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She closed her eyes, knowing this was the kind of injury that could end a career. God, but she had worked so hard to rebuild her life after her leg injury. If she could not be an agent, where would she go? Not again, she prayed.
Vaughan’s temper was stretched thin. Seeing Spencer covered in blood was something he never wanted to repeat. He followed the ambulance to the hospital, and he stayed with her. Both of them were silent as the doctor examined her wound and then made quick arrangements for a surgeon. He knew she was worried about future use of her hand and her career. The quieter and more reserved she became, the angrier he grew. Finally, when the doctors told him he had to leave, he was ready to argue, but Hughes appeared on scene, and she reminded him he had a job to do. He kissed Spencer and left, determined to dig up whatever he could find on Jason Dalton.
That vow rested heavily on his shoulders now as he handed the search warrant to the rotund building manager, who appeared half-asleep. Searching the apartment was the first step to figuring out what had driven Jason to attack Spencer with a knife and likely Veronica and Galina.
The manager handed Vaughan back his warrant and unlocked the front door of the apartment.
Vaughan reached in and turned on the light. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
“Sure.”
Vaughan and Hughes stepped into the small studio apartment. It was simply furnished with a couch, a television, and a coffee table covered with a couple of old pizza boxes. Clothes were scattered on the floor, and the trash can beside the couch was filled with beer cans.
“For once, I’d like to deal with a criminal who keeps his place clean,” Hughes said. “It smells like a pigsty in here.”
The walls were bare, and the curtains that covered the windows were a bland beige that looked like they came with the unit. He walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. The view featured two dumpsters and several parking spaces filled with boats and campers.
He moved to the kitchen and found more pizza boxes and empty Chinese takeout. More beer cans in the overflowing trash can, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink.
“Let’s look at the bedroom,” he said.
It took less than ten steps to cross from the kitchen to the closed door. He turned the knob and discovered the door was locked. The lock was a standard issue with a small opening in its center.
Vaughan ran his gloved fingers over the top of the door until they skimmed over a small metal skewer. He pressed the end of it in the hole, and the lock on the other side popped open.
“Not exactly state-of-the-art security,” Hughes quipped.
“Just enough to keep any visitors from wandering into his room.”
He flipped on the light. There was a double bed with no sheets and a rumpled comforter. The nightstand was an old crate box with a small lamp that looked like it had been a find at Goodwill. He crossed the carpeted floor, stepping around more clothes and shoes to open the closet door. It was a walk-in closet with a pull-down entry into the attic.
He switched on the light, and the bulb flickered. Instantly, he was taken aback. The side walls of the large closet were filled with pictures of women. The pictures were divided into two categories. The first set appeared to have been taken before his incarceration. The second set after, and most likely in the past year. In the older set of photos, there were pictures of Marsha and Hadley Prince. Both were young, vibrant, smiling teenagers, and they looked remarkably alike.
Hadley was also featured in the newer images. He had taken pictures of her coming out of the gym, at the grocery store, and jogging along the river. He’d been watching her for months.
It struck Vaughan how much Hadley had changed from the first set of images to the second. She was still fit and still stunning, but the former spark in her gaze had dulled. Most would say that was due to age and time. It happened to everyone. But he had to think the rigid control she’d maintained over her life was a reflection of something deeper and darker.
“There are driver’s licenses of Galina Grant, Veronica Manchester, and Marsha Prince,” Hughes said. “It’s his trophy room.”
He leaned forward and studied the DMV photo of Marsha Prince. She had rich, glowing skin, bright brown eyes, and a broad smile. It had been taken back in the day when the pictures were in color and one could smile. “I keep thinking about that blackened skull found in the storage unit trunk.”
“I contacted Helen Saunders’s apartment manager, and he found her original application. Apparently, he’s been looking for it. Nikki McDonald offered a bounty on it.”
“I give the woman points for her investigative skills. What did you find?”
“Ms. Saunders listed a Marjorie Dalton as her emergency contact. She was Jason’s grandaunt.”
“That explains why he chose her unit to store the bones.”
“But why did he torch them and save them in the first place?”
Vaughan shook his head. “Maybe she was his first. Maybe he thought if he kept her, he’d have some kind of hold on Hadley.” He searched the piles. “Is there anything for Hadley Foster?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen anything yet, beyond the creepy stalker pictures,” she said. “But it could be here.”
“Dalton was recorded on video surveillance at the garage when Hadley Foster was murdered, so he couldn’t have killed her.”
“Do you really think Mark killed his wife?”
“I don’t know.” Vaughan reached for a bag and discovered several burner phones inside. It would take time, but he would bet money they would find links to Nikki’s phone and Skylar’s. “Time to find out what really happened in the Foster house.”
Zoe was not at the hospital long before a surgeon was called into her room. She was asked to wiggle her fingers, something she could not do. And it seemed the harder she tried, the less they responded. She went into surgery that evening to have the muscle, tendons, and, most importantly, the nerves repaired.
The surgery was finished by midnight, and back in her room, she was left with the entire night to think about how she would be able to do her job without a fully functioning right hand. The new world she had created for herself would go the way of the old, wiped away by a violent moment that would echo through her life forever.
Vaughan knocked on her hospital room door at four o’clock in the morning.
“Enter,” she said.
“The nurses told me you weren’t sleeping.”
Cupping her arm, she shifted her position and sat up. “Tell me you’ve talked to the doctor and that there’s no nerve damage. He wasn’t saying much to me earlier.”
He came to her bedside and pulled up a chair. “The tendon and muscle were repaired. We won’t know about permanent nerve damage for a while. Until then, you’ll be in a cast. I’m sorry.”
Sorry never did her any good. “Water under the bridge. When can I get out of here?”
“You’ve only been out of surgery for a few hours.”
“Like I said, when can I get out of here?”
“Tomorrow, if all goes well.”
“I’d rather leave now.” She pushed herself into a sitting position, pausing as her head spun. “Where are my clothes?”
Vaughan arched a brow. “You’ll stay put if you want that wound to heal properly.”
