As Jack took a quick and skidding turn into the subdivision, he started to instantly scan the mailboxes for the address.

  “Five houses up,” Rachel said.

  “I have the guys at the bureau keeping an eye on the car through OnStar,” Jack said. “If he’d moved while we were on the way, we’d know. So the bastard is still here.”

  Just as they pulled up to the curb alongside Mowry’s house, Jack’s phone buzzed. Rachel looked down and saw that a text had come through—a text that came at just the right time in a sort of cosmic synchronicity. It was the young woman from Williams and Meyers, sending Stephen Dean’s license plate number.

  As soon as she read it over, Rachel looked at the pristine concrete driveway of Sharon Mowry’s house, leading to a closed two-car garage. There was only one car in the driveway. It was a relatively new Honda Pilot and the license plate matched the one from the text that had just come through to Jack’s phone.

  “That’s him,” Rachel said.

  Jack shifted into park and they both got out together, a well-oiled machine with the possibility of ending this bizarre case right at their fingertips. As they made their way by the Pilot, Rachel took a moment to look inside.

  “Oh my God. Jack…look at this.”

  He was already a few steps ahead of her, heading for the house. He stopped, pivoted back, and looked inside the car as well.

  A tarp had been meticulously folded and laid down in the back seat and on the floor behind the front seats. This had been done to protect the seats from the numerous boards sitting in the back of the car. The wood was cut at different lengths, most if it barely able to fit inside the space.

  They looked away at the same moment, their eyes locking on one another. The flurry of excitement that spread through Rachel had nothing to do with the strange little romance that they were both keeping stomped down; this time, it was purely related to the case. Everything matched up…the cut pieces of wood in the back of the Pilot serving as the proverbial nail in the coffin.

  As they took the stairs to the porch, Rachel drew her Glock. Jack did the same. He approached the door and, figuring it was worth a try, gave the knob a turned. It was, unsurprisingly, locked.

  “Kick it in?” Jack asked.

  She appreciated that he often looked to her to make decisions like these, but she felt the pressure of this one more than she usually did. Something told her that kicking the door down might be a bit impulsive— until they checked the rest of the house. It was just something her instincts insisted upon. She didn’t understand it in the moment, but knew there was no time to overthink it.

  She shook her head and made her way to the side yard, where a wooden fence came off of the side of the house. It separated the house from its neighbor—which had a similar fence up—and provided access to the backyard in the form of a beautiful wooden door. It was the sort of thing that might have looked perfectly in place in Alice in Wonderland in a garden of some kind.

  The door was not only unlocked but had been opened by about three inches. Rachel pushed it open and stayed back as Jack advanced inside with his gun still drawn. They filed into the backyard, one right behind the other, and came to a set of wooden stairs that led up to a back porch. It was quite large and looked like it had been recently stained. They hurried up the stairs with quiet, practiced footsteps and came to the back door.

  It was Rachel that tried the door this time and she found that it turned without issue in her hand. She slowly pushed the door open and instantly looked around the frame and edges of the door itself for any signs of forced entry. She saw none and then gave Jack the nod to go inside. He did and she followed directly behind him. They entered in through a tidy kitchen that still smelled strongly of the morning batch of coffee. The house was built with an open floor plan design, allowing them to see straight into the living room from the kitchen. No one was there and there were no signs of a struggle. Rachel was walking in that direction when a noise sounded from their right—something thudding, sort of skidding. It made Rachel think of something being pushed against a wood floor, maybe furniture.

  This was followed by a woman’s muffled voice saying, “No…please…”

  Without a word or even a glance shared between them, they walked out of the kitchen and found a wide hallway that fed off of the living room. There were three rooms in this hall, one to either side and one at the end. Only the door at the end was opened; it was just a few inches, but it became quite clear that’s where the noise was coming from.

  A woman, in distress, and the sound of a scuffle. They traipsed down the hallway, faster now but not quite at a run. And they were so on fire with the idea of knocking this case out that Rachel didn’t even think about what else they might find on the other side of the door—what other activity all of that noise sounded like.

  It did dawn on her, though, as Jack hurried forward and pushed the door open quickly. Though Jack was standing in front of her, she was able to see that this second thought was indeed what was taking place.

  A man had a woman propped up with her backside on a large, oak dresser. Her sun dress was hiked up and his pants were down. They were extremely close together and, though they’d been caught, neither made any real move to cover themselves for a few seconds. Shock, Rachel supposed.

  “What the hell?” the man finally said. He finally withdrew himself from the woman and turned around to pull his pants up.

  Rachel was impressed at how Jack was able to remain professional. She knew him well enough to know that there had to be at least a hundred different one-liners ready in his head for a situation such as this.

  “Apologies,” he said. “We’re FBI agents working on a case that led us to this house. And when we came in through the back, we heard what, to be fair, did sound like cries of distress and a skirmish of some kind.”

  “Distress?” the man barked.

  The woman, meanwhile, was starting to look mortified. She’d slid down from the dresser and was straightening her cute little sun dress. She looked at Jack and Rachel for only a moment before deciding to fix her eyes on the bed on the other side of the room—a bed that was apparently too boring and mundane for their afternoon tryst.

  “Sir, are you Stephen Dean?” Rachel asked.

  “I am.” He was still too embarrassed for Rachel to properly read his reaction. He did look shocked, but that could be for any number of things at the present moment.

  “And ma’am,” Rachel said, “are you Sharon Mowry?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her embarrassment now slipping into something that more closely resembled shame.

  “And I take it you’re in no immediate danger?” Jack asked. He did inject a bit of sarcasm into the question but still remained professional.

  “No. I’m not in any da—”

  “Now wait a damn minute,” Dean said. “Let me see some IDs.”

  “Sure,” Jack said, and obliged. He also holstered his gun, but did so hesitantly. Rachel kept hers out, fully aware that just because Dean had been having sex with this woman rather than putting her into a coffin of his own making it still didn’t immediately clear him.

  Stephen Dean looked like he was about to say something else, but the anger had gone out of him and now he looked both confused and concerned that he’d seen proof that the two intruders were, in fact, federal agents. Before he could get another word out, Rachel started talking. The fact that all of that wood was out in the Pilot still sat very strangely with her.

  “Mr. Dean, we need to speak with you rather urgently,” she said. “And since this is Ms. Mowry’s home, I think it would be respectful to come outside with us to have a chat.”

  He nodded, but there was some angst to it. “And what is it you think I’ve done?”

  “We’ll fill you in outside,” Jack said, putting a bit of bass into his voice. “Come on. Let’s head out to the back porch.”

  Dean went willingly enough as Jack gestured for him to go first. Sharon Mowry took the moment to check herself in a mirror along the wall, still finding it hard to look anyone in the eye. As they made their way through the house, Dean said nothing at all. At the same time, Rachel also didn’t get the sense that he’d be the type to make a run for it. He wasn’t going to try anything stupid. She wondered if that said something about him or if he was still in a strange sort of shock from being interrupted.

  When they were on the back porch, Rachel instantly positioned herself at the stairs. If Dean did plan on trying to make a run for it, it would be much harder now. Jack took note of this and started speaking right away.

  “Mr. Dean, we found you here because we tracked your OnStar. You’re one of the top-most agents with Williams and Meyers, correct?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And recently, you’ve had a string of successes with selling land or properties for re-development and construction, right? A hospital addition, a new row of condos, and the soon-to-be retirement home.”

  “That’s right.” Slowly, something like acknowledgement dawned in his eyes. “This is about that body being found out at the condominium site, isn’t it?”

  “Partly,” Rachel said.

  “Mr. Dean,” Jack went on, “I’m afraid it’s a bit worse than that. In less than two full days, there have been a total of three bodies found. And all three of them have been buried at the sites you have sold.”

  Horror filled his eyes as he looked back and forth between them. “Are you suggesting…”

  “We’ve interviewed every member of the construction crews that had access to the areas,” Rachel said. “Some of their alibis are still being checked out but, so far, everyone has passed. You happen to be the final person we need to look into.”

  “And right now, it’s not looking good,” Jack added.

  “And why the hell not?”

  “Well, we know you’re lying about where you’re going a bit of the time when you leave your office,” Jack said. “Also, the bodies we have found have been buried in some very peculiar ways. The fact that you have that bit of wood in your car happens to be a very strong indicator that you could be a very likely suspect.”

  “Wood? What? I don’t even…what the hell are you even talking about?”

  “The coffins, Mr. Dean,” Rachel said.

  “Coffins?” He said the word as if it might have been Greek and he wasn’t sure he was getting the pronunciation correct.

  “Yes,” Jack said, sharing an uncertain look with Rachel—a look that asked So, are we revealing just enough or the full details?

  Deciding to subvert the matter altogether, Rachel got right to the point. “Can you tell us why all of that lumber is in your car?”

  “Yes, actually. I put it in there yesterday. I had it cut at the Home Depot where I purchased it. I promised this older client of mine that I’d do my best to fix the broken stairs that lead to her hot tub.”

  “Do you have a background in construction?” Jack asked.

  “No. I’m terrible at building pretty much anything. But this woman…she’s having a hard time and the guy she called to build her a new set was going to charge her this astronomical price.”

  “Who’s the older client?”

  “Darlene Jacobs. She’s a—wait. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Trying to put your alibi together,” Jack said.

  “Or your excuse,” Rachel countered.

  “Wait…if you’re even trying to suggest that I have anything to do with these murders you’re talking about, you’re crazy.”

  “Based on what we’ve told you, you can see the suspicion, yes?” Jack asked.

  “I suppose. But…you said something about a coffin?”

  “Forget that,” Rachel said. “So you were just going to make a set of stairs for an older client? Stairs that led to a hot tub?”

  “Yes.” He pulled out his cellphone and handed it to her. “There’s a text thread between me and her. You can probably also see in my search history where I spent an hour or so trying to find a simple tutorial on how to make the stairs.”

  Rachel took the phone, just to show that, if necessary they absolutely would check on those two things.”

  “Okay, so let’s say that explains the wood in the back of your car,” Jack said. “Would you be able to provide a fairly accurate picture of what every night has looked like for you over the course of the past month or so?”

  “An entire month?” he asked. But now that he could see an end to this out-of-nowhere madness, Stephen Dean seemed a bit more willing to help.

  “As best you can.”

  Dean thought about it for a moment and eventually nodded. “Yeah, I mean if it’ll clear my name, hell yeah I can try. Am…Jesus, am I under arrest or something?”

  “No, not yet,” Rachel said. “But we’re going to need you to stay in town until this is all taken care of. And also know…we can track your OnStar and we know your license plate number.”

  “Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Not even paying off a co-worker when you got a little violent one night when she wouldn’t put out?” Rachel said.

  Dean grimaced as if he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to respond but decided to say nothing—just nodding curtly instead. Rachel was a bit incensed by this reaction and almost pushed a little harder.

  “Let’s start with this week,” Jack said. “Could you tell us where you’ve been every night this week?”

  Dean thought about it, looking like he was glad the conversation had moved on from his abuse. “Yeah. Monday night, I was in D.C., at a bar with some friends. I got home around one and went to work the next day. Tuesday and Wednesday night, I was here with Sharon.”

  “Sleeping over?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel deflated a bit. Proving this would be easy enough. And she also knew the chances were good that there were other nights in the past month or so when he’d also been here. The truth of the matter was that Stephen Dean thought he was a big shot because many people viewed him as such. It wouldn’t be hard to provide alibis for someone that spent time in D.C. bars and banging a younger woman on a daily basis, especially when he was sleeping over at her house.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dean,” Rachel said, hating that nothing was panning out. She was distraught not only because they didn’t have their killer after all, but also because she would have loved to nab the bastard that had so willingly paid for a woman’s silence.

  “Really, though” Jack called out as he followed Rachel down the stairs. “Don’t leave the city. And if you have to for work or something, you need to let us know.”

  “I will.”

  Rachel and Jack made their way back around the house and through the strange wooden door in the fence. Walking back to their car, Rachel took another look into the back of Stephen Dean’s Pilot. She looked over the wood and noted that few of the pieces that were tilted upward on the floor did look to be about the length of a small stair.

  “You think it’s worth calling up the old woman he mentioned?” Jack asked. “What was it? Delores something?”

  “Darlene Jacobs. And yes, I think we need to look into it. I’ll call Williams and Meyers and get her information.”

  “Rachel…are you okay?”

  She smiled thinly at him as they got into the car. “I know it sounds bad, but I really wanted to arrest him. Killer or not…just for what he did to that young woman back at the agency.”

  “And the heada—”

  “Please don’t say headache.”

  Jack snapped his mouth shut quickly and started the car, yet again pulling away from another dead end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Roughly three minutes after leaving Sharon Mowry’s residence, Rachel started to get the feeling that this was going to be one of those cases where the timing of things was going to seem like some grand design—that there was a sort of cosmic force at work. She’d been on jobs like that from time to time, where a lead or a break would come at just the right time.

  She’d sensed it first on this case when they’d received the text with Stephen Dean’s license plate number just as soon as they’d spotted the Pilot. It came for the second time three minutes after leaving and came in the form of a call to Jack’s phone.

  “Shit, it’s Anderson,” Jack said, grimacing. “That can’t be good.” With a sigh, he answered the call, instantly placing it on speaker mode. “Hello, Director Anderson.”

  “Rivers, hello. Is Gift there with you?”

  “She is, sir. And I’ve got you on speaker.”

  “Good. I need you two to know that word has finally gotten out. Every little detail of the case. I don’t know if it was the cops or what…but it’s about to hit the news. The coffins, the number of bodies, all of it. Governor Young is going to be livid.”

  “And you have no idea where the leak is coming from?” Rachel asked.

  “No clue. But that’s out of your power. I need to know where we are on the case right now.”

  “It’s a bit disheartening, that’s for sure,” Jack said. He and Rachel then spent five minutes waling him through each step of the case, ending with the disappointment of knowing that it was very likely that Stephen Dean was not their killer.

  “What’s the latest from the coroner?” Anderson asked.

  “Nothing since we left the scene where the third body was discovered,” Jack said. “I’ll check back in with her after this call…but if she hasn’t reached out to us…”

  “I know. But we’ve got to start doing something. I just spoke with Mayor Tennet and he said the city offices are already starting to get calls asking if business owners need to be worried that their businesses could be built over dead bodies.”

  “Good Lord,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes.

  “I know. It’s stupid. But it’s what we’re dealing with. Are you getting help from the PD up there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rachel said. “They’ve actually been incredibly helpful.”

  “Do you need more agents?”

 

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