Silenced (26 page)

“Tonight.”

Sean was about to leave when he remembered what Lucy had said about the three murders. Paxton didn’t know that Wendy James was connected to the two prostitutes. But if the photos started this chain of events, that made Paxton indirectly responsible for all five deaths.

He couldn’t help but rub that in.

“Noah didn’t say anything to you, but the FBI is taking over the investigation into the murders at the Hotel Potomac. They’re connected to Wendy James. The same person who killed her also killed four other people. Think about that, Senator, since you don’t seem to regret what you did. If it were me—and it has been in the past—my fingerprints would never be on it. I’ve destroyed pricks like Alan Crowley. And no one will know who, because I don’t need to brag about my successes.”

Sean grinned, gloating. “Hope you get a good night’s sleep.”

Before he could walk out, Paxton said sharply, “Rogan!”

Sean turned around.

“Watch yourself. The statute of limitations isn’t quite up on one of your
successes,
as you call it, up in Massachusetts. And I don’t think you would do well in prison.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After leaving the senator’s office, Noah called Rick Stockton directly and told him about Paxton’s confession.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a crime to expose an extramarital affair. The motive didn’t matter: Truth was almost always a defense.

Paxton seemed contrite that his clandestine release of the compromising photographs might have led to the murder of Wendy James. If he had known that his acts would result in a death, he could be culpable. It was a stretch, and proving it would be next to impossible. Noah didn’t know how many affairs were publicly exposed, but rarely did they end like that of Wendy James.

But Paxton was a politician, and Noah wasn’t sure how much of his sincerity was an act.

Noah needed to find the woman who called herself Ivy Harris, so he drove back to where she was last seen. He had reviewed what little they had on her—under both her alias and her real name.

Hannah Edmonds was one of three daughters of televangelist Kirk Edmonds. A widower, Reverend Edmonds had a successful ministry in Allegheny County in the northwest of Maryland. The closest city to his base was Cumberland, but the small unincorporated town he lived in had less than three hundred people, almost all of whom worked for Hope Ministries.

Noah could imagine that growing up in a small, sheltered religious community was the breeding ground for teenage rebellion, but faking a suicide seemed awfully sophisticated for a fourteen-year-old.

According to the records the local FBI office had on Hannah Edmonds, she’d been diagnosed bipolar manic-depressive when she was thirteen, after she first tried to kill herself. Eighteen months on a variety of medications seemed to be working, then her father learned she’d tricked the household staff and hadn’t been taking her medication at all.

There was a history of mental illness in the family. Hannah’s mother had killed herself and tried to kill her two youngest children. Hannah had been seven at the time. She and the baby, Sara, had miraculously survived when Marie Edmonds intentionally drove her vehicle into a security fence.

Noah didn’t have a lot of experience with mental illnesses like manic depression, but he knew enough to know that Hannah was dangerous to herself and others. If she felt trapped, scared, hopeless, what might she do to her sister? Could they believe anything she said?

He needed to get her into custody and have her evaluated. She seemed to be the one connection between everything that had happened since Monday—what if she was behind the deaths? What if she was working with an accomplice?

It seemed a stretch, considering that she’d been shot at after Lucy and Genie picked her up, but maybe that wasn’t what it appeared to be on the surface. Maybe her partner thought he was breaking her out of custody.

It didn’t feel right to him, but he had to focus on the facts, and right now, he didn’t know why Hannah Edmonds had changed her name, how or why her sister was in DC and whether she was truly kidnapped or ran away, or what Hannah’s relationship was with Wendy James or the other victims. All he had were statements, some which conflicted, from a sitting U.S. senator, a social worker, and a retired neighbor. There were a lot of facts, but few connections.

Noah retraced Lucy’s steps from the Hawthorne house to the crash site.

Genie’s car had already been pulled from the embankment and sat on the back of a flatbed tow truck. It would be transported to the FBI garage for forensic analysis and trace evidence, which had meant Noah had used a lot of fast-talking and arm-twisting to take custody of it from Metro. But someone had shot at a federal employee, and even though Genie was a DC cop, the federal government still had more resources to process the evidence.

It would be easy to match up the damage on the car with the van. But first they had to find it, and so far, nothing. He had the tech squad looking at traffic cams, but in this neighborhood, they were few and far between. He had them focusing on the major streets out of the area, but it was a labor-intensive project that often failed to yield results.

Where had Ivy gone? She disappeared as law enforcement arrived. She knew the area well. They still hadn’t found Jocelyn Taylor’s car which had last been seen when Ivy drove from the Hotel Potomac the night of the murders.

Or maybe she knew someone who lived in the area, someone who was willing to help her.

He went back to Hawthorne Street and knocked on Patricia Neel’s door. The elderly woman answered and smiled broadly, her reading glasses falling off her nose and hanging on a chain around her neck.

Noah held up his badge. “Mrs. Neel, I’m Agent Noah Armstrong with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He pocketed his identification. “We spoke earlier today on the phone.”

“Yes, about the theft.”

“Did my agent come by and take your statement?”

“Oh, yes, they just left. Would you like some lemonade? I made it for them, I have plenty.”

“No, thank you. I need to follow up on your statement earlier today to my colleague, Ms. Kincaid.”

“What a sweet young woman,” Mrs. Neel smiled broadly. “So polite.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have a few follow-up questions.”

“Would you like to come in? It’s really warm out here.”

“This won’t take long.” Noah suspected if he went inside it would be difficult to leave quickly. It was no surprise that Mrs. Neel had taken an interest in her young neighbors—she wanted someone to talk to.

“Do you know where Ivy might go to if she were in trouble and needed a place to stay?”

“She knew she could come to me.” She frowned. “I wish she’d just asked for the money. I would have given it to her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She left a note. She’s not a bad person.”

The woman was repeating herself, and Noah feared he’d get nothing useful from her. This excursion was becoming a waste of time.

“Any other neighbors? Friends? A business she frequented? A church? School? A nearby library?”

“She liked to walk to that little church on Thirty-first. I can’t remember the name. Very small. But she walked there nearly every Sunday morning. Sometimes she took Mina with her, or one of the other girls, but I don’t think they were proper churchgoers. You know how kids are these days.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her his card. “You have this, but I wrote my cell phone number on the back. If you see Ivy or any of the other girls, call my cell phone immediately, okay?”

“Of course. I promised Agent Kincaid I would do the same. I hope Ivy and Mina are going to be okay. They are sweet girls.”

Noah didn’t know if
sweet
was the right word for the prostitutes, but he didn’t comment. He thanked Mrs. Neel and went back to his car.

Thirty-first was two blocks over. He drove slowly down the street, looking for a small church. He didn’t see anything, turned around and went back up the road toward Hawthorne. He did a double take and realized he’d missed it—the church wasn’t so much a
church
as he was used to seeing, but a small converted business partly hidden between two larger buildings. In addition, it was set back from the road and had a small sign half-obscured by an old tree.

His Grace Church & Preschool

Sunday service 9
A.M.

Noah parked down the street and walked to the church. It was late afternoon, the hottest time of the day. A small, covered playground behind a security fence was empty of children.

A door around the side led to the school; it was behind a locked gate. The front door that led into the church was unlocked. He walked in, a brass bell overhead announcing his entrance.

The church had ten rows of mismatched pews down the middle, with aisles on either side. If people sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the room
might
be able to seat a hundred people.

The altar was simple, with an empty cross, a pulpit, and a few chairs, maybe for a choir or speakers. High, narrow windows let in natural light, what little could come through with the taller buildings on three sides. A room opened to the right, set with more chairs and two tables of different heights.

Noah didn’t notice the door behind the altar until it opened. An older man who would have looked like Santa Claus had he a beard, stepped out. He wore slacks and a button-down short-sleeved shirt that puckered at the midriff. “May I help you?”

Noah identified himself, and said, “Are you the pastor?”

“No, sir. I’m the custodian, Remus. Are you looking for Marti?”

“Yes, is he around?”

Remus’s thick eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. “You don’t know Marti.”

“No, Remus, I’m investigating the crash that happened a few blocks away.”

“The FBI investigates car crashes?”

“When they involve a federal employee and a fugitive, yes.”

A gazelle-like black woman emerged from a hallway off the right. “Thank you, Remus, I’ll talk to the agent.” She waited until Remus shuffled down the hall muttering to himself.

“I apologize. I’m Marti North. Let’s sit.” She gestured to a pew in the front. Noah sat and she sat a few feet away, bending her left leg under her, and turned to face him with a bright smile that didn’t quite match her suspicious eyes.

“Special Agent Noah Armstrong. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a young woman who goes by the name of Ivy.” He showed her the current picture she had of Ivy. “Do you know her?”

Marti North didn’t look at the picture. “What did this young woman do to draw the attention of the FBI?”

“We believe she’s in danger.”

“A lot of young women are in danger in this town. The FBI doesn’t seem to pay them no mind. Why this girl?”

“Do you remember a fire last week, a few blocks over, on Hawthorne?”

“Yes, I do. I live upstairs.”

“Ivy lived in the house with five other young women.”

As Noah spoke, he had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t telling Reverend North anything she didn’t already know.

Marti smiled at him, as if waiting for a question that she already knew she wouldn’t answer.

Noah asked, “Did Ivy attend church here?”

“I don’t keep a roster. Everyone is welcome.”

“But you recognize her.”

“That photo is unclear.”

Noah was growing frustrated. He changed tactics. “Do you also run the preschool?”

“Yes. When I left the Army I got my degree in Early Childhood Education.”

“You served?”

“Yes, sir. Corporal, Fort Hood. Spent a year in Iraq as a Chaplain.”

“Air Force,” Noah said. “Captain, Raven Force.”

“The Ravens. Elite.”

He shrugged it off. Ninety percent of his job had been guarding aircraft and transporting international prisoners. Not very exciting. “How many students do you have?”

“The numbers fluctuate. We average ten to twelve, but can have more. We’re licensed with the city.”

“There was a car crash down the street earlier this morning, followed by gunfire.”

“I heard about it after the fact. I didn’t hear any gunshots, but Remus told me about the crash. He’d taken the children to the park before it got too hot, and the crash meant they had to take the long way back.”

“Ivy was in the car. I think she came here after the crash. Did you see her? Anyone who had been in a wreck?”

Now Noah realized he had the pastor. Marti had been trying her best to obfuscate and not tell a lie—either because she was devout, or because she didn’t want to be caught lying to a federal agent, which was a crime.

“A young woman did come in here,” she said momentarily, “with a cut on her arm. She didn’t say she’d been in an accident. I offered to take her to the hospital, she declined. I gave her a small first-aid kit, and she left.”

Noah was getting tired of twenty questions. “Had you seen her before?”

“Yes, she had been here for services in the past.”

“Did she leave on foot or in a vehicle?”

“She walked out.”

Noah handed Marti his card. “You may think you’re protecting Ivy, but you’re putting her in more danger. Someone is trying to kill her, and nearly killed my partner in that crash. I can help her, but only if she comes to me. Two of the girls who lived in that house are dead, and it’s my opinion that whoever killed the two girls intends to kill Ivy and the others. If he finds Ivy before I do, she will die. I’m sure you don’t want that on your conscience.” He started to walk out, then stopped and turned to face her. “If she contacts you in any way, give her my number. If you find out where she is, let me know immediately. She has a diagnosed medical condition that could make her a danger to herself or others. I want to help her, but she has to come forward. If she comes in on her own, it will help her.”

Marti rose from the pew. She was taller than Noah, at least six foot two. “Agent Armstrong?
A lying tongue hates those it hurts.”

She tilted her chin up, making the stately woman appear even taller. “Don’t take everything you hear as Gospel. You may leave.”