In the wallet’s back compartment was a photograph of a dark-haired man in his thirties with a young girl who appeared to be about six or seven. The man’s smile looked weary. The girl had a round face, braids, and a bright smile. The child’s olive-toned coloring told Novak she couldn’t have been Rita in her younger days. However, he recognized the location. It had been taken at a popular soccer complex. Bella had played soccer, and he’d spent many an afternoon there on the sidelines with his dad.
Oddly, the man looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place the face. His body was lean and fit, and his bearing suggested former military or cop.
“Could you hold that up for me?” Natasha asked.
He held up the wallet with the picture.
Natasha snapped a dozen images. “The picture looks like it was taken at least twenty years ago. The dude looks a little retro.”
“When did the early nineties become retro?” he asked.
“If you have to ask . . .”
Novak let the comment pass. “Can I pull the picture from the wallet?”
“Hold it by the edges and move slowly. If it sticks at all, stop,” Natasha said.
Novak pinched the edge and pulled gently. The plastic casing cracked and bent enough to allow the picture to pull clear.
He studied the man in the picture closer. A name danced out of reach.
He turned the image over and found writing on the back.
Jim and Julia Vargas. Soccer practice, September 1992.
“Jim Vargas,” he said, more to himself. Damn. The man’s daughter, Julia Vargas, was a cop. “He was honored at the Chamber of Commerce’s award ceremony a few weeks ago.”
“Yep. He was a homicide detective in Richmond.”
Novak had been at the event, and he’d read Jim Vargas’s bio in the program. The man had been a legend in the narcotics and homicide departments. This guy’s world-weary features barely resembled the police academy picture used in the program.
“There was controversy at my banquet table over his receiving an award twenty-five years after he died,” Natasha said. “Some weren’t happy about listing him.”
When Jim Vargas’s name had been called out, Julia, a tall, slim woman from the table beside his, had risen, walked to the podium, and accepted the award. She said thank you and promptly left the banquet hall.
“Vargas investigated the Hangman cases,” Natasha said. “He shot himself. There was no note, but some thought he’d known more about the Hangman case than he’d let on.”
“Strung up his victims by their necks. They all asphyxiated.”
Novak studied the face of the smiling young girl standing so proudly by her father. She barely resembled the lean woman who’d carefully guarded her emotions. Julia.
“The daughter, Julia, became a cop,” Natasha said. “She works for the Virginia State Police. She was in the news with her partner about a month ago.”
Novak knew the case. He had first heard of Julia Vargas when Bella showed him the article about a killer dubbed the Dollmaker. Bella wanted to be a cop and had homed in on the female agent’s success. He’d been smart enough not to comment, still betting college would change her course toward medicine or business. Shit, he’d even settle for basket weaving, just as long as it didn’t involve guns and dark alleys.
Two days after the article had come out, he’d collected his citation at the banquet and quietly slipped out. He’d found Julia in the stairwell leaning against a cement wall, fingering an unopened packet of cigarettes and clutching her old man’s award in her hand. Slim pants accentuated her long limbs, and a white silk blouse and black blazer drew his attention to her full breasts. When his gaze lifted to her thick ebony hair, deep-set brown eyes, and high cheekbones, he was hooked.
They’d stumbled through small talk. He’d suggested a drink. She’d agreed. And they’d been in a hotel bed two hours later. The sex had been hot, but she’d been cool and distant when she dressed in the morning. He’d thought that was that. But forgetting her had been impossible. He lasted only two days before he called to ask to see her again. Since then, they’d been in bed a half-dozen times in the last three weeks, but he knew little else about her beyond the headlines. It was her bed he’d left an hour ago.
He pulled off his glasses. Julia was tense by nature, and she never talked about her childhood or her father. The couple of times he’d tried to turn a conversation toward her past, she found a way to make him so horny he couldn’t think.
He took a picture of the father-daughter image and carefully put it back in the wallet.
He rose, left the purse with Natasha, and moved back toward the uniformed officer. “Where’s the new homeowner?”
“His name is Mike Rice, owner of Rice Renovation. He’s out front in a squad car. He closed on the property last week and was supposed to begin demo in a month. If not for the fire, we’d have found her soon enough.”
“He never did a walk-through before he bought the place?”
“Bought it sight unseen.”
Novak looked at the door leading to the room. He saw a freshly cut padlock dangling from a hinge. “Who cut the lock?” he asked Natasha.
“When the fire crew inspected the basement, they saw the lock and used bolt cutters. As soon as they shone a light in here, they saw the victim.”
“Good. Thanks, Natasha. Is there anything else I need to see?”
“No, but check with me tomorrow. I may have more.”
“Thanks.”
Novak searched the corners of the basement. The space was filled with old chairs, a broken stove, a claw-foot bathtub, and a marble mantel.
“Are you going to call Julia Vargas about the picture?” Natasha asked.
Novak wanted Julia to hear it from him. “Yes.”
He climbed the stairs and moved outside. He found the homeowner now leaning against a squad car, a cup of hot coffee cradled in his hand. One booted foot tapped impatiently.
Novak introduced himself. “And you are?”
“Mike Rice. They said a detective was coming and I had to wait until I talked to you before I could leave.”
Novak dug a notebook and small pen from his breast pocket. He flipped the notebook open. “Thank you for sticking around.”
“That’s all right.” He shoved out a breath.
“Have any idea how the fire started?”
“The captain asked me that several times. I have no idea. It could be anything with a run-down old house like this.”
“This has to be a first for you,” Novak said.
A calloused finger scraped at the side of the coffee cup. “The first walk-through on places like this always has a surprise or two. Usually it’s mold, rotting wood, or vagrants. This is my first dead body.”
“What do you mean by places like this?”
“The property has been vacant at least ten years, maybe more. Lots of damage happens to a house when it’s abandoned.”
Novak clicked the top of his pen a couple of times. “Whom did you buy the house from?”
“From the city. They took it over about two years ago when back taxes weren’t paid. I can’t tell you who they seized the property from, but the title search turned up clean.”
“I’m going to send a cadaver dog through the house. Just in case.”
Rice glanced toward the house, his frown deepening. “Holy shit, you think there are more?”
“Let’s hope not, but I’d like to check.”
“Sure. I’ll be ripping out walls as soon as you let me back inside. Be nice to know there are no more unwelcome surprises.”