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“You must be psychic. Just heard from the OnStar people. Hadley’s car was located at a cemetery about five miles from the Foster house. No sign of either victim, but a uniform has secured the scene, and the forensic team is en route.”
“What about the mother’s and daughter’s phones?” Spencer asked.
“The daughter’s phone was found under her bed. It was on silent mode. The mother’s device pinged to the exact location of the car,” Hughes said.
“I want to see that car,” Vaughan said. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“The forensic team should be there by then,” Hughes said.
“Thanks, Hughes,” he said. “You know the drill. Call me if you have anything.”
“Will do,” Hughes said.
Vaughan hung up. “Ride with me.”
“Sure.”
He started the car and maneuvered out of the parking lot. A red light caught them a block from the hospital.
“The assailant breaks into the Foster house, stabs Mr. and Mrs. Foster, and then escapes with both an injured woman and a hysterical teenager.”
“And no one hears or sees anything?” she asked, incredulously. “Odds are Hadley and Skylar are already dead.”
“I want to disagree, but I think you are right.”
“The facts point that way the longer the search continues.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday, August 13, 10:00 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Three Hours after the 911 Call
The clock was ticking. And it was not lost on Zoe that the longer this search lasted, the less the chance that they would find either victim alive.
Vaughan maneuvered up King Street, a bustling central artery in Alexandria. Seconds later, they spotted the twin brick pillars of the cemetery entrance. He pulled through the gates, following the narrow road up a hill, past old tombstones, toward the flash of police lights.
Vaughan drove around the back side of a stone mausoleum, where two marked cars were nosed in toward the ring of yellow crime scene tape that established a generous perimeter around the late-model black Lexus.
The devil was in the details, as Uncle Jimmy used to say when he painted one of his masterpieces. Brush strokes, paint sources, even the type of canvas could betray his masterpieces as fakes.
The vehicle’s glistening, polished exterior and the deep-black wheels suggested a recent cleaning. It was not surprising a man like Foster kept a clean car. He was an accountant in a prestigious firm, and he was paid to monitor the smallest details. He wanted his car to reflect that.
Zoe pulled on gloves as she approached the car’s back passenger door, which was now open. The rusty scent of blood and leather heated in the morning sun drew her gaze toward the dark stains that puddled and ran over the back seat onto the custom floor mat. The buzz of a phone emanated from inside the car.
“Sounds like it’s coming from the trunk,” she said.
“It’s rung several times in the last ten minutes,” a uniformed officer said. “We’re leaving it for forensic.”
Vaughan tugged on his gloves, carefully opened the front door, and popped the trunk latch. Saving lives trumped preserving evidence, and he could not wait on the off chance Skylar or Hadley was alive and locked in the trunk.
A chill snaked down Zoe’s spine as she braced for what they could find. Vaughan’s grim expression mirrored her own sentiments. Silent, they walked to the back of the car, and he carefully opened the lid.
A ripple of tension passed over them both.
Both stood silent, staring in the trunk for a beat. No bodies—only an emergency roadside kit and an opened suitcase that was filled with Foster’s clothes.
The one-two punch of relief and disappointment hit Zoe. “Why transfer them to another vehicle and risk discovery? If Foster’s timeline is accurate, the assailant would have been transferring the women at the peak of the morning commute. A highly risky move, unless it wasn’t originally part of the plan.”
Vaughan looked back at the mausoleum, searching for security cameras. “There have to be cameras here. I’ll have the uniforms check it out.”
She angled around the trunk, back toward the rear seat. “Again, if Foster is telling the truth, and the blood in the room is his wife’s, this must be hers as well. If Hadley Foster hasn’t bled out, it won’t be long,” she said.
Vaughan turned to the officer. “Double-check with the area hospitals, and see if a woman matching Hadley Foster’s description has been dropped off.”
“Sure, Detective.” The officer reached for his phone, dialing as he turned and stepped away.
The phone stopped ringing and started up again. Zoe searched the trunk, feeling along the interior until her fingers brushed the phone.
Gripping it by the edge, she faced Vaughan as he opened a plastic evidence bag. She studied the display and the name Roger Dawson. The call went to voicemail along with eight other missed calls.
Vaughan scribbled down the name and phone number. “Wonder what Roger Dawson wants?”
She hit callback and then speakerphone; then she said, “Let’s find out.”
On the second ring, a man said in a rush of exasperation, “Hadley, where have you been?”
“Mr. Dawson, this is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer, and I’m with Alexandria Police Department detective William Vaughan. Have you been trying to reach Hadley Foster?”
There was a pause on the other end before Dawson replied, “Yes. Is something wrong?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine, Mr. Dawson,” Zoe said. “Hadley appears to be missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?” Dawson challenged.
“Exactly that, sir,” she said. “There was a disturbance at the Foster home this morning, and Mrs. Foster and her daughter, Skylar, are missing.”
“Where the hell is Mark?” Dawson demanded.
Zoe’s gaze locked on Vaughan’s raised brow. Like her, he heard concern usually reserved for loved ones.
Instead of answering the question, she asked, “Who are you to Hadley Foster?”
A hesitation crackled over the line. “We are good friends. Now please tell me what’s going on. Where’s Mark?”
Vaughan shook his head. “We’d rather talk to you in person. We’ll come to you.”
Another pause. Was Dawson in shock, or was he shifting to damage control?
“Yeah. Sure. I’m at my office on Duke Street.” He recited the address of Weidner and Kyle, an accounting firm located on the building’s first floor. The line went dead just as the forensic van rolled up on the scene.
“He’s called her seven times in the last couple of hours,” Zoe said.
“Did he leave messages?” Vaughan asked.
“Two. But her messages seem to be password protected.”
Vaughan walked around the car and paused. “There’s a hell of a scrape on this side.”
She joined him and studied the long white graze. She touched her fingertip to the tail end of it and noticed traces of red paint. The right front tire was also noticeably low.
She looked back toward the corner of the mausoleum and spotted black scrape marks against an aluminum trash can. “The driver came flying around the corner and hit the post and then stopped here. Foster said his daughter was driving. A seventeen-year-old in a highly stressful hostage situation could easily have done this.”
