Breath of Malice (9 page)

The first thing that struck Paige was that Janet Glaxton Lambert was fully clothed—right down to her designer sling-back sandals.

Paige cataloged other characteristics, like the deceased woman’s toned figure; her age—roughly early fifties; that she was lying on her side—by chance or design would be determined; and that Janet Glaxton Lambert was a redhead.

Paige hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it whooshed out. Not Thames.
Not Thames.

Then she saw it—a postcard by the body.

Sam claimed a spot over the body beside Paige. His meeting with Harmon had been short. He didn’t have time to turn this into a pissing contest over jurisdiction. A woman had lost her life.

The photographers were packing up their gear. The crime scene agents had moved in. Sam knew these agents and left his ID on his belt. “Bob,” Sam said to one, “what can you tell us?”

Bob squinted at Sam over the blue lenses of rimless glasses. “Hey, Sam. Pending autopsy, so far it looks like cause of death was a cervical fracture.”

A broken neck, Sam thought.

“We won’t know how many of the vertebrae were broken until we get her on the table,” Bob added. “I’d loosely peg time of death between five and ten hours ago.”

“Could a fall or another accident have caused the fracture?”

Bob shook his head. “No way. The bruising on her neck indicates she was grabbed, and grabbed hard. Someone did this to her.”

“Walk us through what else we know so far,” Sam said.

Bob crouched over the body and began to point with his gloved hand. Nicotine stains on his fingers showed through the transparent gloves. “She was found like this, on her side. Fully dressed as you can see, right down to her shoes. And she’s wearing those.” He made a gesture with his hand. “What do you call ’em? Those shoes women wear that don’t have any straps or anything but that stay on their feet anyway?”

“I call them strapless sandals.” Jill, the woman on their team, volunteered the information without looking up from bagging something so small Sam couldn’t see it and that had been retrieved with tweezers.

Bob raised an arm in a wave. “Thank you, Jill, we’ll go with that. Hell, the woman is still wearing makeup—all that jazz. Even her hair is undisturbed. Not a strand out of place.”

Sam said, “The police chief told me the woman was identified from the personal effects. They were left with the body.”

Bob held up a clear plastic bag. “Our unknown subject left her purse with her wallet and all her IDs inside, including credit cards. There’s about a grand in cash in her wallet and”—Bob touched the tip of his index finger to the woman’s hand—“a rock on her ring finger that goes almost all the way to her first knuckle.”

“Not a mugging, then.”

“We’ll need a closer look, of course, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and tell you what I think: The woman died of a broken neck. Looks like the unsub snapped it.” Bob gestured, twisting both hands lightning fast. “My impression? She was killed right where she stood. Our guy came up behind her, did the deed, then just dropped her where he found her.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

Bob waved.

Sam turned away, but Paige held her ground.

“What about the postcard?” Paige asked.

Sam faced Paige. Her features and voice were strained.

Paige asked her next question on the heels of the first. “Where did you find it exactly?”

Sam’s gaze sharpened on her.

Jill held up the now bagged postcard. Sam saw there was a photo of the South Carolina state map on one side, and on the other side there was the typical blank space for a note and the address. Nothing had been written.

“I didn’t move it until the photos were taken. It was near the body.” Jill pointed to a spot by the woman’s head. “Don’t know where it came from at this point. Could have just blown here.”

Sam was thinking the same. There was a lot of garbage blowing around after the weekend that would further contaminate the area. “Paige? Something?”

“No.” She shook her head once quickly, then wrapped her arms around herself and stepped away from the body.

“You sure?” Sam prodded.

Paige shook her head again, and Sam stepped away as well. But he stopped. His gaze returned to the spot where Janet Glaxton Lambert had been alive one moment, if Bob’s theory was correct, and dead the next. “The park is heavily populated on weekends. Any trash found at the scene could have come from anyone who was here.” Sam was thinking out loud. “A crime of opportunity? The ground is hard. We won’t get any shoe prints. The earth around the body shows no sign of having been disturbed at all.”

Sam stared without blinking, committing what he was seeing to memory. “We’ll soon know if any hair or fibers were found at the scene. Though why kill a woman for a zero payoff? No cash. No rape. There has to be a motive. Gratification from a quick kill?” Sam shook his head. “Janet Glaxton Lambert’s brother is a sitting senator. We can’t rule out that her murder could be politically motivated. Harmon said the body was found by a guy on a bike on his way home from his girlfriend’s. The guy’s shaken and still with paramedics. Let’s see what he can tell us.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Paige hadn’t spoken another word since she’d asked about the postcard. Sam reminded himself that she was not an experienced agent, but he didn’t think the sight of the body had thrown her. As far as dead bodies went, Paige had seen others in far worse condition during the Thames investigation. He didn’t think whatever was on her mind had anything to do with the way they’d left things between them. No, this was something else. Now, though, wasn’t the time to ask her about it. Now, they had a witness to interview.

An ambulance was parked on the grass. A man with a shaved head and a hoop earring sat on the tailgate with an oxygen mask over his face and his head between his knees. A bike was propped against a picnic table nearby. The front tire was flat. The chrome rim bent and twisted. A puddle a short distance away, made up of what looked to have been the man’s dinner, was soaking into the grass. The man’s head darted up at Sam and Paige’s approach.

“Easy, Mr. Holt,” the medic said. “You don’t want to come up too fast. Remember what happened the last time.”

Sam showed his ID. “Mr. Holt, we’re Agents McKade and Carson. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Holt had bulging green eyes that stood out against his now too-pale face. He lowered the oxygen mask, gripping it in a white-knuckled fist. “I already told the cops.” Holt swallowed once, then again. “About what I saw.”

Sam returned his ID to his belt. “We’d appreciate you telling us as well.”

Holt went another shade of white but nodded. He raised one shoulder. The T-shirt he wore slipped a little, revealing the tip of what looked to be a tattoo of a shark. “Not much to tell. I was coming from my girlfriend’s, decided to cut through the park to save some time and get home to catch a bit of extra sleep before work in the morning. I got on this trail, and there she was. She was layin’ on her side. I thought she was asleep. I said, ‘Hey, lady.’ When she didn’t answer, I got off my bike and touched her.” Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, God. She was dead.”

“What time was this?” Sam asked.

The same shoulder rose, then fell. “After eleven. The nightly news was just starting when I left Rebecca’s apartment.”

“Rebecca?”

“Tannen. My girlfriend.” The medic handed Holt a towel, and Holt used it to wipe his eyes. “She lives over at the Crossdale Apartments.”

“You said you thought the woman was asleep on the ground?”

“Yeah. Like I said, she was just layin’ there. On her side.”

“Anyone else around at that time?”

“No. Just me and the woman.”

“What happened to the bike?” Sam pointed to the blown tire.

Holt’s mouth shook. “I didn’t see the woman at first, and when I did, it was too late to stop. I ran into a tree.”

“How’d you hurt your leg?” This time, Sam pointed to the thick gash on Holt’s shin, oozing blood, that the medic was cleaning.

“After I touched the woman and realized she wasn’t breathing, I backed way off. I tripped over my bike, sliced my leg open on a sharp piece of the broken metal.”

“Where’d you touch her?”

“Her hand, man. I touched her cold hand.”

“Anywhere else?”

The man wagged his head from side to side like a pendulum. “Isn’t that enough?”

Sam noted Holt’s contact information and Rebecca Tannen’s, too. “We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”

Paige neared Holt. Her gaze became avid. “Were you carrying a postcard with you, Mr. Holt?”

“What? A postcard? No.”

Again with the postcard. Sam took Paige’s arm lightly and led her from Holt. When they were alone, Sam eyed Paige. “Why the interest in the postcard?”

Paige cupped her elbows. “I’m trying to establish an origin for it so we can rule out its significance.”

It was base-covering work, and it made sense that she would want that. They needed to run Holt’s information and eliminate him as a suspect. But was that all there was to her interest? They had one more stop to make, then Sam would find out for sure.

Sam looked back to where the other agents were working. The crime scene unit was still bent over the body. “Nothing more we can do here. I need to call the deputy director with an update, then we’ll go speak with Janet Lambert’s husband.”

Sam drove them to the Lambert house, set on a stately property that overlooked Caledon’s town center. The house looked like a replica of Tara, and Sam could see it long before they reached it. All the lights inside and outside were on. Not surprising. Sam didn’t imagine Hugh Lambert would be sleeping tonight.

Sam spotted the news crews, but a fence around the land and private security people ensured that the media remained on public property. Arriving in Sam’s truck and dressed as they were, they didn’t look like federal agents or anyone worth photographing, and Sam was able to get to the gate without attracting any media attention.

At the front door, Sam showed his ID, and a housekeeper whose eyes were swollen from crying ushered them inside.

“Mr. Lambert is in his den. Right this way,” the woman said.

“Thank you.”

The housekeeper opened the door to the den and announced them, then left. Two men were in the room. Lambert had a mane of silver hair and refined features. He was standing at an unlit fireplace with a glass of what looked like scotch pressed to his lips.

Sam entered the room. “Mr. Lambert, I’m sorry to be meeting again under these circumstances.”

“Agent McKade.” Lambert’s grip on his glass tightened. “I just got off the phone with my brother-in-law. He heard from your deputy director. Tell me you have a lead on the bastard who killed Janet.”

“We’re working on that,” Sam said. “Mr. Lambert, this is Agent Carson.” Paige mumbled a response, but it was clear to Sam that she was distracted. Sam’s concern and his determination to find out why heightened. Turning back to Lambert for the moment, Sam said, “We’d like to speak with you in private.”

Lambert appeared to be studying the contents of his glass as if they contained the secrets to the universe. “This is Don Fulton, my attorney and friend. Anything we discuss may be disclosed in Don’s presence.”

Fulton, a man who, like Lambert, appeared to be in his late fifties, broke away from Lambert and shook hands with Sam. “Agent McKade.”

Sam shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Fulton.”

Fulton shook hands with Paige, though Sam saw she barely spared the man a glance. Sam returned his attention to Lambert. “Was Mrs. Lambert in the habit of going to Kirk County Park in the evening?”

Lambert bowed his head. “Regardless of the weather, she said she preferred to walk off her dinner. We have a full gymnasium designed to her specifications, and yet she insisted on obtaining her evening exercise in the park.”

“Anyone go with her?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did she mention meeting anyone there? Another walker?”

Lambert began to pace the considerable length of the hearth. “To my knowledge, Janet did not have anyone she walked with at the park.”

“Who knew of Mrs. Lambert’s evening ritual?”

“I have no way of knowing who she may have mentioned that to. Certainly our staff knew.”

“We’ll need a list of your staff members’ names. I’ll also need a list of your friends and acquaintances, along with Mrs. Lambert’s. How long did Mrs. Lambert typically spend in the park?”

“I couldn’t say with any accuracy.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m often attending business meetings or functions in the evening. Oftentimes, they run quite late. Janet was always at home by the time I came in.”

“What time did you come in last night?” Sam asked.

“This morning, actually. Not long ago at all. Sometime after midnight. That’s when I discovered that Janet wasn’t at home. I called her cell phone, and it went straight to voicemail. I was about to wake the staff to ask if they knew Janet’s whereabouts, but before I could, I received a call from Police Chief Harmon.”

Lambert’s voice faded, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Fulton gave Lambert a pat on the shoulder.

“Where was your meeting last night?” Sam asked.

Lambert rubbed his eyes. “My assistant can provide you with all the details.”

Sam saw there was nothing more Lambert could tell him at this time and took out a business card. “Mr. Lambert, call my office with that information and with the names of your staff, friends, and acquaintances. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Paige left the Lambert house and stepped onto the porch. Despite the warm night, she was shivering. Her mind was reeling. Unlike the postcards she’d received, the one found with Janet Lambert’s body was not an image of the Adirondack Mountains but of South Carolina. Kirk County Park was busy on weekends, and not everyone who visited would be local. Some could be tourists or visitors from other counties, other states, maybe spending time with relatives from Kirk. Anyone visiting could have bought and then dropped a postcard. It was possible that it was then carried by the wind or pedestrian traffic to Lambert’s crime scene.

Paige knew all of that, yet her insides were screaming. A postcard. Coincidence? Or had Thames’s left another clue for law enforcement that could never be used against him? No, not law enforcement, Paige specifically, since she was the one he’d been sending postcards to. Had he wanted to be sure that Paige recognized he was responsible for Lambert’s death? Her mind buzzed with theories.

Inside the truck, Sam’s cell phone rang. He activated the truck’s speaker and took the call as he drove down the Lamberts’ driveway.

“McKade,” Sam said.

It was the deputy director. As Sam spoke with the director, Paige paid no attention to their conversation.

At the entrance to the estate, there were more camera crews than there had been when they’d arrived at the Lambert house. A few, maybe alerted now that she and Sam had been admitted into the house, ran toward Sam’s truck, but she and Sam were still cloaked in darkness, hidden from view, though not for much longer. It was almost dawn. Paige peered out at the predawn sky, terrified of what the new day would bring and her inability to stop whatever she feared was coming.

While she’d been lost in her thoughts, Sam had turned onto the road that took them to the office. Protesters were walking in a circle beneath the streetlights across from the Bureau building. One person stood apart from the gathering, filming the others. Paige went still, remembering how the activist, Dr. Prudence, had called on people to protest the injustice the FBI perpetrated on Thames. Paige could hear them through the closed window, above the hum of the air-conditioning.

“Thames. Thames. Thames.”

Sam ended his call. He cut a glance to Paige. “I want to know about your interest in the postcard.”

“Thames. Thames. Thames.”

Paige didn’t respond. The chanting became a buzzing in her ears. The activists weren’t here because she was here. They were protesting the Bureau, not her. But did that matter? Not if Thames had found her. The postcard. The media. The activists. It was all too much. Her breathing picked up. She could hear each rapid inhale and exhale.

“Paige!”

Sam sounded alarmed. He must have heard her distress, because rather than continuing into the office parking lot, he reversed the truck and took a different road.

Paige’s stomach balked. She leaned forward as far as the seat belt would allow. “I’m going to be sick.”

Sam stopped on the gravel by the roadside. Paige released the seat belt and jerked the door handle at the same time. She stumbled onto the road, then dropped to her hands and knees, retching.

Sam came up behind her. He put one large hand on the back of her head and wrapped his other arm around her waist, taking her weight. There was nothing in her stomach. Her nerves had been too tight to eat anything following Sam’s call about Janet Lambert. Only bile came up, and afterward, she shook with dry heaves. Finally, she was spent. If not for Sam’s arm around her, she would have landed face first on the road.

“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice sounded as weak as the rest of her.

“The hell you are,” Sam said. “More bad fish?”

Clearly, he hadn’t believed her excuse the first time she’d gone off to empty her stomach. There was anger and frustration in his tone, but overriding both was concern. She knew how to deal with anger, but his concern terrified her—terrified her because of how much it was coming to mean to her and because the more he cared, the more he would push to find out what she wasn’t telling him.