The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (16 page)

Jocelyn let it go and played out how she would question Viola Sayers and anyone else she could round up. She also had to search Callie Sayers’ home, which could be the original crime scene. Someone, maybe a new boyfriend, could have shot her after a fight, transported her to DC, then dumped her.
Not a chance in hell.
Callie’s mother had mentioned that her daughter had left for the capital. Where she was going and who she planned to see was the critical, and still missing, information.

Finally, a road sign indicated she was only five miles from the Fredericksburg exit. Jocelyn shut off her music, finished her muffin, and focused on the road.

The Sayers lived in a modest house in a pleasant suburb with shade trees and tidy lawns, a reminder that living the good life didn’t insulate anyone from crime. Three cars filled the long driveway, with another parked on the street. Family and friends had gathered to comfort the grieving parents. Was Mr. Sayers in the picture? There was so much she still didn’t know about the victim or her circumstances. Mrs. Sayers hadn’t answered her phone that morning, so she’d been unable to get any details. Jocelyn parked and walked up the driveway. By the time she reached the front door, it was open.

A man in his mid-twenties gave her a once-over. “Are you a cop?” His eyes were swollen and his hair rumpled, as if he’d run his hands through it.

“Detective Larson, DC police.” This far south, they might not know that
Metro
meant the capital. “Who are you?”

“Roan Sayers.” After a hesitation, he held out his hand.

Jocelyn shook it. “I’d like to talk to the family.”

“Come on in.”

She followed him across a foyer. “Are you Callie’s brother?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m supposed to be in class today, but how could I? My mother is beside herself. We all are.”

They stepped into a family room with closed shades. Three women sat on a floral couch watching family videos. The youngest cried quietly. The older woman looked up, reached for the remote, and shut off the TV.

“This is Detective Larson,” the brother said.

The mother stood. “I’m Viola. Forgive me for being rude last night.”

“It’s understandable.”

One of the other women stood. She looked like a younger version of Viola. “I have to run, but I’ll be back around supper time with lasagna.” She hugged Mrs. Sayers.

Jocelyn stepped toward her and pulled a notepad out of her pocket. “I’d like your name and phone number please. We may need to talk later.”

“Ruby Davison. I’m Callie’s aunt. But I have no idea what I can tell you about this shocking tragedy.” Ruby shook her head but wrote the information down anyway. Jocelyn walked her to the door to see which car she left in, but she knew none of this would matter. Gut instinct told her Callie’s murder wasn’t connected to her family. A boyfriend or a one-night stand gone badly would be the obvious leads. But the gunshots to her face and the wrong ID pointed to something more complicated. A perp who knew the victim and had the time to plan his attack—or possibly a serial killer.

Back in the family room, she pulled a chair from the desk and sat in front of the family. The younger woman leaned toward her. “I’m Devon Fairchild, Callie’s older sister. Please tell us what happened to her.”

“I don’t know much yet, except that she was shot sometime Tuesday or Wednesday, and her body was left at a construction site.” The family would learn about the dumpster eventually, but there was no need for them to visualize it now when their grief was so raw. “Callie is in the morgue at the new forensics building in DC. They’re doing the autopsy today, so she’ll be released after that.” Jocelyn was still waiting on a call from the ME.

“Do we have to pick her up?” The brother looked disturbed by the idea.

“A local funeral home will likely transport her for you.” The family needed more from her, but all she had were questions. “When was the last time you saw Callie?” Pen in hand, Jocelyn looked at Mrs. Sayers first. She would have to put an initial by each note to indicate which family member gave the information. Typically, she would never question more than one family member at a time, but she was on her own and had to access everyone she could while she had the opportunity. The two-hour round-trip drive demanded it. This was probably just her first trip down, but her partner had promised to come in the next day, and she would let him do some of the legwork.

“Last Sunday. Callie had dinner here with all of us, like we do most weeks.” Mrs. Sayers gripped a handkerchief in her lap. “Except when Roan works weekends.”

“Did either of you see her after that?” Jocelyn glanced back and forth at the siblings.

“No.” They spoke in unison.

“But I talked to her Monday,” Devon said. “Callie mentioned taking some time off and going to DC for a couple of days. She had a benefit dinner Tuesday night and a date with some guy on Wednesday.”

“What benefit?”

“I don’t know. She told me, but I don’t remember.”

“It’s important.” Jocelyn glanced at the mother. “Do you know?”

“Not really.” She looked down at her callused hands. “Callie was good-hearted and involved in a lot of causes.”

“Like what?”

“Homeless veterans was her biggest thing,” Roan said. “Her fiancé was a military sergeant, so she belonged to a group of war widows.”

A charitable cause seemed like the wrong track. “What about her date? Do you know the guy’s name?”

They all shook their heads. Finally, Mrs. Sayers said, “It was the first time she mentioned a guy since Dave died. She said they were just friends and changed the subject. I didn’t want to pry.”

Jocelyn decided to move on. Now that she knew the victim’s name, she could get phone and credit card records and retrace her last moments. The mystery date would surface. “What did Callie drive?” The car had to be somewhere—with her purse and the ticket to whatever event she’d attended. Maybe even her cell phone.

“A red Chevy Cruze.”

Jocelyn made notes, planning to call MPD dispatch with the description as soon as she walked out the door. “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill her?”

“No!” The sister was loudest. “Callie was a sweetheart.”

“Do you have a key to her home? I need to see the place.”

“She keeps one outside by the back door. It’s under a clay pot.” Mrs. Sayers let out a little sob. “I went over there Wednesday night when she didn’t return any of my calls.”

Jocelyn needed to know more about the victim’s friends. “Where did she work?”

“The district courthouse in Richmond. She was a clerk.”

That opened up a whole new can of worms. “Did any defendants ever threaten her? Was she afraid of anyone?”

Mrs. Sayers shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was just a clerk, not a judge or a lawyer.”

Jocelyn decided to stop at the court after searching the victim’s house. Or come back tomorrow if she ran out of time. “Who was her boss?”

“Judge Oswald.” Mrs. Sayers suddenly got up. “Where are my manners? Would you like some iced tea?”

“Thanks, but I’ll get going.” Jocelyn stood too. “How long had Callie worked at the courthouse?”

“About ten years.” The grieving mother started for the kitchen. “Most of that time, she clerked for Judge Bidwell, but he retired last year.”

Bidwell? The murdered judge who’d died a day or so after Callie was her ex-boss? Adrenaline rushed up Jocelyn’s spine.

Jocelyn found the key under the clay pot and shook her head. Why did people make it so easy to break into their homes? The backyard of Callie Sayers’ cottage wasn’t even fenced off from the street. She unlocked the sliding-glass door and started to step in. A sudden sound in the house made her pull her weapon. Who the hell was in there? Had the killer come back to cover his tracks? Both hands on her Glock, Jocelyn stepped cautiously into the small dining area and glanced around. To her left, an empty kitchen, and straight ahead, a living room. No blood, no disarray, no sign of a shooting or struggle. The smell of rotting garbage distracted her for a second, then she took three steps toward the center of the home.

Another thump, like two boards banging together. Jocelyn spun left, focusing on a door leading out of the kitchen. The sound had come from the garage. She crossed the narrow strip of vinyl and yanked open the door. “Police!”

The cluttered garage seemed empty. Something small and dark scurried from behind a stack of boxes and made a beeline for a cat door on the outside wall. But it wasn’t a cat. A raccoon? Jocelyn’s heart rate slowed and she lowered her gun. She felt a little silly for shouting “police” at a rodent, but hey, that kind of pre-emptive move had kept her alive in a dangerous job. But if there was a cat door, where was the cat? A glance around the garage indicated nothing obvious that needed to be searched—yet. Basics first.

Back inside the house, she started to look for a computer, where she might find everything she needed. The victim’s cell phone would be a better source, but she suspected it was in the district’s landfill by now. The killer had gone to a whole lot of trouble to obscure Callie’s identity. He may have even hidden her car, but at least now Jocelyn had a make and model for patrol officers to watch for. It was tempting to start thinking of the judge as the killer, but it was only suspicion. She had to find something solid.

The small living room was so tidy it looked more like a display than a living space. No magazines, coasters, or even a remote was visible. She pulled on gloves and opened the single drawer on the end table to check for a remote to see if the victim had one. It was there, along with a tube of hand lotion. That was it. Callie Sayers hadn’t spent much time in her living room, even though she had a nice flat-screen TV in the corner.

Jocelyn moved on to the first room off the short hallway, shocked at the difference. Desk drawers left open, papers on the floor, and plastic storage tubs pulled out of the closet with the lids off. Someone had searched this room—but for what? She trotted back to the living room and checked the front door and windows. All locked with no signs of forced entry. The shooter could have kept the victim’s keys long enough to let himself in.

Returning to the little office, she discovered a monitor and a mouse on the desk but no computer.
Damn.
Either Callie had taken her laptop with her when she traveled to the city, or the killer had come here after her death and stolen it. She would have to get a forensics team down here to dust for fingerprints and collect trace evidence. If she never found the actual crime scene where Callie had been shot, this might be the only place the killer had left traces of himself. But this house was completely out of their jurisdiction, and she had no idea how the MPD would handle it. She’d never had a situation quite like it, and she planned to pass the responsibility to Sergeant Murphy and let him work through it.

The master bedroom had likely been searched too, but the perp had only focused on the dresser and nightstand, leaving some of the drawers slightly ajar. The closet seemed to have been undisturbed. Had he run out of time? She riffled through the dresser quickly, not finding anything but clothes. If there had been something significant, the perp had taken it. Jocelyn realized she was wasting her time. The technicians could cover this more thoroughly. Her effort would be better spent at the courthouse, asking questions of people who’d worked with Callie. The murder had to be connected to her job. Or more likely, to the judge she used to clerk for—who’d been charged with taking bribes. She checked her cell phone and realized that by the time she got to the court, it would be too late to find anyone still working. This investigation was no longer a simple
hooker shooting
and she needed help. The US Attorney’s office might even take over the case. She needed to notify the local police to keep an eye on the house and call Sergeant Murphy with her update. But she could do both on the drive home.

Her phone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket. Was that the medical examiner’s number? She took the call. “Detective Larson speaking.”

“This is Anna Walz, assistant ME. You asked me to call when the autopsy was complete. I just emailed you the report.”

“Thanks. When was the time of death?”

“Tuesday evening, most likely between five and midnight. I know that’s a wide window, but after a body’s been dead a few days and left outside, that’s the best we can do.”

“I understand. Did you find anything significant I need to know? I’m in Fredericksburg at the victim’s home.”

“She was shot at close range and both bullets exited her head.” A pause while a paper ruffled in the background. “One other odd thing. The victim had cigarette burns on the bottom of her feet. Her assailant tortured her before shooting her.”

What the hell had Callie had that the killer wanted so badly?

Wednesday, Oct. 8, 3:35 p.m.

As Luke started the van, Dallas braced herself. What the hell was Abby pissed about now? “Problem? What do you mean?”

“What happened to the meth? It wasn’t listed in your charges, and Cree says you guys never made it to the governor’s car.” Abby’s eyes blazed and her mouth twitched.

Oh hell.
If she had ditched the packet, she would have faced this same scrutiny. But she’d taken the risk of hanging on to it to keep her cover, and it was still blowing up in her face. “I don’t know. I was surprised when they read the charges and meth possession wasn’t listed. Someone must have pocketed it.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Abby argued. “Cops in Virginia like to bust people for drugs.”

Luke pulled the van into the street and didn’t say anything.

Did he doubt her too?
“I was stopped by a security guard, not a real cop, and he searched my pockets.” Dallas wouldn’t let Abby intimidate her. She didn’t care if the bitch thought she’d chickened out—as long as no one started to think she was a fed. “Besides, the guard had plenty of other things to get excited about, such as the lock-picks I used to set off the alarm.”

Abby shook her head. “I’ve heard of police planting drugs on detainees and stealing drugs from evidence lockers, but no one who gets busted with meth in their possession gets away with no charges.”