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“No, sir, it’s not right,” Vaughan said. “But we have to tolerate it for now.”
Rodney Pollard put his arm around Foster’s shoulders. “Mark, you came here to make a statement. What do you want to say?”
The pain in Foster’s eyes appeared genuine. Even if Foster had planned to murder his wife as Spencer had suggested, he certainly couldn’t have been expecting this mess. “Yes, I have something to say.”
The cameramen and reporters edged closer, but it was Nikki McDonald and her GoPro that made it to the prime spot first.
“I want my wife and daughter back,” Foster said. “I will do whatever it takes to get her safely home. I love you both very much.” Tears welled in his eyes and then spilled down his face. He wiped them away and clenched his fingers into fists. “Please don’t hurt my girl.”
Vaughan was struck immediately by his use of the singular. My girl, not my girls. Her. Not them. It could have been the meds and stress addling him.
Pollard looked at the cameras with the practiced confidence of a man who was comfortable with the spotlight. “Mr. Foster loves his family, and he’s just as much a victim in this case as his wife and daughter. If anyone knows anything about Hadley or Skylar Foster, call the police or my office. We’re prepared to pay a reward for any information leading to their safe return.”
A reward would ensure twice the number of bogus calls.
“Detective Vaughan,” Nikki said, “is there any link to this crime and the recent identification of Hadley Foster’s sister?”
“No comment at this time.”
All the reporters began to volley questions at Vaughan. The back-and-forth between media and law enforcement went on for another twenty minutes before Vaughan called a halt to the conference and ordered everyone to leave.
Foster’s gaze held a mixture of sadness and anger. He appeared almost in a stupor. “Find my wife and daughter. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”
Sarah Pollard stepped forward and laid her hand on Mark’s. “Come to our house. You need to rest.”
“I’m not leaving my own house.” Foster snatched his arm from Mrs. Pollard’s grip. “I have a right to be here.”
Vaughan’s frown deepened. “You’re not helping your wife and daughter. Let us do our job.”
“Come to our house,” Pollard urged. “It’s quiet, and you can sit down. You look like you can barely stand.”
“I can’t sleep or rest now,” Foster said.
“No one is going to get any rest until Hadley and Skylar are found,” Spencer said. “Let us escort you to the Pollard house.”
Foster’s shoulders slumped forward, as if whatever adrenaline had fueled him had run dry. They crossed the side alley between the two privacy fences and made their way up the Pollards’ back steps into the sunroom that overlooked the Fosters’ house. By the time Mark Foster sat, he was pale and drawn.
“I’ll get us something to drink,” Mrs. Pollard said.
“Thank you, dear,” Pollard said.
Foster relaxed against large floral pillows that all but molded around his body. His face was pale, and his left hand trembled slightly. “Where are my wife and daughter?”
Vaughan asked Pollard, “Can you give us some privacy, please?”
“Pollard can stay,” Foster said. “I need all the friends I can get now.”
“I’m also his lawyer,” Pollard said. “Mark is not talking to you without representation.”
“Mr. Foster, do you feel like you need a lawyer?” Vaughan asked. “We are on the same side.”
Foster looked toward his neighbor. “Rodney says the cops always assume the spouse did it. And I know that you see me as a suspect.”
“We’re here to find your family,” Vaughan said.
“Your agenda is to close a case,” Pollard said.
Spencer paid keen attention to Foster, as if she did not want to miss a second of his reactions. “Sir, we found a woman’s body in a dumpster an hour ago.”
Foster stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as if searching. Finally, he blinked and shook his head. “It can’t be Hadley or Skylar.”
Vaughan noted a sense of surety he had not expected. “Why do you say that?”
Foster leveled his gaze on Vaughan and, with a true sense of certainty, said, “Because Hadley cannot be dead. And Skylar has to be okay.”
Vaughan had interviewed murderers who could look back on their own deeds in genuine disbelief. This was particularly true when the crime was intertwined with passion. The killer acted rashly and quickly and then, within minutes, could not believe what they had done.
But what struck him was a level of confidence that a man in his position just should not have.
“Were you able to make a solid visual identification of the body you found?” Pollard asked.
“Not yet,” Spencer lied.
There was nothing in the rule book that said a cop could not lie to a suspect. “Animals got ahold of the body,” Vaughan added.
The visual triggered more tears in Foster’s eyes. They flowed down his flushed cheeks, and his hands trembled as if a chill coursed through his body. “My poor girls,” he said. “They didn’t deserve any of this. Our family was so close.”
But it hadn’t been. He’d been having an affair, and so had Hadley.
“Mr. Foster,” Spencer said, “can you describe the man who broke into your house this morning?”
“I already have.”
“Yes, sir, but can you do it again for me?”
A sigh shuddered through him. “I don’t want to remember him.”
Vaughan was certain if the shoe were on the other foot, he would be moving heaven and earth to remember key details.
“Mr. Foster,” Spencer said, “let’s start at the beginning. You were taking the recycling out.”
“Yes.”
“Your recycling bin was still in the backyard,” she said.
“Then it was the trash,” he said. “Tomorrow is trash day, and I knew I wouldn’t have time.”
She didn’t argue but prompted him with, “You exited the house via the back door with the trash?”
“I started out the front door when I remembered the trash. I was in a rush and left it open as I hurried out the back.”
“What happened next?” Spencer asked.
“I heard a scream.”
“Your daughter’s scream?” she asked.
“No. My wife. I raced upstairs, and there was a man in our room, holding a knife to her neck.”
“What was your wife wearing?” she asked.
“Her purple workout tank and shorts.”
Vaughan knew what Spencer was doing. She was peppering Foster with questions that he should remember easily if he was telling the truth.
“You said she’d already showered that morning,” she said.
“She was going to the gym,” Foster said.
“And your daughter?” she pressed. “Where was she again?”
“She was in another room.”
“What room?” she asked.
“Her own. What does it matter where Skylar was?”
