The unanswered questions from earlier kept circling his brain. Why had Van’s pants been undone? Why had the window been open?
Dominic had checked the evidence logs, but no one had mentioned checking the outside of the property.
Using his cell phone as a flashlight, he pushed back the rhododendron branches, dislodging leaves in a gentle shower. He ran the beam of light over the ground beneath the window, careful to keep Ranger well away from the loose soil. It had rained last week on Wednesday around five PM. A quick shower that had soaked the parched ground. But this space was protected by the bushes and overhanging eaves.
The beam of light picked up a bunch of impressions in the dirt. Footprints. A frisson of alarm traveled over his shoulders and down his spine. Someone had been here. It could be kids daring one another to check out a death scene. It could be reporters looking for a grisly scoop. He was glad the blinds had been firmly closed against prying eyes.
But there was another possibility. Ava Kanas’s theory. Where Van had been murdered…and these could be the footprints of his killer.
Shadows thickened and deepened as the motion sensors timed out, cloaking him in a dense darkness. Dominic backed up and started walking toward the fence on the west side of the property, keeping Ranger close to heel. It was heavy dusk now. No moon. No streetlights illuminating the immediate area. He faced the house and paced about fifteen feet before tripping the motion sensors. He tried the same thing for the security lights at the back of the house. They had even less of a range due to the covered porch.
Ranger sniffed his way along the ground like a dog on a mission. Dominic wished he had the lab’s nose. How much more convenient it would be to be able to identify someone from the scent they left behind.
He walked back to the original spot and stared at the window to Van’s study. He pulled out his cell and made a call, wondering if he was making a massive mistake. “Agent Kanas?”
“Dominic?” The use of his first name caught him off guard. Warm. Intimate. Massive mistake. “What is it?”
She sounded confused. Hell, she was probably home or in bed.
“Meet me at Van’s place. I’ve got something to show you.”
“When?”
“Right now.” He hung up on her, knowing she’d come and not sure how he felt about the bond that was forming between them. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t exclude her from this search for answers. He sure as hell couldn’t ignore her.
These footprints could have nothing to do with Van’s death and everything to do with people’s obsession with the macabre. But the question kept tugging at him. What if Kanas was right? What if someone had murdered Van and then used his death to target another FBI agent? And what if they’d done it before?
Chapter Seven
Ava snagged a booth for her and Sheridan at the back of a bar called the Mule & Pitcher on the outskirts of Fredericksburg not far from where she’d taken down Jimmy Taylor. A friend of hers in the RA had let her sneak a look at Van’s case file earlier. Bank records showed he’d had dinner in this bar. Then he’d gone home and, according to most people in her organization, had accidentally blown his brains out.
She peeled the foil from her bottle of beer with her thumb and tapped the fingers of her other hand on her thigh as she waited for Sheridan to join her. She was surprised he’d called her, but grateful.
She glanced around. She’d never been here before. She preferred Netflix to nightclubs. Except for the occasional night out with the guys after work she tended to spend her spare time in the gym or at the firing range. The last time she’d gone on a date, months ago—to the movies, she remembered now—she’d spotted some loser ripping someone off at an ATM and had chased the sonofabitch four blocks until she’d caught and cuffed him. Her date had been long gone by the time she’d gone back. He’d never called her again.
Van had told her she could be a little intimidating, but she wasn’t going to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She wasn’t about to let somebody get attacked and not do anything about it because her date couldn’t handle it.
She ignored the glances she was getting from a few of the guys in the place. There were still plenty of men who thought a woman alone in a bar meant she was hoping to hook up. She took another swallow of beer and let her expression dispel the notion.
The joint was hopping. Didn’t people know it was a Tuesday night? Surely some of them had to work the next day? Ava winced as one woman fell off her chair and started laughing where she lay on the floor. So, did all her girlfriends. Ava was about to get up and assist when the lady rolled onto her side and heaved herself up.
Good times.
The bar itself was off to the right against the back wall with a small dance floor tucked in near the window. Thankfully no one was dancing and so the music wasn’t too loud. Most people sat in small groups, drinking and laughing. Clientele looked to be early twenties to mid-thirties. Some people had obviously come straight from work while others were dressed more casually, shorts and t-shirts, jeans. Ava touched the evil eye bracelet on her wrist. It was a silly Greek superstition, but the amulet never failed to make her feel better.
Sheridan walked in still wearing that expensive-looking, dark suit and the same blood-red tie he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier that day before cutting Van’s lawn. He looked like a smoking-hot politician or a scorching CEO. Common denominator seemed to involve sex and heat and things she should not be associating with a senior agent at the FBI. She let herself enjoy the view for as long as it took for them to make eye contact and then she lifted her hand in acknowledgment.