“Any idea who she might have been seeing?” Faith asked.

  “Why?” Margaret said. Her eyes widened until they were big as dinner plates. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “We’re just looking for as much information as we can get right now, Ms. Eckersley,” Faith said.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if all the single men in Cedar Hills enjoyed a night or two with Ms. Evie. Probably some of the married men, too.”

  “Why don’t you just go ahead and write their names down for me?” Faith asked, her heart sinking again. It was a longshot that any of Evelyn’s lovers would simultaneously have a beef with Ethan Somersall, and the day was drawing to a close anyway. If Michael hadn’t come up with anything and the records search didn’t yield anything, she could work her way through Evelyn Vance’s little black book tomorrow.

  Barbara, of course, was all too happy to write down the names. Faith knew that when Barbara told this story to her book club while they drank far too much wine and spent absolutely no time discussing literature, she would make herself out to be the star of the show, the Miss Marple whose keen eye had broken open the case for the FBI. She would tell this story for the rest of her life, even if her “evidence” turned out—as Faith suspected—to be useless.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of that house, and while she didn’t suspect Barbara of being the killer, she noted that Turk was far less affectionate with her than with the others they interacted with.

  After leaving, she called Michael. “Prince,” he said.

  “Dammit,” she quipped. “I was looking for the frog.”

  “Ha ha,” he replied. “I take it you’re finished for the day?”

  “Thankfully, yes,” she answered.

  “Ah. So you also wasted your time?”

  “Yep. Everyone loves gossip, but none of that gossip is useful. So you didn’t find anything either?”

  “Nothing useful. Half the neighbors admired Ethan and half despised him. Most of them didn’t care either way, but none of them are the type to kill and none of them even knew who Evelyn Vance was.”

  “Same here,” Faith said, “which is really frustrating, because we can’t have a suspect until we meet someone who knows both of them.”

  “Well, let’s not lose faith, Faith,” Michael said. “Maybe NICBCS has found something.”

  “Really?” Faith said. “A pun?”

  “That was at least as good as your prince and the frog reference,” Michael countered.

  “Fair enough,” Faith conceded.

  They met back at the office, and when they reached Michael’s desk, they compared notes. Essentially, they had encountered the same things. Rumors, gossip, and suspicions, most of them probably true, but none of them helpful. Fortunately, ten minutes after they arrived, Michael’s desk phone buzzed.

  “Prince,” he said.

  He listened for a moment, then smiled at Faith and said, “Yes, please. Thank you, Vanessa.”

  He hung up and said, “NICBCS popped on some of our neighbors.”

  Faith’s eyes widened in anticipation. Now they were getting somewhere. “Let’s see it,” she said.

  Michael opened the folder Vanessa emailed to him and they scrolled through. Faith’s eyes widened further, and her mouth dropped open as well after a moment.

  “God,” Michael said, reading through the list, “you think you know a neighborhood.”

  The report was literally filled with noise complaints, domestic disturbances, accusations of theft, vandalism, abuse, drug possession, violence, and threats of violence. If Faith didn’t know to which neighborhood the report referred, she would have assumed a low-income urban high-rise, not the pristine near-wealthy Cedar Hills.

  “Hold on,” Michael said. “Look at these.”

  He pointed to a heading labeled Missing Persons. Faith opened it, and her eyes widened. There were only nine disappearances over the past fifteen years, not an excessively high number, but what caught her eye was that the disappearances had increased dramatically in the past five years. Five of the missing persons had died in the past three years; again, not quite high enough to raise alarms, unless you happened to be investigating two murders in the past ten days.

  The killer was escalating. Unfortunately, knowing that people were missing didn’t help them without further investigation.

  “Well,” Faith said, “this doesn’t really help us in the short term. It might help us find a connection or it might just complicate things further.”

  “Nope,” Michael said. “Unless they all have a group murdering session every few days, this doesn’t really narrow things—hold on.”

  He stopped scrolling and double-clicked on one of the names—Marcus Washington. Faith leaned over him to read and whistled when she saw the file. The picture was a mugshot—that was the first indicator that there was more than just petty neighborhood disputes on his rap sheet.

  Much more.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marcus Washington was a convicted felon who spent fifteen years in the state penitentiary for second-degree murder. The mugshot was from his arrest. Apparently, he and a fellow ne’er-do-well had gotten into a dispute at a bar and Marcus split his skull open with a beer bottle. Prior to his murder conviction, he had a long history of violence—assault, armed robbery, and harassment. At the time of his arrest, he had no fewer than three active restraining orders.

  His rap sheet showed nothing after his release three years ago, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was clean, just that he was better at hiding the dirt. As Faith skimmed the file, she said, “Well, I guess we’re taking our evening coffee to go.”

  “Yes,” Michael said, “looks that way. Did you see where he lives?”

  “Cedar Hills, right?” Faith asked.

  “Yes, but not just Cedar Hills.”

  He pointed at the map that showed his residence and Faith saw it was nearly halfway between the Somersall and Vance residences.

  “Well, what do you know,” Faith said.

  “Let’s go pay Mr. Washington a visit,” Michael said.

  “Let’s,” Faith agreed.

  On the way back to Cedar Hills, Faith wondered aloud, “How does a convicted felon with no work history manage to buy a million-plus dollar home in a wealthy neighborhood?”

  “Beats me,” Michael said. “Maybe he has friends in low places.”

  “Maybe he held the owner at gunpoint and bought it for pennies then buried the bodies under three feet of dirt,” Faith said.

  Michael glanced at her. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “Me either,” Faith said.

  By the time they reached the house, dusk had long since given way to night. Faith was worried they might be too late and be forced to wake Washington up, but there was a light on in the living room when they parked. She resisted an urge to draw her weapon but kept a hand near her shoulder holster as they approached the house.

  Turk stayed in front of her, ears perked and tail switching back and forth. Faith appreciated having him near. The last time she had confronted a violent criminal, she would have died if not for Turk’s presence.

  Faith stepped to the door and knocked with the hand not hovering over her weapon. Turk tensed and Michael lifted his own hand to his shoulder.

  The door opened and Marcus answered. He was nearly twenty years older than he was in his mugshot, and those years showed. The bull-necked, powerful man of the mugshot was now a stooped, elderly man whose muscle had given way to flab. He regarded the agents with mild suspicion.

  “Good evening,” he said softly. “Can I help you?”

  His hands were clearly visible, but Faith kept her hand close to her weapon in case he was hiding something. “Marcus Washington?” she asked.

  “Yes, this is he,” Marcus replied. “May I ask who you are?”

  “Special Agent Faith Bold, FBI,” she said. “This is my partner Special Agent Michael Prince and my K9 unit, Turk.”

  Marcus nodded. “May I see some identification, please?”

  His tone was mild and his posture relaxed. Faith wasn’t sure if this was because he had nothing to hide or because he was confident he had hidden it well. She produced her ID, and after a quick examination, he nodded and handed it back. “May I ask what this is about, Special Agent?” he asked.

  “We’re investigating the murders of Evelyn Vance and Ethan Somersall,” Faith replied. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  She watched his reaction closely as she spoke. His eyes betrayed no surprise at the question but betrayed no guilt either. He nodded and sighed. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I figured you guys would want to talk to me sooner or later. Would you like to come inside?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Faith said.

  Marcus opened the door and led the three of them into the house. Turk seemed far less tense to Faith, and although he remained wary of Marcus, his eyes had lost that glint that came when he anticipated violence.

  The house was modestly decorated, but well-appointed. The furniture was designed for comfort, with a massaging armchair and a thickly upholstered sofa. The carpet was plush and seemed newly installed. Faith nearly removed her shoes before stepping on it, but Marcus noticed and waved for her not to bother.

  “I have cleaners come once a month,” he said, “Twice a year they clean the carpet for me too, so don’t worry about stains.”

  Indeed, the entire place seemed spotless. The walls gleamed white and the wood of the massive entertainment system that housed a sixty-five-inch smart tv was polished to a high shine.

  Marcus motioned for them to sit. “You folks want something to drink?” he asked. “Coffee, water? I’m guessing you can’t drink beer while you’re on duty.”

  He smiled when he said that, and Faith could detect no hint of animosity. “We’re fine, but thank you,” she said.

  Marcus nodded acknowledgment and sat in his easy chair, grimacing with effort.

  “Nice place you got here,” Michael mentioned.

  Marcus smiled when Michael said that. “You’re wondering how does an old felon like me afford a nice place like this.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Michael said.

  “Well, I am blessed to have a family that still loves me in spite of the mistakes I’ve made in my life,” Marcus said. “Among that family is a mother who never once lost faith that her little boy would learn the error of his ways and live a life glorifying to God. I don’t know much about God; and if He is out there somewhere judging the sins of man, I doubt that He’ll have much of an inclination to grant me a spot in Heaven after what I done, but Ma never stopped loving me.”

  His smile faded as he spoke, and Faith saw real pain in his eyes. Turk walked up to him and as he’d done with so many others during the investigation, he rested his head on Marcus’s lap and allowed the older man to stroke his fur.

  Marcus’s smile returned. “You have a good dog,” he said to Faith. “Anyway, Ma left me the house when she died, and enough of my Pa’s money to let me live in comfort and peace for the rest of my life, which is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “So you don’t work?” Michael asked.

  “I volunteer mostly,” Marcus said. “Weekends at the soup kitchen, weekdays at the Y. Sometimes I help out the younger folk cleaning up the streets when my arthritis isn’t too bad.”

  Michael and Faith shared a look. Marcus was looking less and less like a killer with every passing moment.

  Still, appearances could be deceiving and plenty of serial killers seemed saintly on the outside. John Wayne Gacy volunteered at a children’s hospital, and he had killed over thirty people. Turk seemed to think Marcus wasn’t a threat, but while Faith trusted his instincts, she wasn’t yet ready to rule Marcus out as a suspect.

  “You mentioned you knew we were coming to talk to you,” Faith said. “Why is that?”

  Marcus chuckled. “This is a nice neighborhood, Special Agent Bold. I doubt you’ll find many other convicted criminals in Cedar Hills.”

  You’d be surprised, Faith thought. Out loud, she said, “So you believed that your criminal past would cause us to suspect you of these murders?”

  “Well, it did, didn’t it?” Marcus replied, his smile a little sad. “No need to beat around the bush, Special Agent. If I was you, I’d think the same thing.”

  “Well, the more honest you are with us, the faster we can rule you out as a suspect,” Faith said. Or convict him, but she didn’t feel a need to mention that.

  “All right,” Marcus said, “Well, I didn’t kill them, but I’m guessing you can’t just take my word for it.”

  Faith didn’t respond directly to that. “Did you know either of the victims, Mr. Washington?”

  “I knew Ethan Somersall by sight,” Marcus said, “Not much more than that. When I moved in here, he offered his services to me. Claimed he could get my record expunged if I paid him five hundred dollars an hour for a year or two. I thanked him but told him I’d rather not have my record expunged. ‘I’m a criminal,’ I told him. ‘I’m a reformed criminal, but I want to remember, not forget.’” He laughed. “Boy, you should have seen his face when I said that. He looked like someone just told him the sun was made of pork rinds.”

  “May I ask why?” Faith asked. “Why you want to keep your criminal record.”

  Marcus sighed and his smile faded as he stared into the distance. “Prison is a hellish place, Special Agent Bold. I guess you know that. It’s a hellish place, but I guess I needed to go to hell for a while. I learned a lot in prison. I learned that I’m not as hard as I thought I was. I’m not the kind of person who can live a life hurting others.”

  “What brought you to that revelation?” Michael asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  Marcus turned heavy eyes to Michael and said, “Prison gives you time to think, Special Agent. That’s one thing people always say that’s true. It gives you time to think. Every day, I thought of the man I killed. I thought of the way his head split open when I cracked him with that beer bottle. I thought of the shock I felt when he didn’t get up and I knew I’d killed him. I thought of the tears in my mother’s eyes when the judge read the verdict. Mostly, I thought of myself, and how I never did grow up to be an astronaut or a fireman or a doctor or the President or any of the things I thought I would be when I was a child.”

  “I grew up to be a murderer, Special Agent.”

  He let the words hang a moment, and Faith could see the pain in his eyes like a tangible thing, something she could reach out and touch if she wanted. She knew for sure then that he wasn’t their killer. Years of interacting with killers had sharpened her senses, and she could tell that Marcus was telling them the absolute truth right now. She would finish interviewing him because hunches never substituted for good detective work, but she knew that she would only confirm that he wasn’t their guy.

  After a pause, Marcus continued. “I grew up to be a murderer, and all I can do now is leave that life behind and maybe do some good in the world before I go. I can’t make up for what I did. I never will. But I can do a little for as long as I can, and I can live peacefully with all men until I reach my own end.”

  He fell silent again, and when Faith was confident he was finished, she asked, “Did you have any contact with Mr. Somersall after you rejected his offer of representation?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “No, that was it. I never met Evelyn Vance either. I know that’s your next question.”

  “Can you tell me your whereabouts this past Friday?” Faith asked.

  “Sure can,” he said. “I was at the Y from eight a.m. until four p.m., then I headed straight here. The Y can confirm my presence there. I’m afraid I can’t provide any proof that I was in my home after that. Maybe you can check my phone? I hear you can track phones now.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” Faith said. “Can I assume you were at the Y Monday through Friday and the soup kitchen both of the past two weekends?”

  “Sure was,” Marcus said, “Home after that, so like I said, I don’t really know how to prove that.”

  “We’ll look into it,” Faith said, deciding there was nothing more to be gained by talking to him.

  She got the number for the soup kitchen where Marcus volunteered his weekends. She would confirm his day shifts with the Y and the soup kitchen and check his utility usage for the evenings to see if there were any dips in usage that could suggest he was out late at night. She knew already that he was innocent, though. He of all the people she had interviewed seemed ironically the least likely to be responsible for the murders.

  They left once they got the numbers and elicited a perfunctory promise from Marcus to stay in town and call them if he thought of anything helpful. On the way back to the office to drop Michael off at his car, they discussed the interview.

  “So I’m thinking he’s not the guy,” Michael opined.

  “No,” Faith said, “definitely not.”

  Turk barked in agreement and Faith offered a half smile that disappeared almost immediately. “I’ll check the alibi just to be sure,” she said, “but I think he might be one of the lucky ones who actually left crime behind when he left prison.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said. He was silent a moment, then added, “Is it cynical of me to think that maybe if his rich mother hadn’t left him a ton of money, he might not have been so motivated to give up crime?”

  Faith shrugged. “It’s no more cynical than believing that most crime comes from people who have nothing and see no other option.”

  “No,” Michael said, “I guess not.”

  They finished the rest of the drive in silence. Faith glanced at Turk and saw him staring forlornly out at the passing lights. Faith reached behind and scratched him behind the ears, then left her hand there as she too stared out into the night.

  CHAPTER NINE

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17