“You know this area better than me, what do you think a place like this would run?”
Milligan looked around at the space. It had tall windows, high ceilings, hardwood floors, about three thousand square feet of professionally decorated space with sweeping views of the area, and a large private balcony with a hot tub.
“Two million, maybe more.”
“And the building management says she has a Mercedes SL600 parked in the underground garage.”
“That’s well over a hundred grand,” said Milligan.
“Did she inherit?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to dig on that.”
“How long has she been a teacher?”
“She’s been substitute teaching for four years.”
“Before that?”
“She lived in Atlanta for three years.”
“Doing what?”
“We don’t have an occupation, just an address.”
“Before that?”
“Seattle.”
“So no job there either?”
“Not that we could find.”
“Before that?”
“We didn’t find anything else on her.”
“How far does her file go back?”
“When you add it all up, about ten years.”
“But she was nearly sixty. So that takes us back to her late forties. What about before then?”
“We couldn’t find anything. But we haven’t had much time to dig yet. Something else will turn up. And it’ll probably explain the money angle. She might have been injured in an accident and gotten a big settlement. Or maybe a malpractice suit. Hell, maybe she won the lottery.”
Decker didn’t look convinced.
“She’s very neat,” remarked Milligan.
“I think the term would be minimalist,” said Decker, noting the spare furnishings. He walked into the master bedroom and looked through the walk-in closet.
“Four pairs of shoes, a few purses and bags. No jewelry that I can see. And no safe where they might be kept.” He looked at Milligan. “We weren’t rich by any stretch, but my wife had probably thirty pairs of shoes, and about that many purses and bags. And she had some jewelry.”
Milligan nodded. “Mine does too. Do you think Berkshire was just unique, or is it something else?”
“I also haven’t seen a single photo of anyone. Not Berkshire. Or family or friends. Nothing. In fact, the entire place looks like a model unit. I bet she bought it furnished and none of this is even hers.”
“What does that tell us?”
“That maybe she was not who she appeared to be.”
“You think Dabney knew her?”
“Maybe. And did we confirm that she was going to the FBI? I just assumed that because of where she was. But we need more than assumptions now.”
“We’ve confirmed that she wasn’t scheduled to meet with anyone at Hoover. And visitors just coming to tour the place need to file a request ahead of time so the Bureau can do a background check. And there’s no record of such a request for her.”
Decker sat on the bed and looked around the room. “She leaves here, goes to the hospice, and then heads downtown. She had a Metro card in her purse that showed she got off at the Federal Triangle stop about ten minutes before she was killed.”
“And she was seen in one of the surveillance cameras leaving that station.”
“And then Dabney shoots her.”
Milligan stared at Decker. “If he planned to shoot her, how did he know what time she was going to be there? Or that she was going to be there at all?”
“Maybe he was the reason she was there,” suggested Decker.
“What? He communicated with her and told her to meet him outside the FBI building?”
“Maybe.”
“We’re checking phone, email, texts, fax, all the typical communication portals, to see if we can find a connection.”
“They may have done it face-to-face. If so, we may not find a record. If he didn’t plan for her to come there, then only two other explanations make sense. He either knew she was going to be there from some other means—”
“—or it was a coincidence,” finished Milligan. “And he could have easily killed someone other than Berkshire.”
“And if so, for what reason? Why kill a stranger in such a random fashion? Other than the guy being nuts?”
Milligan shook his head. “I don’t have a clue.”
Decker rose off the bed and held up a set of car keys. “They’re to the Mercedes. They were in a drawer in her closet. Let’s go check it out.”
Berkshire’s Mercedes was a silver convertible and sat in a coveted slot near the elevators. Decker used the wireless key fob to open the vehicle, and Milligan began to search it. The confines of the car were too small for the bulky Decker to easily navigate. Milligan handed Decker a packet of materials from the glove box and continued his search.
Five minutes later Milligan got out and shook his head. “Nothing. Smells like it was just taken off the lot.”
Decker held up the envelope Milligan had handed him. “Registration says it’s only three years old. Check the mileage.”
Milligan did so. “About five thousand miles.”
“So she’s barely driven it, really. I wonder how she got to work. Public transportation?”
“There’s no Metro stop within walking distance from here and there’s none where she worked as a teacher. And why would you go by bus if you could drive this baby?”
“We’ll just have to file that one away as another curious question with no current answer.”
Milligan shut the car door and Decker used the key fob to lock it.
Milligan checked his watch. “It’s getting late. So where to now?”
“To see another dying man,” said Decker.
CHAPTER
7
THE BREATHS were coming so slowly now it seemed like the next one would be the very last.
Decker stared down at Walter Dabney for a few moments, as his mind whirred back to the morning when he’d seen this man walking down the street, seemingly without a care, until he pulled out a gun and murdered Anne Berkshire in front of Decker and dozens of other people. Decker’s perfect memory went step by step through that scenario. He came out at the other end, though, not as enlightened as he would have liked.
Sitting in the same chair she had been in earlier was Ellie Dabney. Milligan stood by the door. Bogart and Jamison were on the other side of the bed. Ellie still clasped her husband’s hand.
Decker had learned that the critically injured man had said nothing. He had never even regained consciousness.
Decker knelt next to Ellie. “Mrs. Dabney, when your husband left the house this morning were you up?”
She nodded, the grip on her husband’s hand lessening a bit. “I made him some coffee. And he had his breakfast. Eggs, bacon, roasted potatoes, and toast,” she added, smiling weakly. “I could never get him to eat better.”
“So his appetite was good?”
“He ate everything and had three cups of coffee.”