Chapter Twenty-­Four

Saturday, October 19

5:00 P.M.

Preston Hollow, Texas

AFTER CLEANING CAITY’S wounds and bandaging her wrists, Spense had driven everyone to Dallas in his Bucar. They’d taken the back roads into the city and parked out of sight in Dutch’s private garage. Now they’d settled into the basement of Dutch’s Preston Hollow home. They didn’t dare stay in the main part of the house for fear the neighbors might spot them.

“Check out what I brought along in my go bag.” Caity produced a small whiteboard and Dry Erase Markers. Spense had to smile at her forethought. She’d come prepared with everything: medicine, bandages, Kleenex . . . and she’d brought the tools of their trade, ones that in some ways were every bit as important as his Glock.

“So you were planning on profiling the killer all along,” Dutch said. “I can’t wait to watch the two of you work your magic.”

“First, you’re not going to sit back and watch us work our magic. You’re going to get down and dirty right alongside us. At the moment, you’re our most important resource. And second, we’re not going to profile Cindy’s killer. Not in any traditional sense, because this case doesn’t really fit the model.” Caity held up one finger. “But I do think some of the same principles apply, which is why I brought the board. In particular, I think we can learn a lot about the killer’s motivation by ‘profiling’ Cindy herself.”

“Unless Cindy wasn’t the target,” Dutch said.

“In case you’re the real target, Dutch, we’ll have to consider two entirely different paths. And you know what that means.”

“I don’t.”

Caity grinned. “It means we need more colors. We’ll use blue for Cindy and green for you.”

Spense uncapped a marker, and the scent of a fresh puzzle, itching to be solved, filled the room. Even Dutch seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. The Thresher’s death was a blow, but that didn’t mean they were going to wait for the next hired hit man to come strolling through the door. They had work to do. And they had better get to it. This was their window of opportunity.

The monster behind the monster might’ve already found his new assassin. But just as they had to start from scratch to find him, his henchman had to start from scratch to find them.

The playing field was even, and the race was on.

He and Caity still couldn’t report in to Jim. Spense hated withholding information, but if they told him they’d located Dutch, Jim would either have to turn Dutch over to Sheridan or risk disciplinary action for concealing a fugitive. And judging by all those meetings with the boys from D.C., Jim was being groomed for bigger and better things. Spense would rather not put his mentor in an untenable position with the Bureau. For now, they had to keep Jim in the dark—­but that didn’t mean Spense couldn’t rely on some of his other contacts at the Bureau. He was tight enough with a few agents to ask for help on the down low. Plenty of folks knew he and Caity had been assigned as off-­the-­books advocates for Dutch, and Jim was too discreet to have advertised the fact he’d taken them out of that role.

SECRETS.

Caity scrawled the letters with a heavy hand, in all caps giving them a bold, important appearance.

Spense wasn’t sure where she was going with that. It was a departure from their normal methodology—­but then again, they weren’t looking for a serial killer.

“I realize this isn’t how we usually do things, but both Cindy and Dutch had more than their fair share of secrets. It seems likely to me, that if we turn over all those secrets, we’re more likely to find the motive for Cindy’s murder, and if we know the motive . . .”

“The killer will be obvious,” Spense said.

Dutch arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“Obvious might be overstating,” Caity rushed in to qualify his statement, and a warm feeling spread through his chest. He was being arrogant; she was trying to tone him down. That meant things were getting back to normal between them, and that was good. Very good.

Dutch rolled his personal marker between his palms. “Are we all in agreement that the Thresher did not kill Cindy?”

They’d only discussed this possibility once before, back at the stockyards, but Spense was glad to see Dutch remembered. His brother would not require spoon-­feeding.

“Probably. The events at the ranch, and the attempts on our lives, were well planned out—­and those were committed by the Thresher. But in Cindy’s case, although the killer escaped detection, the murder appears to have been either unplanned or poorly planned. There were hundreds of guests at that fund-­raiser, making the scene extremely high-­risk. And the shredded evening gown suggests the crime was highly personal.” Caity wrote the word LIPSTICK in blue on the board. “And the killer made a rookie mistake—­using lipstick that wasn’t Cindy’s on her forehead.”

“It’s also the only indication we have that the killer might be a female,” Dutch said. “All other signs point to a man: the use of a firearm, the posing of the body—­of course, men leave lipstick notes, too. For me, the killer’s gender is still in question.”

“But if we’re correct that Cindy’s murder was impulsive, then we could all but rule out the idea that someone killed her in order to get to you, Dutch.” Spense wanted to get that out early, because it was true, and because he knew it would alleviate some of Dutch’s guilt.

“Not entirely,” Caity said, almost apologetically. “Someone with a grudge against Dutch could’ve taken advantage of an unforeseen circumstance.”

“A crime of opportunity.” Dutch nodded. “I’ve been thinking along those lines.”

“I say we travel both paths to see if there’s any point where they intersect.” Caity had an artificial lilt in her voice, and Spense figured she was trying to stay upbeat for Dutch’s sake.

This was the first time they’d ever boarded a murder with the victim’s husband in the room. It was tricky, but Caity was right. Dutch was their best resource. They needed him here, no matter how painful it was for him. “We should start with Cindy’s secrets.”

Dutch’s complexion went gray, like he was about to be sick.

“Do you need a minute?” Caity asked.

“No.” He sighed. “I need my wife back. But that’s not going to happen, so the least I can do for her is have the guts to face the truth. I can’t help thinking that if I’d been more involved in our marriage, she’d still be alive. Now I can’t even tell you much about her affairs—­that’s what you meant when you said secrets, I’m sure. Because of my indifference, I’m practically no use to you.”

“You were not indifferent. You loved her,” Caity said. “If you practiced denial, it was a survival mechanism. But I bet you know more than you think you do. Remember what you told Cindy about the diary—­that she’d better hide it well since she was married to an FBI agent? Think about it, Dutch, a man with your background and observational skills had to have picked up on clues.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I can tell you more from the early years . . . before I checked out of our marriage. The first time I heard rumors, they were about the tennis pro at the club. At first, I didn’t believe they were true. I waited for Cindy to come to me and explain things, but she never did. Then at some point, I started to think where there was smoke, there was fire, so I buried myself in my cases. And I left her to her own devices. Either the affair ended, or maybe it never happened to begin with. I was never really certain.

“Then a few years later, I traveled to the coast of Somalia to negotiate the release of hostages. When I returned, it was like déjà vu. Whenever I entered a room, ­people would suddenly stop talking, and when I left, they would start to whisper again.”

“So you thought she’d taken another lover?” Caity asked in a soft, but businesslike tone.

“Yeah. I guess I knew she was cheating. No one ever told me who the man in question was, but I had a pretty fair idea. Before I left for Somalia, Cindy had become very friendly with Sue Ellen James. A woman she had met at Junior League. They worked a number of charity events together. But when I returned, Sue Ellen and Cindy had had some sort of falling-­out. Then, a few months later, Sue Ellen and her husband, Peter, divorced. The reason, according to the Dallas grapevine: Peter was sleeping with one of Sue Ellen’s best friends.”

“Sue Ellen and Peter James.” Caity wrote their names in blue—­to indicate this was Cindy’s secret. “Had motive to kill Cindy.”

“You know where the tennis pro is now?” Spense asked.

Dutch shook his head. “It wasn’t him.”

“You sure about that?”

“He got behind the wheel, drunk. The creep took a family of three with him to the grave.”

“That’s one off the list of suspects then. Who else?”

“Kip Keiser. I think his wife’s name is Georgia.”

While Spense asked the questions, Caity scribbled the information on the board.

“They’re still married?”

“Yes. Georgia was pregnant at the time, this one I know for sure, because Georgia brought it to my attention. She called me and begged me to intervene with Cindy.”

“And did you?”

“No. I suggested she speak directly to her husband. But I never asked Cindy about it.”

Caity stopped scribbling. “Forgive me, Dutch, but I’m trying to understand this. It seems you had something like a don’t ask, don’t tell policy in your marriage. Did that go both ways? Were you having affairs, too?” Expectantly, she uncapped the green pen.

“Not unless the FBI counts as a mistress. I guess in Cindy’s eyes, it did. You two are very fortunate to be able to work together. You both understand the demands of the job. If you weren’t colleagues, how would you have time for a relationship? In fact, in a way, working together is your relationship. That’s why there are so many ­couples in the FBI.”

“Not to mention it smooths the issue of security clearance,” Spense said, only half joking.

“I’m determined to use this green marker, Dutch.” Caity wrote the Bureau on the board. “You did say she was your mistress.” Next she got the blue pen out and used it to write Georgia and Kip Keiser.

“Not as high on the list, because they managed to stay together,” Spense said. “Maybe put an asterisk by those names.”

Caity shook her head. “You’re kidding? Right?”

“You disagree, that the motive is less? It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge,” Spense said, then thought better of it. Was his father’s affair water under the bridge? Just because something happened in the distant past didn’t mean it couldn’t still hurt like hell.

“I absolutely disagree. In fact, I’m adding an exclamation point by Georgia’s name.” And she did. “Georgia was pregnant at the time of the affair. I can tell you, from a woman’s perspective, there are very few crimes worse than that. Anything that could affect the children, ups the pain. And not only that, because Georgia took the initiative to contact Dutch, we know she’s a woman who doesn’t sit back on her hands. She’s a woman who acts. A wound like that could’ve been festering for years, then something, an anniversary, or a found memento, for example, triggered a sudden rage.”

“Okay. You can keep your exclamation point,” Spense conceded before turning back to Dutch. “Who else?”

“I really don’t know.”

“But you believe there are more.”

“I’m not aware of anyone, but the rest of the world seems to think so. And the rumors have been swirling faster than ever these last months. It doesn’t take much to become notorious in Dallas high society. If you’re guilty once, you’re guilty forever. Mistakes are never forgotten, and definitely not forgiven.”

“According to Heather, who you say was Cindy’s one true friend, Cindy hadn’t had an extramarital affair in years.” Caity capped her green marker and sent Dutch an empathetic look. Like Spense, she seemed to wish she could rewrite history and posthumously turn Cindy into a faithful wife. “But here’s something I don’t get. Heather knew about all of Cindy’s past affairs. So if she had taken a new lover, how is it possible that Heather doesn’t know about that—­assuming it’s true? And even more confusing, Heather keeps pointing the finger at you, Dutch. In all the Dateline episodes I’ve ever watched, it’s always the victim’s best friend who guides police in the right direction. The best friend always knows.”

Dutch knit his brow. “Caitlin, it sounds like you’re saying you think I did it.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. What I’m saying is I think Heather Cambridge knows more than she’s letting on. She’s lying . . . to protect someone.”

Subject Unknown, Caity wrote in blue, and put two exclamation points by the label.

“If Cindy had a new lover and held true to her pattern,” she said, “he would be a married man. And thus, either the lover or the lover’s wife, would have the strongest motive of all, since that affair was ongoing.”

“Dutch, you really have no idea who that man might be?” Spense asked.

“I’m trying to think, but I just don’t know. Cindy spent most of her time with Heather, scheming to put Matt in the White House. I really don’t see how she had time for an affair unless it was with Heather herself.”

Caity and Spense exchanged glances.

Dutch shook his head. “I know my wife’s sexual tastes, and they don’t swing that direction.”

The marker bounced between Caity’s fingers. “Okay. We’ll have to trust your judgment on that one. Cindy’s lover was male. I’d like to move on to your list, now. Can we come up with some names of ­people who might have it in for you?”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “That list is long. We’d have to go back into the files and find everyone I’ve ever locked away. Narrowing that group down would be difficult to do in a short amount of time. It can be done, but not quickly. We’d have to find out who’s in prison, who’s dead, or out of the country, etc.”

“Technically, that may be true. But here’s where a profiler thinks differently than a field agent. We like to work by inclusion rather than by a process of elimination.” Spense wasn’t sure he was making himself clear.

“Not following.”

“Instead of ruling ­people out, we’ll try to rule them in. Let’s start by noting the characteristics of Cindy’s death. Brutal, designed to humiliate. Personal. This doesn’t seem likely to be revenge taken against you for locking someone away. For that, a person would’ve come after you directly. If this is aimed at you, it has to be by someone who cares more about making you suffer than about seeing you dead. Let’s include names of anyone like that.”

“Maybe Cindy was just an easier target.”

“At a fund-­raising ball, no one’s an easy target,” Caity contributed. “What about Tesarak? Sorry to bring it up, but you shot and killed the man. I can see a family member wanting you to know how it feels to lose someone you love.” She added Tesarak to the green column. “And according to the reports leaked to the press, Cindy was killed with a revolver, not a pistol. So this was probably someone with no military or police experience. That fits with a family member.”

Dutch nodded. “Cindy’s killer didn’t behave like a professional. I think we can lock down the idea that whoever killed her later wised up and hired someone with experience to get the diary and come after me. Spense became a target the moment he saw the Thresher’s face. Caitlin is probably just collateral damage. Or maybe the killer figured she knew too much . . .”

“About what?” Caity drew a big circle on the board between Cindy’s long blue column and Dutch’s short green one. “Where do your secrets intersect with hers?”

The silence ticked loud and hard in their ears.

“Sorry, but I don’t see any connection—­between Tesarak or my work at the Bureau and Cindy’s affairs.”

Neither did Spense. Though if there was one, that would blow this case wide open. “Okay, what else then? Which of Cindy’s paramours had the most to lose if word got out about the affair.”

“They were all powerful men, and wealthy, except of course for the tennis pro, and he’s got an airtight alibi—­otherwise known as a coffin.”

“Cindy told you she was going to meet the governor that night,” Caity said. “And you said she’d been spending all her time working on his campaign . . . but Matt Cambridge had a DPS security detail on him. He couldn’t possibly have killed Cindy, according to them. I wish we had the diary because then Cindy could talk to us, and if we listen well enough, she would very likely lead us to the truth.”

“But we don’t,” Spense said. They’d given the whiteboard a solid chance and come up with very little. “I think the only option we have left is good old-­fashioned police work, and yes I’m talking about shoe leather. I’ll start by setting up an interview with Georgia Keiser and Sue Ellen James—­the women scorned. Dutch, you hang out here in the basement and keep a low profile. Caity, would you care to join me in interrogating the Dallas housewives?”

“Of course, but first, I want to review the file Sheridan gave us when we did the walk-­through at Worthington Mansion. I think the statements from the governor’s security detail are in there, and I want to see them with my own eyes.”

“Why do I have to stay behind while you two take all the risks?” Dutch didn’t sound pleased.

“Because it’s a good chance for you to turn the house upside down looking for the diary again, but more importantly, Caity and I won’t get arrested just for showing our faces around town. Sheridan still has a BOLO out on you.”

“Point taken, but the monster behind the monster could strike at any time.” Dutch put an arm around each of them. “So please, be careful out there.”