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“We’ll see if she sticks to her word.” He started the engine and turned up the air-conditioning.
“A press conference would be a good move at this point,” Zoe said.
“I know. I’m just not looking forward to the three-ring circus that will follow.”
She understood his hesitation. Once they went public with the case’s details and asked the public for tips and leads, they would be inundated with people with bad information or who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.
Vaughan and Spencer crossed the marble entryway of Mark Foster’s sleek office building, located on the edge of Old Town. He punched the elevator button, and they were soon riding the car to the sixth floor.
Vaughan had called ahead, and the receptionist quickly escorted them both back to a conference room that overlooked the historic section of the city.
They did not have long to wait before the door opened to an older man with a thick shock of gray hair and tanned skin. “I’m Simon Davenport. I own the company. We heard what happened at the Foster house today, and none of us can believe it.”
Vaughan shook his hand. “We’re hoping you can help us make sense of it.”
“Sure. Anything.”
“How long has Mark been with this company?”
“Fourteen years in the Portland office, and eight months here. We were lucky he wanted to move back east. He’s one of the best forensic accountants in the business. If it’s hidden, he’ll find it.”
“So the move was strictly job related?” Spencer asked.
“No, he said it was a family issue. I do know he took a substantial pay cut to move back to Virginia. He’ll get a bonus at the end of the year if he performs, but in the interim, he took a financial hit.”
“Did he complain about money issues?” Vaughan asked.
Davenport shook his head. “He didn’t to me. But in the last few months, he’s been working a lot of overtime to close a case. It has the potential for a tremendous payout.”
“Did he talk about his family?” Spencer asked.
“Not so much about his wife, but he’s crazy about his kid. I think the move back to the DC area was for the daughter.”
“How so?”
“I learned from his Portland supervisor that the girl landed in some kind of legal trouble, and the family decided a fresh start was in order. From my perspective, it seemed to be working. The few times I met Skylar, she seemed like a delightful girl.”
“Anything else you can tell us about Mark?” Spencer asked.
“He’s worked closely with Veronica Manchester, and I would refer you to her, but she’s on vacation now. I can try to track her down if you think that would help.”
“I’m taking any lead I can get now.”
“I’ll have my secretary call.”
“Is Mark the kind of guy who would stab his wife?” Spencer asked.
“Hell no. He’s the last guy on the planet to hurt his family. He was very protective of them.”
Zoe checked her messages while Vaughan maneuvered through the evening commuter traffic, which was in full form. Instead of the beltway, Vaughan opted for the web of side streets that he knew better than most. They were blocks from the police station when his phone rang.
Vaughan veered past a slow car in the left lane and answered the call. “Detective Vaughan.”
His lips flattened into a grim line as he listened and continued to maneuver through traffic. He glanced toward the clock on the dash as he hung up. “They think they’ve found Hadley Foster in a motel dumpster.”
“Are they certain it’s Hadley?” Zoe asked.
“They aren’t sure. The victim is a white female who is of similar height and build to Hadley. There are also lacerations on her chest and arms, suggesting she was stabbed to death.”
“And Skylar?”
“No trace of her yet. The uniforms have started knocking on motel room doors all around the area.”
Zoe dropped her head against the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment before she straightened. “What’s the address of the motel?”
He rattled off the address while she plugged it into her phone. The motel was located on Bragg Street, near the Duke Street exit ramp.
They arrived fifteen minutes later and were greeted by six marked cars, including the captain’s car. Vaughan parked, and the two got out, quickly tugging on gloves as they rounded the building.
The 1950s motel was one level and painted a light blue. The parking lot had several potholes, and there were weeds growing up through the sidewalk. It had seen better days.
The lot was filled with at least a dozen cars, which, considering the motel’s sixty-seven-dollars-a-night price, was not surprising. In this area, there were few really cheap options for lodging.
“Galina Grant was found only a mile from here.” Vaughan checked his watch and frowned. “I missed her autopsy today.”
“You can’t be everywhere, Vaughan.”
“Tell that to Galina.”
“If we’re analyzing distance, this particular location is exactly 3.6 miles from the Foster residence and 1.2 miles from where we found the family’s car,” Zoe said.
“Foster could have stabbed his wife, dumped her, ditched the car, and run home by seven when he called 911, but it would have been tight.”
“There are also serial killers who operate within a specific geographical area. They kill or dump bodies in places that are close to home and work.”
“Maybe.”
Yellow tape surrounded the dumpster, and as they approached, she could see that the responding officer had marked off what appeared to be a trail of dark dried blood that stopped a few feet short of the dumpster.
“Who called it in?” Zoe asked the uniformed officer.
“The motel manager,” he said. “He was dumping trash and smelled the decomposition. He’s had trouble with a local restaurant dumping bad meat here illegally, so he poked around, trying to find packaging so he could figure out who’d done it this time. That’s when he saw the victim’s hand. He backed right off after that.”
The stench of death rose out of the dumpster. “In this heat and humidity, it’s surprising she wasn’t found earlier,” she said.
“The body is badly bloated,” the uniform said. “But hard to say how long she’s been in there, given the heat and humidity.” Nothing accelerated decomposition like August in Virginia.
Two forensic technicians set up a table as uniforms erected a tent to cover their work area. This scene would take a dozen or more hours to process, and if it was related to the Foster case, it meant a third crime scene was now in the lineup.
Zoe looked back at the motel, already wondering if there was security footage and how long the computer data would remain intact.
There was a growing collection of people across the street who had already gathered to watch, and she could not help but wonder if the killer stood among them. Some killers would return to their dump sites. In their minds, they shared an intimate bond with the victim because the killer was the victim’s last contact with the living. No one could take that away.
Once the techs were set up, both Zoe and Vaughan were given booties and closer access to the dumpster to view the body.
