Chapter Thirteen

Dayne shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting impatiently for Paulson to pull up the video of Kelso Donnelly’s interview. As much as he’d wanted to be the one to grill Donnelly’s ass, he couldn’t be in two places at the same time. Besides, he had enough to deal with as it was.

When they’d left the castle earlier, he could swear someone was out there. Remy hadn’t alerted, and he didn’t see a thing. It was just a feeling, one that hadn’t gone away then and didn’t now. Then, outside the funeral home, he’d been hit with the same sensation.

They were being watched.

And that damned rose. No matter how much Kat didn’t want to believe him, his gut told him it was Manny. Still, he needed more than just a gut feeling to justify filing a formal complaint, let alone slapping an order of protection on the guy.

He stole a glance at the adjacent office where she sat behind a spare desk, talking on her cell phone. He’d seen women in black suits before, but black had never looked so good. The way that slim skirt and snug little jacket hugged her curves… Hell, the woman could make a burlap sack look like high fashion.

Paulson’s monitor flickered as the video finished loading. State troopers had reacted swiftly to the nationwide BOLO on Donnelly and pulled the man in for questioning. The Newark FBI SAC office sent their two best interviewers, Diaz and Caldwell, to assist with the interrogation. That had been two hours ago.

While the interview was in progress, he and Kat had grabbed some chow at a nearby deli. While they ate, he ran a cursory check on Manny, whose name turned out to be Emanuel Gomes. No criminal record. By the end of the meal, Kat had taken no fewer than five phone calls, including making one to Emily, during which they’d reviewed several charity grant proposals. Until that moment, he’d assumed Emily did all the heavy lifting. Man, was he wrong. Being the caretaker of so much money was, apparently, a full-time job.

Paulson’s monitor filled with the interior of a holding cell. A significantly slimmer Kelso Donnelly sat in a chair, with Agents Diaz and Caldwell sitting opposite him.

“For the record,” Agent Diaz said, “the time is one p.m. Present are FBI Special Agents Thomas Diaz and Daniel Caldwell, interviewing Kelso Donnelly at the New Jersey State Police Barracks in Moorestown, New Jersey.” Tommy Diaz paused then looked at Donnelly. “Where were you this past Tuesday?”

The day Becca was killed, according to the county medical examiner’s preliminary report.

Donnelly yawned, as if he didn’t have a freaking care in the world. “Driving cross country from the west coast.”

“What was your destination?”

“New York.”

Dayne sat on the edge of Paulson’s desk.

“Where in New York?”

“Tappan.”

“Specifically, where in Tappan?”

“FBI Special Agent Rebecca Garman’s office.” The grin Donnelly made was more of a sneer, his lip curling back and revealing teeth yellowed from years of chewing tobacco.

“Why did you want to see Special Agent Garman?”

Dayne knew the answer before Donnelly said a word.

“To kill her.” He spat on the floor at Diaz’s feet.

No way. This is too easy.

“Did you? Kill her?”

“Fuck, no.” Donnelly’s eyes narrowed to angry slits, and the sneer on his face now was one of pure rage. “Some asshole beat me to it.”

“So you didn’t kill Rebecca Garman?”

Donnelly held out his arms. “Haven’t you idiots heard a goddamn word I’ve been saying? No! I didn’t kill her. But I wish to fuck I had. The bitch deserved to die.”

“Can you prove where you were all day this past Tuesday?”

“How did she die? Was it painful?” Donnelly’s sneering grin returned. “I hope so.”

Dayne fisted his hands. It was probably a good thing, after all, that he hadn’t been in that cell interrogating the guy.

“Again,” Diaz said, “can you prove where you were on Tuesday?”

Dayne had already heard from the troopers that Donnelly didn’t have an EZPass transmitter on his vehicle, so they couldn’t track him that way.

“I don’t know. Somewhere between California and New York.”

“Did you stop anywhere? A motel, gas station, or a convenience store?” Caldwell asked. “Got any receipts?”

“I’m not under arrest, so why should I tell you anything?”

“Because,” Caldwell countered, “if you don’t talk to us, and you can’t provide an alibi, we can hold you for twenty-four hours. Who knows what other reasons we can drum up to keep you longer? I’m sure you haven’t been a saint since you were released last week.”

A flicker of fear flashed in Donnelly’s eyes. The man had something to hide, but Dayne didn’t think he killed Becca.

Donnelly shifted in the chair then tugged a wallet from his rear pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper that he tossed to Caldwell. The agent unfolded the paper, reading out loud for the video recording. “This is a receipt for the Red Pump Inn in Missouri. It says you arrived last Tuesday night and checked out Wednesday morning.”

Donnelly nodded. “That sounds about right.”

Which meant there was no way he could have been in Tappan Tuesday afternoon. Stabbing Becca to death.

“We’ll check it out.”

The agents left the room, but the video remained on. Dayne and Paulson watched Donnelly picking dirt from under his nails. Ten minutes more into the video, and Donnelly stared directly at the camera then flipped the bird, mouthing the words “Fuck you.”

“He’s some piece of work,” Paulson said in a disgusted tone.

“Yeah.” More like, piece of shit.

When his phone vibrated, Dayne set down his coffee cup to take the call.

“Dayne, it’s Tommy Diaz.” He quickly recognized the other agent’s voice. “We sent two agents to the Red Pump Inn in Missouri. Not only did they confirm the receipt, but they also sent us the photocopy of Donnelly’s expired driver license. He used that as ID when he checked in. They also pulled the hotel’s video. Donnelly checked in Tuesday night around seven p.m. and left Wednesday morning about eight thirty. Looks like his alibi checks out.”

He exhaled a frustrated breath. “You sure it’s him in the video?”

“Yeah. The video system at the inn was brand spanking new. The images couldn’t be any clearer.”

“Any chance he could have snuck out a side or back door, then caught a plane to New York?”

“I don’t see how,” Tommy said. “Our guys reviewed footage from cameras at all the exits and they didn’t see him leaving until Wednesday morning.”

“Thanks, Tommy.” He ended the call then gave Paulson the bad news. “Donnelly was in Missouri Tuesday night through Wednesday morning. It’s not him.” He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Donnelly made no bones about wanting revenge against Becca. They had a history. But assuming Becca and Amy’s murders were committed by the same person, he couldn’t come up with a single reason why Donnelly would have needed to go to the Canine Haven or kill the Haven’s manager.

So far, they were ass-deep in nowhere-land. Except for his witness. Kat.

While he wouldn’t put her protection in anyone else’s hands, part of him itched for a more proactive role in the investigation. He texted one of the agents from his office who’d been reviewing Becca’s case files. A minute later, Special Agent Bart Danchuk came into the detectives’ squad room, holding a yellow pad.

Danchuk was still as skinny as Dayne remembered from their Quantico days, and his hair was still as orange as a pumpkin. The only thing new was the cheaters perched on top of his head.

After making quick introductions to Paulson, Dayne glanced at the pad in Bart’s hand. “What’ve you got?”

“For a PI in business just over a year, Becca had a lot of case files, and I do mean a lot.” He slid the cheaters onto his nose and focused on his notes. “We’ve still got five full boxes to go through. Philandering spouses, adopted people searching for their birth mothers, phony insurance claims. Nothing jumps out.”

“Which of those cases was she actively working?” Now that they’d eliminated Donnelly and his long sought-after revenge, maybe one of her current cases was connected to her death.

“Actually, she was only working one case, but there were multiple targets. An insurance fraud investigation. About three months ago, she scored a big contract with an insurance company. According to the contract, Becca was hired to investigate drivers intentionally causing accidents then faking injuries and threatening to file lawsuits. One of the company auditors figured out the number of these cases far exceeded what was normal for the industry.”

“So,” Dayne concluded, “in an effort to avoid drawn-out court battles and exorbitant legal fees, the company had been settling out of court and finally got sick and tired of having their bank account sucked dry.”

“Yep,” Bart confirmed.

“Was Becca successful in finding anyone committing insurance fraud?”

“She was.” Bart tapped the pad with his pen. “Last month two individuals were arrested, along with a doctor who was signing off on phony diagnoses. Turns out the driver of the offending vehicle and the injured driver he slammed into from behind were actually cousins who were going to split the settlement. They had different last names, and it was Becca’s surveillance photos that pounded the nail into their coffins. She actually caught them in a bar, celebrating.”

Dayne swallowed another sip of muddy coffee. “How much would that settlement have been?”

“Half a million.”

Paulson whistled. “I can think of a lot of people who’d do a lot of bad things for half a mil.”

“Where are the two people who got arrested?” Dayne asked. “Chances are they wouldn’t have gotten jail time, so they’re probably out on probation.” And could have paid Becca a visit.

“Already on it,” Bart said. “I sent the names to ASAC Barstow, and she’s sending another team to interview them.”

“Good.” Dayne appreciated that Bart was on the ball. “How many other cases like this was she actively working?”

Bart flipped a page. “Seven with the same MO, but there could be eight.”

Something about the way Bart tapped the pad faster with his pen caught his attention. “Could be?”

“Becca’s file-keeping system was impeccable. Since she got her license, she worked a total of fifty-seven cases. She numbered every file folder sequentially and kept an inventory sheet with case numbers, along with the open and closure dates of each case.”

Dayne beat Bart to the punch. “One of the case files is missing.”

“Yep.”

“Does the inventory list any subject names for each case number?”

“Negative.” Bart shook his head.

He took another drag of coffee. “Becca’s husband said she never took work files home. So, in addition to the laptop and camera, now there’s a missing file.” He tucked that tidbit of information away in the back of his mind. They had no way of knowing if the missing file was relevant, but sometimes key evidence could materialize from otherwise seemingly inconsequential bits of information. “Okay. Thanks, Bart. Let me know if you find anything else.”

“Will do.”

When Bart had left the squad room, Paulson pulled up his email. “The ME’s final report is in. So are most of the lab reports for both crime scenes.” He printed out two copies of everything, handing one set to Dayne.

“Time of death,” Paulson read aloud, “estimated to be between four p.m. and midnight, Tuesday, March twenty-eighth. Cause of death…”

Before Paulson finished the sentence, the contents of Dayne’s stomach gave a vicious roll. Not that there’d been any doubt as to the COD, but still.

“…severe lacerative trauma to all major internal organs. Specifically, forty-seven stab wounds. Probable weapon was a smooth-edged blade, approximately five inches in length and two inches in diameter.”

They both read on in silence.

Many of the wounds on Becca’s back contained carpet fibers, indicating they’d been inflicted when she was lying on her back on the office floor. Meaning, the fucker kept stabbing her when she was already down.

Many of the wounds were nonlethal, but there were so many to her heart and lungs the organs were all but hacked to pieces. Her neck had been stabbed so many times and with such brutal force, her head had practically been severed from her body.

He’d seen a lot of bodies in his career, but reading such a gory report on someone he knew was enough to make his lunch launch right out of his throat. To prevent that from happening, he dragged in several deep breaths.

The rest of the ME’s findings on Becca and Amy were as expected. Blood toxicology for both was negative for alcohol, methamphetamines, marijuana, and traces of any other illegal substance. Amy’s COD was strangulation. Bruises in the shape of fingers confirmed the killer had used his hands. The lab reports were easier to stomach. Unfortunately, they provided very few, if any, leads.

The only blood in Becca’s office was her own. As expected, the place was covered with fingerprints, including Becca’s and a few of her clients who had minor criminal records. Nothing that spiked high on his would-be-homicide list, but it was worth following up on. All the other prints came back “not on file” and could belong to anyone. The postal carrier, the cleaning service Becca used, her husband, just to name a few. Process of elimination would take a while, but they’d be thorough just the same. Not having prints on file didn’t mean a person wasn’t capable of committing murder. They were better off using their time following up on a possible motive.

One that was, for the moment, elusive.

“DNA results were negative.” Paulson took a slug of coffee. “No one else’s DNA was present on Katrina Vandenburg or Amy Thorpe’s neck, or on the swabs from your dog’s mouth. And before you ask, CCU called me this morning. They only just got into the cell phone. It was encrypted and took a while. They’ll keep me posted on what they find.”

“What about this footprint in the mud outside the Canine Haven?” Dayne asked, flipping to the next page. Unless the killer wore shoes with unique tread or had an abnormally large or small shoe size, that wouldn’t give them much to go on.

Paulson set his mug down. “One decent imprint, approximately size ten, nothing unique about the tread.”

“Any hits on facial recognition?” Dayne folded the report and stuck it in his suit jacket pocket.

Paulson scrolled through his emails. “Here it is.”

Dayne began pacing in front of the detective’s desk. They couldn’t be so lucky as to actually get a hit from Kat’s sketch.

Paulson grunted. “No positive hits. Over a thousand people in New York and New Jersey DMV made the ‘possible’ list.”

“Great. Another dead end.” As expected, the killer’s features were too generic.

“Someone else is dead?” Kat stood in the doorway, her lips parted and her eyes brimming with shock and disbelief.

“No,” he reassured her. The need to put her fears to rest was a fierce instinct burning inside him. “A dead end. We didn’t get any database hits on your sketch.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “So the sketch was worthless?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly, but we were hoping to get a lucky break.” So they could put this nameless fucker behind bars where he belonged.

“We’d better go.” Paulson stood and slipped on his jacket but then sat again, staring at his screen. He clicked the mouse and frowned.

“What is it?” The serious expression on Paulson’s face put Dayne’s instincts on high alert.

“CCU sent over the call log from Rebecca’s phone.”

“Print it.” Dayne was already heading to the credenza. When the sheets printed, he grabbed them and went down the list of incoming and outgoing calls. He stared at the last line item on the third and final page. Date: Tuesday. The day she was killed. Duration of incoming call: three minutes. Time: 3:50 p.m. According to the ME’s report, that was shortly before the time frame in which Becca was murdered.

Mobile number… “No Caller ID.” Dammit.

“More dead ends,” Paulson said, voicing Dayne’s thoughts.

Or is it? His pulse ratcheted up. A symbol next to the blocked call data caught his attention—a green check mark with an eyeball. An app symbol.

He’d seen that symbol before. Not that he could recall the name of the app, but he was familiar with how it functioned. “Did CCU send over the list of apps on the phone?”

Paulson shook his head. “We didn’t ask for that.”

“Get it.” Dayne’s mind raced. “Tell them to dump all data—especially call lists—from any apps on the phone.”

When Kat touched his arm, tingles pricked his skin. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe.” No sense getting overly optimistic. “Becca has an app installed on her phone that behaves similarly to a pen register or a trap ’n’ trace device.”

“What’s a trap ’n’ trace?” Kat frowned.

“A court-ordered device that captures all incoming electrical pulses. In this case, a phone number. Even if the caller blocks their number, the app captures it in a separate log. Someone blocking their number called Becca just before four p.m. on the day she was murdered. We need to find that person. Whoever that caller was, he or she could have been the last person Becca ever spoke with.”

And, possibly, her killer.