The Strategist (7 page)

Camille had no memory of running through the house frantically searching for her father’s car keys, nor did she remember getting into his Chevy Suburban and peeling out of the driveway. It was as if she made the drive to Julia’s house in a complete state of unconsciousness, unaware of the traffic around her, how fast she was going, or how she even got there.

But she became fully aware when she came upon the patrol cars blocking entry onto Julia’s street. The two officers standing guard eyed her with suspicion as she came to a stop in front of them. She had considered telling them that she lived in the neighborhood and needed to get through, but quickly thought better of it. Instead she turned the car around, parked half a block away, and made her way to Julia’s on foot.

The further she walked the more activity she saw. Neighbors were standing in the middle of the street talking to each other, their subdued conversations punctuated with shock and disbelief; satellite news trucks were lined up in caravans along the curb while TV reporters scrambled to prepare for their live feeds.

She had already put in back to back calls to Julia’s cell phone, but there was no answer either time. As she made a third call, she still somehow believed that she would come upon Julia’s house and see her standing outside with the rest of her neighbors.

Listening to Julia’s voicemail greeting for the third time, Camille finally saw the house. There were no satellite trucks, anxious reporters, or gawking neighbors standing in front of it; only police cars and uniformed officers as far as she could see.

The outside of the house was illuminated with standing flood lights. Behind the closed blinds she saw shadows and the occasional pop of a camera flash. The police set up two perimeters of yellow tape in front of the house – one on the sidewalk near the curb and one across the front porch. Camille crossed the first police line without a second thought. A uniformed officer quickly made his way over to her before she could get any closer. But she didn’t need to get any closer. She already saw what she needed to see.

The custom made address plate above the front door was green with gold letters, written in a fine cursive script eerily similar to Julia’s. When everything else around her went black, Camille could still see the plate as if it were burned into her brain.

335 Monroe St. Leeds.

CHAPTER 12

“Ma’am, you need to step behind the line right now! Do you hear me? This is a crime scene! If you don’t step back I will arrest you!”

The words sounded as if they were coming from someplace distant, even though the officer who spoke them stood only a few feet away. Camille looked away from the address plate and into the patrolman’s strong, beet red face.

“I’m only telling you one more time,” he said with lips that were coiled tight with rage. “Get behind the line.”

Camille continued to stare at him with a blank expression that only seemed to fuel his anger. She suddenly felt a pull on her shoulder as the officer attempted to move her backward. But she didn’t budge. Instead she brushed his hand away and side stepped out of his reach. When the officer put a hand to his holster and took a defensive posture, she immediately realized her mistake.

“I’m a federal ag—” Camille nearly bit through her tongue as she stopped herself from saying the word ‘agent’. That had almost been as big a mistake as raising a hand to him, but the words were instinctive.

“What did you say?” 

Camille tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I know her.”

As the officer approached with his hand still on his holster, Camille extended her arms to hold him off.

“Please. My friend lives here. I’m just trying to figure out if she’s okay.”

The officer stopped, though nothing in his icy blue eyes communicated the least bit of sympathy. “You still need to let us do our job, ma’am. I don’t want to physically put you across that
line, but I will if you don’t—”

“You don’t understand. I can’t leave. Not until I know that she’s…” her voice trailed off as something heavy moved from her chest into the back of her throat. She grabbed his thick forearm with both hands. “Can someone please help me? I don’t care who it is. I just need someone to tell me that Julia’s okay. She’s not answering her cell phone and I just need to hear her…” The heaviness in Camille’s chest and throat suddenly expanded into her mouth, and before she realized what was happening, she let out a guttural scream that sounded almost inhuman in its agony.

The officer struggled to pry Camille’s clawed grip from his forearm. Once he did he walked her to the base of the grassy hill leading up to Julia’s front porch. “Sit here,” he said flatly as he helped her down. Then without saying another word, he ran up the stairs and into the house, brushing past two large men in suits standing in the doorway.

Completely unaware of the scene she had made, Camille was shocked to see that the eyes of most everyone out there – police, neighbors, news crews – were trained on her. She tried to meet their unfeeling stares with a hard glare of her own, but her eyes burned from tears that wouldn’t stop flowing and the only way to manage the pain was to keep them closed.

From behind she heard the jingle of handcuffs and knew the officer was coming back. 

“That’s her,” she heard him say.

“And she says she knew the victim?” a soft female voice asked in response.

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“Okay. I’ll take it from here then,” the female voice said from a position directly behind Camille. “Thank you Officer Davies.”

Camille opened her eyes in time to see the officer crossing the sidewalk in front of her. He kept his hard glare fixed on her until he reached a small group of officers huddled in the driveway of the house next door. Soon they were all staring.

“Miss, you really shouldn’t have crossed the police line.”

Camille jumped as she looked away from the officers to the woman now kneeling beside her.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” she said with a thin smile. “Officer Davies told me that you were a friend of the victim. I wanted to come out to talk to you. My name is Chloe Sullivan. I’m a detective with DPD homicide.” She extended her hand.

Camille looked at it without extending her own. “Her name is Julia.”

“Pardon me?”

“Julia Leeds. That’s the name of the victim you’re referring to, right?”

Sullivan cast her tired eyes downward. “That hasn’t been officially confirmed, but we believe so.”

Camille turned away from the detective and focused her attention on a pair of teenage girls standing on a lawn across the street. They looked sad and overwhelmed by everything happening around them. It was refreshing in a strange way. Teenagers never seemed sad or overwhelmed by anything these days that didn’t involve their online
social network.

“How long have you known her?” Detective Sullivan asked.

“Sixteen years,” Camille answered, still looking at the girls. Judging by their similar physical appearance, they were probably sisters. Camille felt a pang of jealousy. She had lost her sister today.

“And when did you last see her?”

Camille redirected her attention to the detective. That’s when she noticed the notepad. Aside from the badge, it was the main tool of the police detective’s trade, used more frequently and much more effectively than a firearm ever would be. The sight of it made Camille tremble. “Can you tell me what happened first?”

“We’re still in the process of establishing that. I’m
sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

The detective looked to be the same age as Camille, possibly a few years younger. Pretty young female cops had it rough on the street, from perps and colleagues alike. And Detective Sullivan was prettier than most. But behind her deep set hazel eyes was something very formidable. She may not have had the most imposing physical presence, but it was obvious she was no push over either.

“Camille Grisham,” she answered and watched the detective scribble her name.

“Ms. Grisham, are you aware of any family she may have in the area? So far we haven’t been able to establish a point of contact.”

Julia’s parents died in a plane crash when she was twenty-six. The only other family that she ever spoke of was her sister Nicole who lived in Castle Rock. Camille had only met her twice, and to hear Julia talk, the two of them weren’t particularly close. Regardless of their relationship, the idea of Nicole not knowing made Camille feel sick.

“Her sister’s name is Nicole Blair. All I know about her is that she’s a veterinarian at the Douglas County Animal Hospital.”

Sullivan nodded as she wrote. “That should be enough to find her.”

Camille stood up and turned toward the house. From her new vantage point she could see more of the activity happening inside. There were at least ten people in the living room, most of them men in plain clothes, walking around with flashlights, dusting the walls and windows, and holding items stored in zip lock baggies. A short man wearing an Animal Control jacket stood inside the doorway while another one sat on the front
porch smoking a cigarette.

The investigator in Camille worried about the integrity of the scene with so many people operating in such a small area. But the investigator in her was mostly gone. All that was left was a devastated shell of a person who could only pray that the men in that house were working their asses off to find whoever did this.

“Ms. Grisham, when was the last time you saw Julia?”

Camille saw one of the investigators walk out of the house carrying a black plastic bag. Her breath caught as she tried to ans
wer the detective’s question.

“Ms. Grisham?”

Camille was silent as she watched the man put the large bag into the back of an unmarked white van.

“Ms. Grisham?” Detective Sullivan repeated in a voice that was losing its measure. “Can you tell me when you last saw the victim?”

“Yesterday,” Camille finally answered.

“How long were you with her?”

“The entire day.”

“And did you notice anything out of the ordinary in terms of her behavior?”

The investigator got inside the van and quickly drove away. Camille watched until it disappeared around a corner.

“Ms. Grisham?”

“No I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in terms of her behavior.” She turned her full attention back to the detective. “Look, I can appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I need to know exactly what happened to her. And don’t tell me that you’re still in the midst of the investigation and haven’t determined it yet, because I know better than that. The first responders knew within two minutes of being here exactly what happened, so I’m pretty sure you do too.”

The detective’s lips parted and for a moment she seemed to be at a loss for words. She blew a lock of curly brown hair from the corner of her eye and took in a deep breath. “Ms. Grisham I understand you’re upset, but at this
point I’m not really at liberty–”

“I don’t think you have the slightest idea how upset I am right now.” Camille’s eyes began to sting again and she had to put her hands over them.

“Yes I do.”

“Then at least give me the common courtesy of being honest.”

Detective Sullivan rolled her eyes. “It’s not about common courtesy. It’s about maintaining the integrity of our investigation.”

“Look, I was an FBI agent for eight years, so I know all about maintaining the integrity of an investigation. And I know that you telling me how my best friend died will do absolutely
nothing
to compromise that integrity. For Christ’s sake, you’re a homicide detective. How stupid do we have to pretend to be?”

The detective’s cheeks turned crimson red and the muscles in her jaw nearly bulged through the skin. “The fact that you were an FBI agent means absolutely nothing to me right now. But your tone does.
Do you want to try that again?”

As much as Camille always hated to admit it, she never had the respect for local law enforcement that she should have. When she was brought into an investigation, it was usually because the locals had neither the resources nor the ability to complete the task on their own. Most cops don’t take too kindly to having their cases taken away from them, especially by snobby D.C. types with fancy suits and inflated egos. And the working relationship Camille had with them reflected that territorial animosity. But she was no longer an agent and Detective Sullivan wasn’t some subordinate she was forced to work with. The cocky attitude wasn’t going to fly here.

“I’m sorry, detective. I was out of line,” Camille said contritely. “It just feels like my entire life is flashing in front of my eyes, and when the flash is done everything is going to permanently go black. Desperate doesn’t begin to describe how that makes me feel.”

Detective Sullivan didn’t look the least bit prepared to accept the apology as she began flipping through her notepad. “The ME’s initial report indicates that Ms. Leeds was shot with a high caliber weapon. Her two dogs were also killed, presumably by the same weapon, though that hasn’t been confirmed. We don’t have enough yet to fully establish motive, but based on the point of forced entry and the condition of the house, it looks like a home invasion. Do you know what kind of vehicle she drove?”

“A Range Rover.”

Detective Sullivan nodded. “Officers located it this morning in an alley on the 3800 block of Gilpin. Does she know anyone in that area?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“We’re working on a couple of leads related to the car and its location, but we don’t have anything solid as of yet.”

Whether she was aware of it or not, Detective Sullivan was relaying information to Camille the same as she would a fellow officer. Terms like ‘high caliber weapon’ and ‘point of forced entry’ only mean something in law enforcement circles. Maybe the revelation of her FBI past had an effect after all. Or maybe the detective had a lot to learn when it came to talking to the average person about investigative matters. Either way, Camille was grateful for her sudden candor, even though it hurt like a punch to the stomach.

“We could really use your help in filling in some of the gaps, Ms. Grisham.”

“I don’t know how much I can offer,” Camille said as she fought to maintain her balance on increasingly wobbly legs.

“I’ll go back to my original question about her behavior. You said you didn’t recognize anything out of the ordinary yesterday. What about the days prior?”

Camille shook her head. “Yesterday was the first time I’d seen her in almost two years. I just moved back here from the east coast. Today is my first full day home.”

Something came over Detective Sullivan’s face that looked like sadness. She quickly blinked and it went away. “Did you have phone conversations?”

“For the last month and a half we probably spoke on the phone every day.”

“And during those conversations, did she ever indicate that something was wrong? Perhaps a bad fight with a boyfriend or a dispute with a neighbor?”

“Julia hasn’t had a boyfriend in over a year, at least not one that I knew about.” She paused to search her memory for anything else. “The only thing she complained about was work.”

“What did she do?”

Camille got stuck on the work ‘
did
’. Julia was already being spoken of in the past tense and it made her want to scream again. “She’s a lawyer.”