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“Not a lot. She works long hours and only recently started talking about a vacation to France, I think. She was real excited. I figured she was in France.”
“Do residents notify you when they travel?”
“Most do, but not all.”
The doors opened up to a simple carpeted hallway painted in light grays. At apartment number 806, the guard paused and typed a code into the keypad and pushed open the door.
The guard switched on the lights, and they found themselves staring at a modestly decorated one-thousand-square-foot apartment. She knew firsthand that rent in this area went for about three grand a month and was barely affordable on a cop’s salary, including overtime.
“Do you mind leaving us?” Vaughan asked.
The guard glanced at the neatly folded search warrant and held it up. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s your copy.” Vaughan dug out his business card and handed it to the guard. “Any questions can be directed at me.”
Zoe dug out her own card. “Or me.”
The guard glanced at her card. “Does murder always get federal attention?”
“It does this time.” She studied the guard a bit more.
The guard closed the apartment door behind him, leaving them alone. She walked into the galley-style kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The standard single-girl fare, including a box of old Chinese takeout, three bottles of white wine, and a container of expired strawberry yogurt, was staring back at her.
She checked cabinets and found a collection of plates, utensils, and pans that all looked fairly unused. The living room looked as if it had been furnished from a Pinterest page. A large piece hanging over the couch was made of rustic whitewashed wood and sported the word BELIEVE in black scripted letters.
The single bedroom was off the living room and featured a queen-size bed covered in a rumpled coverlet. The pillow closest to the door still had the impression of a person’s head, as did the pillow to its right. Two people had slept in this bed.
As Vaughan studied an open calendar on a small desk, she went into the bathroom and found a used towel hanging on the rack.
Draped on a shower door was a washcloth covered in old makeup. There was a collection of hair-care and makeup products on the counter. Off to the right of the feminine chaos was a man’s razor and shaving cream. In the small trash can were two used condoms.
“Nice of her boyfriend to leave us a DNA sample,” she said.
“I’ll have forensic do a sweep,” Vaughan said, texting.
As she searched the closet and bedroom, she found no connection to Mark Foster. And judging by Vaughan’s silence, he had found nothing either.
“Most women have pictures of their boyfriends, right?” Vaughan asked.
“I’m sure some do, but many store photos on their phone,” she said. “That’s where we’re likely to find her contacts as well. I suppose you’ve pinged her phone.”
“I did. It’s not putting off a signal.”
“The guard said she has been gone at least a week, so if the phone is intact, the battery must be dead.”
“There was no sign of her purse or keys in the dumpster,” he said.
“It could have been stolen, or maybe the killer kept it as a memento.”
“Saving mementos is the kind of behavior associated with serial killers.”
“I know.”
He shook his head. “A serial killer from Hadley Foster’s past comes back, stabs Veronica, Galina, and then stabs her and takes her daughter.”
She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck, massaging the tension from her muscles. “It’s all just too coincidental.”
He pulled the door closed, and it locked behind them. They made their way down the elevator, past the guard, and out the front door to the street. A coffee shop across the street had opened, and the glow of its warm light was too much for Zoe to resist.
“I’ll treat you to a cup,” she offered.
“I won’t say no to that.”
They crossed the street, which was only just filling with the morning rush hour, and walked through the front doors of the sleek shop. A young guy with dark hair swept back in a ponytail took their order and swiped her credit card. As they waited, she stared across the street at Veronica Manchester’s apartment building and knew if she herself lived there, a place like this would be a daily stop.
She pulled up a picture of Veronica Manchester on her phone. “Don’t suppose you ever saw this gal?”
“Sure, that’s Veronica.”
“She comes in here often?”
“It’s her first stop every morning. I think she’s on vacation.”
“What makes you say that?” Vaughan asked.
“It’s all she’s talked about for the last few months. She just met a guy, and he was taking her to Spain or France.”
“Her boyfriend ever come in here?” Zoe asked.
The guy shrugged. “No. But I saw him come out of her building with her pretty regularly.”
“What’s he look like?” she asked.
“Tall, fit. Maybe late thirties or early forties.”
“They look serious?” she asked.
“She said he had just asked her to marry him.”
“Nice,” she said as she selected a picture on her phone. “They set a date?”
“I asked, but she was kind of vague. She said there was a lot of details to work out before they could settle on a date.”
“He look like this?” She held up a picture of Mark Foster.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Thanks.”
As she and Vaughan walked across the street toward his car, Zoe said, “It’s time we brought Mark Foster to the station for questioning. Dead girlfriend. Missing wife and daughter. It’s not looking good.”
“No, it certainly isn’t.”
Zoe checked her watch. “I want to go back to the Foster house and have another look. I want to revisit the Fosters’ neighborhood. Someone there must know more about the family.”
“Let’s go.”
They drove through the streets already heavy with traffic as the sun rose in the sky. She nestled in the seat, savoring the morning sky before dawn broke.
When Vaughan pulled up in front of the Foster house, there was a marked car outside, and the crime scene tape still maintained a tight perimeter around the yard. The news vans were gone for now, and the cluster of neighbors had cleared.
A woman walked her dog, a short mixed breed, on the other side of the street, while a man dressed in a charcoal-gray suit was opening his car door.
“Be right back.” Zoe hurried across the street toward the man as he got behind the wheel. “I’m Agent Spencer, and I’m working the Foster case. Are you familiar with the family?”
The man was in his late fifties—handsome in a worn sort of way. “How could I not know? Cops and reporters have been swarming all over my lawn.”
She let the comment go. “How well did you know the Fosters?”
“Casually. I work a lot of long hours. But I saw them at the neighbors’ night out last week. They seemed normal enough.”
“Can you clarify that?” she asked.
“Hadley was tense, but she’s always been a little high strung, and Mark had had a few beers and was feeling no pain. Skylar looked bored like all the other teens did.”
