her straightening her
shoulders until they were ramrod straight. No one, especially Warwick, would
ever see her so vulnerable again.

As
if sensing her, Warwick turned. Their gazes locked. The scene around them faded
and she saw only his intense gray eyes. For a moment she imagined she saw
regret. And then just as quickly it vanished.

Warwick's
gaze shifted from her to Mike, who taped the scene. The detective strode toward
the crime scene tape, ducked under it, and headed toward her. He wasn't happy.
She'd snuck into his crime scene and there was going to be hell to pay for it.

Kendall
preferred his anger. She could deal with that. She turned to Mike. "Aim the camera
right toward Warwick. And if he kicks us out, lower your camera but keep it on.
You never know what we'll pick up."

"There's
the Kendall we all know and love." Mike swung his camera around as Kendall
rushed toward Warwick. He stopped and let her close the gap between them.

"Detective,
can you tell us who was murdered?" Kendall asked.

He
tossed a brief glance at Mike and then focused on her. "How'd you get down
here? The road is sealed."

"There's
another path a half mile down the road. We hiked in."

He
glanced toward the uniformed cops, his frown telegraphing his annoyance.

"Can
you tell us who died?" she repeated.

He
shifted his attention back to her. "We aren't able to release that information
yet."

This
close she remembered just how tall he was. "Was the victim male or female?"

"No
comment."

"How
old was she?" This was a guess to see if he reacted to the pronoun.

Warwick's
expression gave nothing away. "We'll release a statement soon."

"Can
you tell us how she died?"

"No
comment."

"Was
it a suicide?"

"Time to go, Ms. Shaw."
He nodded toward the uniforms.
"Leave or I will have you escorted out."

"What
about sexual assault?" Kendall asked. She could hear footsteps behind her and
knew she was about to be moved back to the main road.

Warwick's
jaw tensed a fraction as he turned and strode away from her.

Kendall
started after him. "What was the color of her hair? Was she tall or short?"

He
kept moving, completely ignoring her. Getting information from Warwick was like
getting blood from a stone.

Two
uniforms stopped within inches of her. "Ma'am, you're going to have to move
back to the main road."

She
kept her sights trained on Warwick, who paused to talk to an older uniformed
officer. She couldn't hear what Warwick was saying but he was pointing at her
and frowning.

"Now,
ma'am," the officer said.

"I'm
going," she said, though she made no move to leave.

"
Now,
"
the officer ordered.

Kendall
knew when it was time to retreat. "Let's go, Mike." Round one goes to Warwick.

Mike
lowered the camera, but she noted the red record light remained on as they
started back up the dirt road.

Grinning,
Mike shook his head. "Warwick looked like he could spit nails at you."

Kendall
grinned.
"Nonsense.
He really thinks the world of me."

Warwick
had better get used to her because this story's coverage was far from over.

Nicole's
belly felt heavy and her bones ached as she climbed the carpeted stairs to her
second-floor photography studio, located in a one-hundred-year-old building in
the heart of the historic Carytown shopping district.

The
baby kicked her in the ribs. The girl was an active kid. She'd likely grow up
to be a soccer player.

Grow up to be.
Stupid to be thinking about what the girl would be when Nicole knew she
couldn't raise the child.

The
baby thumped inside her, as if she knew what her mother was thinking. "Enough,
kid. Enough."

Each
time the baby moved in her belly she thought about her late husband. He'd been
insane. He'd been a monster.

And
she was having his child.

What
if the baby was like her father? And could she really love a child who had been
created in anger and violence? What if she ended up hating the child and making
its life miserable?

The
questions had weighed heavily on her mind for months now. They kept her up at night,
robbed her of joy and her appetite.

She
continued up the stairs, her breath puffing with each step. Last summer, she'd
looked at the space on a lark when she'd been shopping and spotted the
FOR RENT
sign. At the time, the
seven-hundred-dollar-a-month rent had seemed so far beyond her means. In those
days, she'd been hiding from Richard and had barely any money to her name.

It
had been a humbling moment to realize she couldn't afford the rent. When she'd
lived in San Francisco, she'd owned a successful business. All the Bay Area
gallery owners knew her name and quirky landscapes and she'd quickly developed
a following. The money had come in so easily in the early days. It was amazing
how much she didn't think about money when she had it.

Then
her marriage had started to deteriorate and, in an effort to save it, she'd let
the business go. The money had dried up. When her husband had turned violent
she'd fled, penniless, to a Richmond friend.

That
had been seven months ago. Her husband was dead. No more looking over her
shoulder. No more waking up in the middle of the night searching the shadows
for Richard.

She'd
been given a second chance. And she was trying to move on. But reclaiming the
vibrant, original photography style that had been her trademark now eluded her.
She couldn't seem to produce anything that was gallery worthy.

The
baby kicked inside her.

The
tables had so flip-flopped in the last three years. She'd started her career as
an artist and she'd lived an impulsive, selfish, and reckless life. There'd
been no worries about consequences or money.

Now,
she was all about consequences and money. Her desire to create art had vanished
and she took portraits to make ends meet. Jobs she'd have scoffed at three
years ago now paid the rent. Bridezillas, screaming kids, eccentric families,
and even business portraits were all welcome.

Though
she'd discovered she had a real knack for working with people, she longed for
the days when life had been so easy. She wanted to be able to grab her camera
and drive into the mountains and camp so that she could rise at dawn and
capture the rising sun, as she once had. She wanted to stay up late drinking
wine with friends and critiquing the latest art show. She wanted to be able to
button her old jeans, sleep on her stomach, and not have to pee every five
minutes. She wanted her body and life back.

Nicole
shoved out a breath as she dug the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door
to her studio.

She'd
chosen this space not for its trendy location, low price, or history. All of
which were great. She'd picked this studio space because of the light. Six
floor-to-ceiling windows on the north and south sides of the room let in the
most delicious light. Heavy shades allowed her to control how much came into
the studio during a shooting, but most days she kept them wide open. She loved
natural light. It brought with it nuances that man-made light didn't quite
have.

Nicole
dropped her keys and mail on a battered desk she'd bought secondhand. A high
stack of papers filled her in-box, and her appointment book was filled with
miscellaneous papers she still needed to file. Paperwork--another hallmark of
this new life she was struggling with.

She
shrugged off her coat, laid it on the chair behind her desk, and opened the
shades. Even on this gray day sunshine still seeped into the studio. There were
a white chaise, a couple of wooden chairs, and a stool she used for portraits.
On the back wall was a selection of six backdrops that hung together. Her most
recent portraits covered the bare white walls of the space. In the back of the
studio was a door that led to her darkroom. The room was small, not more than
five by five, but it was enough space for her to work in.

Cupping
her hand under her heavy belly, she crossed the room to the darkroom. She
flipped on the red light and glanced at the pictures drying on the line. So
many photographers used digital now, but she loved the flexibility of film. It
added richness to her work that nothing could duplicate.

But
she wasn't so nostalgic that she ignored the digital side of the market. She'd
managed a small business loan so she could invest in computers and software and
create portraits quickly. Being adept at both forms of photography translated
into more revenue.

She
sat behind the desk. The answering machine's green message light blinked the
number three, signaling she had messages.

Nicole
pressed the
PLAY
button. The
first message was from a bride she'd met with last week to discuss her wedding.
"Nicole, this is Callie. I've set the date. December twenty-fourth. I'd love
for you to do my photography. Call me. My number is..."

The
wedding was a big-budget project. Nice.
December.
The
baby would be eleven months by then. Nicole tried to picture what the child
would look like in seven months but couldn't.

She
played the second message. This one was for an engagement picture of a young
couple. They'd climbed Everest together and wanted a quirky portrait to reflect
their adventurous life. Good.

And the third message.
"Nicole, I saw you today. You looked
lovely.
So, so radiant.
I hope all is well with the
baby."

Something
in the man's voice set her nerves on edge. Who was it? She replayed the
message, thinking she'd missed his name. She hadn't. He'd not left one. She
replayed the message again, this time trying to identify the voice. She
couldn't figure out who it was.

I saw you today....

Where
had he seen her? She'd come straight from home to the studio.

I saw you today....

She
glanced at her prized large windows. Who the hell had been watching her?

Tuesday, January 8, 4:10
P.M.

Jacob
dropped his keys on his desk. His office was ten by ten, furnished with
county-issue furniture, and a set of bookcases filled with technical manuals.
No pictures on the wall or knickknacks on his desk.

Except
for the stack of files in his in-box, the office looked as it had the day he'd
moved into it two years ago.

At
any point he could walk out for good and know he'd not left anything special
behind. That's the way he lived his life. He was always ready to pick up and
leave at a moment's notice. He knew enough about psychology to guess that the
quirk stemmed from his childhood. His mother had been a drunk and an addict and
they moved around a lot because she always fell short on the rent. He'd landed
in foster care by the time he was twelve and found stability, but the pattern
had already been in-grained for life.

He
opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a premixed protein shake. He
popped the top and drank it down. Hardly satisfying but it would get him
through the next couple of hours, and it was far healthier than the burger he'd
been tempted to grab on the way back from the crime scene.

His
cell rang and he removed it from the holster on his hip. "Warwick."

"It's
Tess. I'm at the morgue. Jane Doe has been delivered and is in a drawer."

"Good."

"I've
also collected Jane Doe's clothes and bagged them."

"Anything
catch your eye?"

"Not
yet. But I'm on my way back to the lab to process them." She sounded tired.

"Good.
What about the coroner?
He going
to take care of Jane
Doe today?"

"Not
likely. He has a backlog. Two of the doctors are out sick with the flu or
something. But he expects to do the autopsy in the morning."

Impatience
crept into his voice. "And he's going to call me when he's done?"

"He
has his marching orders."

Jacob's
chair squeaked as he leaned back. "What about the fingerprints?"

"I've
rolled them and will run them through AFIS when I get to my office." AFIS was
the Automated Fingerprint System, a database that held literally millions of
fingerprints on file. "If Jane Doe had ever been printed she'd turn up in the
system."

"You're
fabulous, Tess."

"I
know." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I'll call you when I have
something new."

"Do
me a favor. No talking to the press on this one."

"I
don't anyway."

"Good."

She
hung up.

Jacob
absently set the phone back in its holster. All the wheels were in motion. Time
and a little luck and they'd have an identity on their Jane Doe.

His
mind turned to the riverbank where the victim had been found. There'd been no
footprints leading up to her body. The snow had hit the city on Sunday and kept
the survey crews away since last Friday. The body easily could have been out
there for seventy-two hours.

He
made a note to search boat landings within a twenty-mile radius of the site.

Zack
appeared in his doorway. He had two cups of coffee in hand and set one on
Jacob's desk before taking the seat opposite the desk.
"Any
word from Tess?"

Jacob's
chair squeaked again as he leaned forward and picked up the cup. The heat felt
good against his bruised fingers, which still ached from the cold. "Thanks." He
gave Zack the rundown. "If our victim is in the system we should know about it
by closing time. If she's not, it could take a while to find out who she is."
He shifted the cup to his left hand and flexed it.

Zack
sipped his coffee. "I heard you won the boxing bout."

"Yeah."

Zack
shook his head, his expression serious. "So why do you keep pounding the crap
out of people?"

Jacob
smiled. "Since when did you become the department shrink?"

"Just asking, man."

"You're
one to talk. You ride that damn bike like you're possessed."

That
coaxed a half smile.
"Point taken."

Boxing
had given him so much. He was most at home in the gym. And giving up the sport
meant surrendering the best things in his life.

"Your
hands are going to turn to hamburger at the rate you're going."

Zack's
comment struck a nerve in Jacob. His foster father had said the same thing
during one of their last meetings just before he died. Jacob had done his best
to hate the old man after the truth came out, but he'd never quite managed it.
He'd been so pissed. Felt so betrayed. A couple of times he'd stood at the
guy's
grave and railed at him. But to his shame he'd never
been able to extinguish the love he'd felt for the old guy.

The
old guy had saved him from God knows what kind of life and deserved his
loyalty. But he never talked about the guy, not even to Zack. He let his arrest
record do the talking.

The
phone on Jacob's desk rang. He punched the button for line one and picked up
the receiver, hoping it was Tess with identification on the victim. "Warwick."

"Detective.
You're a hard man to catch up with."

The
soft feminine voice belonged to Dr. Erica Christopher. She was the department
shrink. Crap. She handled the mandatory mental health evaluations for the
department and his number had come up more than a few times since last summer.
He'd played by the rules and had gone to her counseling sessions but this last
month he'd slacked off. She was getting a little too close to matters he didn't
want to discuss, so he'd canceled his last session. He had promised to
reschedule but hadn't. She'd been after him since, but so far, he'd done a good
job of dodging her. And he planned to keep ducking. He was tired of digging
deep into his thoughts.

Jacob
dropped his gaze. "I'm on my way out. Can we talk later?"

Zack
raised a brow, noting the change in Jacob's voice. He sipped his coffee and
watched, unashamed that he was eavesdropping.

"No."
She'd been easygoing up until this point, but there was no missing the steel in
her voice. "You and I need to schedule another appointment."

He
drummed his fingers on the desk. "I'm right in the middle of a murder
investigation."

"You're
always in the middle of something. But so am I." He heard the rustle of the
pages of her appointment book. "I'm at the hospital on Saturday afternoon.
How's three
sound
?"

The
muscles in his back tensed like when he was boxed in against the ropes. "Not
good."

"Unless
you're donating an organ, Detective, I expect you to be in my office." He
imagined her piercing blue eyes peering over the edge of her black
half-glasses. She'd done that a lot during their sessions last fall. She was
savvy and she knew how to ferret out weakness.

"No
can do."

"Do
I call Ayden and have you put on leave until you do?"

Jacob's
temper rose. "Like hell you will."

"Get
in my office and we won't have a problem. Ditch this appointment and we've got
trouble."

She
had him by the short hairs and there wasn't much he could do about it.
"Fine.
Three.
Saturday."

"Good."

He
slammed the phone. "That doctor is going to drive me insane."

Zack
tapped his finger against the side of his Styrofoam cup. "Dr. Christopher, I
presume."

"Yeah."

"She's
a smart woman who knows her stuff."

"I've
seen her six times. I've done my due diligence. There's no more sense in
digging up the past. What's done is done.
Time to move on."
He said that a lot and most days believed it.

"A
few more visits won't kill you. Just do your time and be done with it."

In
the ring when he was against the ropes, he knew what to do: he came out
swinging. But with the doctor she made him think about things he flat out did
not want to consider.

The
phone rang a second time. He snapped it up. "Warwick."

It
was Connie Davidson with the missing persons division. Her gravelly voice
grated over the lines. "I think I might have a match for that Jane Doe you
found this morning."

"Great."

Paper
rustled as she flipped through notes. "We got a call from a Betty Smith. She
says her neighbor has been missing for a few days. The woman's name is White
and she fits your Jane Doe's description."

"What's
her full name?"

"Jackie
Taylor White.
Lives at one-oh-three Mayberry Drive, Richmond."

"Jackie?"
That didn't fit. "The charm around her neck read
Ruth
."

"Can't answer that one."

Jacob
frowned.
"Right.
Thanks." He hung up and brought Zack
up to speed.

Zack
nodded. "I'll get my coat. We can drive over now."

Within
fifteen minutes the two were in Jacob's car, the heater blasting, headed south
on Parham Road. Rush-hour traffic combined with lingering ice slowed their
progress. It took almost twenty minutes before they pulled up in front of the
small, one-story brick house.

White
snow blanketed the front lawn and under a large picture window hung a window
box filled with brown, drooping ivy coated in ice.

Jacob
and Zack got out of the car and walked up the cracked brick sidewalk to the
front door. Three newspapers lay on the porch.

Jacob
pressed the doorbell, which echoed inside the house.
"Looks
like she hasn't been around for a few days."

Zack
frowned.
"Three newspapers.
Three days. She went
missing on Friday."

"Maybe."
No one answered the bell so Jacob rang it
again. When that didn't work, he pounded on the door. The two walked around to
the backyard and looked in the utility room door. There was no sign of anyone.
"She must have lived alone."

"Let's
talk to the neighbor," Zack said.

They
crossed the yard to another house that looked very similar. However, this house
still had Christmas lights strung along the roofline and in several of the
naked dogwood trees in the front yard. There was a snowman in this yard; a
plastic red sled; and a blue bucket filled partly with snow, rocks, and sticks.

Jacob
rang the bell. Immediately he heard the sound of footsteps running around and
young children yelling. A woman's voice followed before steadier footsteps
crossed to the front door. The glass storm door sucked inward as the heavy
wooden one behind it opened to a young woman with a toddler on her hip.
Clinging to her legs was a boy who looked about four.

The
older boy wore a bath towel around his neck like a Superman cape. The toddler
had green Magic Marker scribbles up and down his arms. A haphazard ponytail
held the woman's hair. She wore no makeup, a stained Virginia Tech T-shirt, and
sweatpants.

From
his back pocket, Jacob pulled out his police badge. Zack did the same. "Ms.
Betty Smith?" Jacob asked.

"Yes."

"Ma'am,
we're with Henrico County Police."

The
four-year-old's eyes brightened as he popped his thumb in his mouth. He clung
to his mother's leg but his eyes didn't leave the cops.

The
mother was more cautious. The woman frowned and made no move to open the storm
door. "You've come about Jackie?"

"Yes."

"Did
you find her?"

Jacob
avoided the question. "Can you tell me why you filed a missing persons report?

The
woman unlatched the storm door and propped it open with her foot. Immediately,
warm air scented with hamburgers and fries rushed out to greet them.

"Come
on in the house," she said.

They
stepped into the house. The front room was a combination living room and family
room. A thick gray carpet warmed the floor and an overstuffed blue couch and
ottoman hugged the wall. The coffee table was covered with crayons and coloring
books. A corner hutch housed a television, which now displayed a cartoon.
Beyond the family room was a small kitchen. A pot boiled on the stove.

"I
haven't seen Jackie in a couple of weeks. The kids have had colds and we've not
gotten out much. But yesterday I had some extra cake left over from a birthday
party and thought she might like some. She loves cake." She smiled as if she
sensed she was rambling. "I saw all the newspapers. Jackie always lets me know
when she's going out of town."

"She
could have taken off on the spur of the moment," Jacob said.

"Jackie
plans out everything. She's got a thing about schedules.
Washes
her car every Saturday.
Taking off is not like her at all."