“And who should they call?” Marcus asks.
As the phone numbers of several jurisdictions flash on the bottom of the screen, Marcus looks into the camera. His brow is furrowed and his lips draw into a grim line. When he speaks again, his voice cracks with emotion. “If you know anything, please call.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sunday, March 18, 2018; 10:00 a.m.
Adler pulled up in front of the Crowleys’ white colonial located at the end of a cul-de-sac. The lawn was neatly manicured, and freshly mulched beds were filled with azaleas ready to bloom. A yard flag hanging on the mailbox read SPRING. The house’s wide front porch sported several rockers and yellow crime scene tape now tied between the posts.
He tried to imagine Kaitlin pulling up here. He’d bet she’d been anxious to interview Erika, given the fact that she’d left her class early and arrived here thirty minutes after she’d received Erika’s text.
Technically Kaitlin’s stabbing wasn’t his case. Her case wasn’t a homicide, and this county wasn’t his jurisdiction. But he refused to stand on the sidelines, so he’d called his counterparts in the county and asked for and received the all clear to poke around the crime scene.
He crossed the street and strode up the driveway, noticing the bushes by the front of the house. They were tall and thick and a good place for someone to hide. Up the front stairs, he studied the brass lock. There were no signs of forced entry. The door had to have been unlocked or perhaps open when Kaitlin arrived.
He pulled on latex gloves. Breaking the tape, he used the key he’d gotten from the forensic investigator and opened the front door. A flip of a switch in the foyer turned on the lights of a chandelier and cast a warm glow over a collection of art hanging on the walls. The faint scent of pine cleaner clung to polished floors now littered with dozens of footprints left by the responding officers, EMTs, and the forensic team.
His gaze dropped to the dried pool of blood and a discarded gauze pad stained red. The blood was Kaitlin’s.
Anger rolled through him as he thought about her lying here clinging to her life.
When Adler had received the text from Novak about her stabbing, he’d driven directly to the hospital. His badge had gotten him onto her floor and access to her doctor, who’d told him the assailant’s knife had missed all the major organs but had nicked an artery. A few more minutes and she’d have bled out.
The doctor’s assessment reminded him of conversations he’d had with Logan’s doctors after the explosion. They’d said because Adler had used his belt as a tourniquet to bind his partner’s left leg, he’d bought Logan the critical minutes that saved his life.
Kaitlin and Logan were fighters, tenacious and driven. And although neither thought of themselves as defenseless, that’s what they were just now, and it was up to him to protect them both.
The sound of footsteps on the front porch sent his hand to his weapon as he turned to see Quinn. She wore jeans, a white blouse, a tailored black jacket, and midheeled boots.
He lowered his hand.
“Adler,” Quinn said. “I heard you were headed this way. Thought you could use a second set of eyes.”
“There’s not much to see.”
She tugged on latex gloves, stepped around the pool of blood, and moved past the two-story foyer into the living room and the bank of French doors that overlooked woods. “Pretty nice home.”
“Brad Crowley does well for himself. He’s a plastic surgeon who’s made a name doing nip and tucks.”
“Does Erika work?” she asked.
“She’s a homemaker.”
Quinn moved back toward him and studied the bloodstain. “I talked to a buddy of mine in county police. The security cameras across the street recorded Kaitlin visiting Erika on Friday morning.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“So she’s awake?”
“As of an hour ago. I just came from the hospital.”
“Can she identify her attacker?”
“No. And she was wiped out when I left.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened as she shook her head. “So, what’s the deal with her? Her name keeps coming up.”
“She’s at the center of all this. Her podcast project was likely a trigger for someone who doesn’t want her digging up the past. If I had any doubts about Jennifer’s death being connected to Gina’s, I don’t anymore.”
“I thought Hayward said he could lead you to Gina?” Quinn asked.
“He says he will as soon as his attorney gets the plea agreement in writing. That should happen early next week.”
“He couldn’t have killed Jennifer.”
“Agreed.”
“Could he have collaborated with someone? Maybe an accomplice knew what happened to Gina and was willing to kill to protect it. Maybe Jennifer wasn’t just an innocent victim?”
“I’ve asked myself all these questions,” Adler said.
“How about this one. Ever stop to wonder if Hayward is working with Kaitlin? Maybe he used her to broker the deal with you and Ricker.”
“That’s possible.”
Quinn rested her hands on her hips. “I hear a but.”
“I think Hayward enjoys hurting Kaitlin, and when she contacted him at the jail, she gave him the perfect opening to do just that,” Adler said.
“You think he’s lying about Gina and this is all a sick joke to him?” Quinn asked.
“It’s a real possibility, but I think he does know where Gina is, and he wants Kaitlin to have a front-row seat at the big reveal,” Adler said.
“Kaitlin broke up with Hayward, correct?” Quinn asked.
“So she says.”
“It’s been fourteen years.”
“Maybe he still feels possessive toward her.”
“Possessive goes hand in hand with anger. If he can’t have her, he’ll go out of his way to hurt her.”
Adler nodded. “He must know whatever information he has will hurt her.”
“Or, playing devil’s advocate, she still has a thing for him and she’s using you to plead his case. What’re the chances he’d have any kind of deal without her?”
As tempted as Adler was to reject Quinn’s idea outright, he couldn’t. “She didn’t stab herself.”
“Allegedly,” Quinn responded.
Adler was silent. Quinn was asking all the right questions, but his gut told him Kaitlin was a victim. However, gut feelings weren’t proof. “Any word on Erika or Brad Crowley’s whereabouts?”
“According to my buddy in county police, nowhere to be found. No activity on their credit cards or cells. GPS on Erika Crowley’s car led the county detective to a gas station parking lot on Route 1.”
“That’s not the burbs. What was she doing there?” Adler asked.
“Good question. Normally on Saturdays she takes a yoga class. But she didn’t show up to class yesterday. Seems for a couple of months Erika has been parking at the yoga studio but skipping the Saturday-morning class and heading across the street for coffee.”
“Is she meeting someone?” Adler asked.
“The studio owner didn’t know.”
“We need to look at that car. And visit that coffee shop.”
“Agreed,” Quinn said.
“The county detectives are digging into the Crowleys’ financials?” he asked.
“They’ve requested a warrant.”
“What kind of car does Brad Crowley drive?” Adler asked.
Pages in her notebook flipped. “Crowley drives a Lamborghini. And currently it’s parked at a hotel in the city. He’s registered there, but he isn’t on the premises now.”
“Why’s he at a hotel?” Adler asked.
“Apparently he spent a lot of time there in the last year. I spoke to his office, and he’s supposed to be attending a conference in northern Virginia for a few more days. He’s not answering his phone.”
“Just because the car is in Richmond doesn’t mean he’s not at the conference.”
“My buddy is trying to confirm that,” Quinn said.
Adler stepped around the bloodstain and moved into the center room. His gaze was drawn to the vaulted ceiling, the stone fireplace, and the sleek leather furniture. The Crowleys lived well and had spared no expense. Status mattered to them.