My Lost Daughter (14 page)

“It was fantastic.”

“I was talking about my house.”

“The house is great, too,” Brooks said. “And the weather here is phenomenal. Do you know how cold it is in Texas right now? And we won't need air-conditioning in the summer. We'll shave several hundred bucks off our electric bill.”

“I asked you about my house, not the weather. You men are all the same. As soon as you get off, you become brain dead. Do you think Thelma and Rita will be happy here?”

“The house is super and the neighborhood seems safe. There's plenty of living space and an extra bedroom for the housekeeper. If they don't kill each other, everything should work out fine.”

Mary got up to go to the bathroom. They had flown in for the weekend to start looking at real estate. She jumped into the shower and then returned and stretched out beside him to put on her moisturizer. “I own this house outright, Brooks. Maybe we should
live here and rent a place for Thelma and Rita. You mentioned saving money. Housing is expensive in California. A house like this would sell for six hundred thousand dollars, and that's in a lousy housing market.”

Brooks propped several pillows behind his head. “Real estate is at an all-time low right now. We can steal a great house and use it as an investment.” He fell serious. “I thought we agreed that I was going to handle the finances.”

“I know,” Mary told him. “But we also talked about having a baby. If I stop working, we might have trouble making ends meet. A live-in housekeeper is expensive. I know women are having babies late in life today, but they say it's better for a woman to have a child before she's forty. Sperm gets old, too, and there's a greater chance that something might be wrong with the baby. You'll be forty in three years.”

“And you'll be forty in four. We'll have a kid by then.” He craned his head around to look in her eyes. “You don't want to get pregnant now, do you? I thought you weren't even a hundred percent sure you wanted children.”

Mary smiled. “I've changed my mind. Our genes are too good not to replicate.”

“Replicate?”

“My degree was in biochemistry, remember?”

Mary heard her cell phone ringing and reached over to snatch it off the nightstand. She carried another phone for personal calls, so she knew it was Bureau business. She hadn't told Adams or anyone else she was going away for the weekend. Brooks had flown commercial and Mary had hitched a ride on a navy jet headed to Port Hueneme, a city not far from Ventura. “Special Agent Stevens.”

“This is Agent Charles Pittman. We've never met but I'm presently assigned to the Ventura field office. From what I've heard, you're going to be my replacement.”

“How did you know I was in Ventura?”

“I didn't,” Pittman told her. “Did you come to get a feel for the area?”

“Not exactly. I have a home here. Before I joined the Bureau, I worked homicide at Ventura PD.”

“Great, then you're already ahead of the game. I was transferred from Portland so I started out with a blank slate. Anyway, the PD is presently working a possible homicide that I thought might interest you. You were mentioned as a contact person in the Bureau directive we received last night regarding suspicious homicides. The male victim was wearing a catheter so he may be a paraplegic. The directive stated that you were looking for homicides that might actually be suicides.”

Mary was pleased Adams had honored her request and sent out a directive. A paraplegic had a reason to kill himself, and her voice rose in excitement. “Was there a suicide note?”

“If there was, I doubt they'd be working it as a homicide.”

“How long ago was the body discovered?”

“The Ventura County Sheriff's Department arrived on the scene about an hour ago. The crime occurred in an area called the Rincon.”

“Has the coroner's office already picked up the body?”

“Not yet,” Pittman told her. “The sheriff tried to kiss it off to the PD. The body was found in a wooded area across from the beach. From what I understand, the SO and the PD spent the past hour arguing over which agency had jurisdiction.”

“I know the Rincon. It's county, so the SO has jurisdiction. Are you going to meet us at the crime scene?”

“My partner and I are busy finishing off the paperwork on our human trafficking case.”

Human trafficking, Mary thought, surprised. She might not have to claw the paint off the walls after all. “Thanks for the information,” she said, disconnecting.

When she turned around, Brooks had already thrown on a pair of slacks and was reaching for his shirt off the back of the chair. “You don't need to go with me, honey,” Mary told him. “Stay here and get some rest. The only reason I'm going is I think it might be related to the peculiar deaths I'm investigating.”

Brooks smiled. “I don't want to stay here by myself. Once we
take over the post here, there'll only be the two of us. We may not have a chance to work together that often. One of us will have to stay behind and cover the office.” His eyes feasted on her naked body. “I was thinking about having another go at you but I guess you better get out of your birthday suit. We'll be leaving in ten minutes.”

“We're not official yet,” Mary said. “No one in the Bureau even knows we're in Ventura.”

“Someone knows or they wouldn't have called you. What's the problem, anyway?” He tossed her jeans to her. “We're still FBI agents.”

In slightly less than ten minutes, they were speeding down the 101 Freeway toward Rincon Beach. She glanced out the passenger window, happy to be home again. “Look at the waves, Brooks, they're huge. Maybe we should learn to surf.”

“You learn to surf. I'm scared to death of the ocean.”

“But you know how to swim, don't you?”

“Not really,” he told her. “I grew up in Detroit. My childhood didn't include swimming pools. Mom used to hose us down in the summer. I was even afraid of that. I'm just spooked when it comes to water. Maybe I drowned in another lifetime.”

They stopped when they saw the string of police cars and emergency vehicles parked along the access road to the freeway. Mary was wearing her favorite red shirt. When she'd worked homicide in Ventura, she'd called it her “murder shirt.” She made a habit of wearing it when she responded to homicides. The color made it easier to find her in a crowd.

Brooks and Mary hung their FBI badges on strings around their necks, then started stopping people and asking them who was in charge. “Oh, that would be Sheriff Earl Mathis,” a young deputy told them, pointing to an area up the hill that was surrounded by officers. “He's up there where the body was found. He's a big man, so you won't have any trouble finding him.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Mary asked Brooks as they hiked up the hill.

“Who found the body, right?”

“The beach is on the other side of the highway. Like I said, I'm familiar with this area and there's nothing up here but trees and scrub brush. I can't think of anyone who'd want to go up there outside of the killer. Keep your eyes peeled. He could still be here, hiding among the officers.”

Mary saw a large man barking orders and assumed he was Sheriff Mathis. “I'm Special Agent Mary Stevens and this is Special Agent Brooks East.” She extended her hand and Mathis shook it, his grip so strong he almost crushed her fingers. “Can you tell us what happened here tonight, Sheriff?”

Mathis was a tall, heavyset man with a stomach that exploded over the top of his khaki-colored uniform pants. He reeked of cigarette smoke, and a pack of Marlboros was protruding from the pocket in his shirt. Tipping his cowboy hat back on his head, he scowled at them. “What're you feds doing up here?”

Mary cut her eyes to Brooks. Since she was the one who'd wanted to come, he shook his head to let her know he wasn't going to carry the ball for her. “Well, Sheriff Mathis, Agent East and I have been assigned to take over the Ventura field office. We're not settled in yet, but we thought it might be nice to meet some of the local law enforcement. I never thought we'd get to meet the actual sheriff, though.” She peered up at him and smiled sweetly. “We've heard so much about you, Sheriff Mathis. It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Bullshit,” he blurted out, his hands on his hips. “You FBI people sure know how to weasel your way into our business.” He tossed Mary a plastic bag containing the standard white jumpsuit, a paper hat, and a pair of booties. “Suit up and I'll let you take a look at the body. Then you can scoot on out and let us do our job.”

There was only one jumpsuit in the plastic bag. She moved several feet away and turned her back to the sheriff. Exchanging a tense glance with Brooks, she whispered, “Should I ask for another suit for you?”

“I wouldn't push it. Just wait and see what happens.”

They climbed up the hill through the dense scrub brush. Once they reached the area where the body was located, Mathis yelled out to his people. “Make some room, guys. The feds are in the mood to look at dead guys.”

The stench of rotting flesh permeated the air. Mosquitoes and flies swarmed around them. Mary looked for Brooks but he'd disappeared into the crowd of police officers. A portable spotlight illuminated the area. It appeared that the forensics team had just arrived as several of the techs were still changing into their white jumpsuits while the others were setting up a table to place the evidence on. She dropped down on her knees to get a better look at the body.

The victim, a white male, was facedown in the dirt with a large, gaping wound at the base of his neck, where the spinal cord was located. Ironic, she thought. If he was a paraplegic, an injury to his spinal cord was what had most likely caused his paralysis.

Mary pulled her camera out of her pocket and began snapping pictures. A heavyset man was taking samples from the body and she assumed he was one of the county's pathologists. “Have you established time of death yet?”

The man squinted at her before he saw her FBI badge dangling from her neck. “Best guess for now is he's been here at least a week. I pulled some well-developed insects from inside the wound.”

Mary knew a week could end up being far longer. “I heard he was wearing a catheter bag. Is that true?”

“Yes, I believe he was a paraplegic. His legs looked atrophied, but his arms are fairly muscular.” He paused and stared at her. “Anything I tell you is off the record, understand?”

“I understand,” Mary told him. “I'm an FBI agent, not a reporter.” She got up and went to find Sheriff Mathis.

“Who discovered the body?”

“Couple of local kids,” he said, coughing. “They climbed up here to shoot cars with their paint guns.”

“Did you find a vehicle?”

“Nope.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“Nope, unless the little buggers who found the body stole it. I shipped them off to juvie. I've got my deputies searching for the gun and spent casings, but so far, we haven't found anything. The terrain makes things difficult. We could scratch around up here for a month and end up with nothing more than a shitload of mosquito bites. As to the murder weapon, the killer either took it with him or walked across the street and tossed it into the ocean. Tomorrow, I'll get some men over there to see if it washed up on the beach. Something heavy like a gun usually sinks and we never see the damn thing again.”

Mary didn't want to tell him how important the murder weapon was to her investigation. If the killer was the same UNSUB she was looking for, she doubted if he'd left the gun at the scene, particularly since he had already used it to kill four other people.

Purchasing a weapon was risky for a multiple murderer. He more than likely bought it on the street or stole it. One of the things NRA members failed to realize was the fact that most crimes were committed with weapons people purchased to protect themselves.

When the medical examiner left to get a cup of coffee from a pot someone had set up inside a van, Mary found a pair of latex gloves in the pocket of her jumpsuit and slipped them on. The victim was wearing a lightweight tan jacket. She bent down and went through the pockets, but there was nothing there. Then she opened the front of the jumpsuit and reached into her jeans for her pocketknife. She looked around to make certain no one was watching and quickly slit the seams in the victim's jacket, reaching inside and pulling out a folded-over piece of paper. The paper was flimsy so rather than take a chance of ripping it, she unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it inside her red blouse.

Mary had learned about opening the seams of clothing from her grandmother, who used to sew her jewelry and other valuables inside old coats she bought from the Salvation Army. When she passed away, the family had no idea where her valuables were until
the funeral home called and told them they'd found a diamond ring sewn inside the seam of the coat she'd been wearing when she dropped dead from a fatal heart attack.

Through the years, Mary had found that any and all orifices were potential hiding places. A homeless woman had died and when she was examined at the morgue, they found hundreds of dollar bills stuffed inside pockets of skin she had carved into her body.

“What happened to you?” Mary found Brooks leaning against the car and staring out at the ocean.

“The smell,” Brooks said. “I haven't handled a lot of homicides. I usually bring some camphor with me. I don't even have a handkerchief. Besides, the mosquitoes were eating me alive.”

“Wait a minute,” she joked. “You can't swim and you can't tolerate the smell of dead bodies. Maybe I should be the SAC instead of you?”

“I have seniority,” he said, playfully swatting her ass. “Did you find anything worthwhile?”

“I'd rather talk inside the car.”

Mary slid into the passenger seat, turning on the interior lights and carefully unfolding the paper she had stashed inside her blouse. “It's a will,” she said, scanning the handwritten document. “I can't read the sentences where the crease was, but it's dated January eighth. That's only a week ago. The signature is James C. Washburn and it's been notarized. Washburn left everything he owned to his wife and children. This is a codicil to a will he made ten years ago.”