CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Interpol Orange Notice: To warn of an event, a person, an object, or a process representing a serious and imminent threat to public safety.
—Interpol.int
Dawson Place
Notting Hill, London
The street ahead was lined with cars. A crime scene was a crime scene no matter what country you were in. A falcon seen on the windowsill. Was it Ardelean? Had he murdered whoever this man was? And why?
Mike flashed her credentials and was through the line and up the stairs to the flat in moments. As she entered, she looked around—so familiar, so normal—aside from the forensic techs in white Tyvek jumpsuits.
A woman was seated on the living room sofa, blank-faced, in shock. She had tissues in one limp hand, a photography bag at her feet. Shouldn’t she be the one taking photos? Not a crime-scene tech, then. A witness, perhaps. But what was she still doing here?
“Mike!”
Mike turned to see Nicholas’s former second-in-command, Gareth Scott, walking toward her. He whipped off his gloves and held out his hand. They shook. “It’s good to see you. Penderley said you’d be along. Thanks for coming so quickly.” He waved a hand around him. “This whole thing with the falcon on the windowsill, Penderley said it had to do with the case you and Nicholas are working here in London. And the poor lad found on the kitchen floor was an American.”
“Good to see you, as well, Gareth. And yes, the falcon—it very likely does tie in with our case. Gareth, this is Ian Sansom, MI5. Ian, this is DI Gareth Scott.”
A big smile bloomed. “It’s Detective Chief Inspector now, Mike, papers signed last week. Sansom? MI5, you say? A pleasure.” And the two men shook hands.
Ian said, “I’m here more as her escort. I’ll not be in the way. Hey, congrats on the bump—the big bump.”
Mike said to Gareth, “He’s all right, Gareth, he works for Mr. Drummond. You removed the victim last night?”
“Very late, yes, but we’ve preserved the crime scene for you. Come this way. And I have photos.”
Gareth led them to the kitchen. She quickly registered the scene as she’d been taught, surroundings first—dinner remains on the counters, the table set with plates and flowers, food still uneaten, candle wax overflowed onto the tablecloth. Evidence placards littered the scene. Gareth pulled up the original crime scene shots on his tablet, showed her the victim’s body.
“His name was Gil Brooks, thirty-two years old. He was a freelance photographer.”
Mike saw the man’s body was contorted, saw blood pooling under his head. “His neck,” Mike said, “Nicholas said the manner of death was unexpected, strange. What am I looking at here?”
Gareth swiped to a close-up of the wound. “You can see the two small holes, right over the jugular? We don’t know what the killer used, but he knew exactly where to strike. He bled out very quickly.”
Mike looked through the photos, looked into the young man’s sightless eyes, the bluish bruising around his neck, the two narrow holes. She looked up. “But he wasn’t exsanguinated?”
“No,” Gareth said. “Superintendent Penderley and I briefly discussed the Vampire Killer who’s been roaming over Europe the past couple of years. As far as we know, this is his first stop in the U.K. But why this man? He’s not Brit, he’s not Romanian as most victims have been, no, he’s an American. What do you know about this, Mike?”
“All I know is what I happened to see in an Interpol notice, a killer poking tubes of some kind into victims’ necks and draining their blood—the Vampire Killer, or Dracula.”
Gareth nodded. “But as you said, this victim wasn’t exsanguinated. Do you think it’s the same killer?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “I do.”
“Well,” Gareth said, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. And it gets better. The lady on the couch is a wedding photographer. She was hired by our victim to show up to take engagement photographs. She came promptly at ten o’clock last night. The door was cracked open, and she found him.”
“He was engaged? Where is his fiancée?”
“We don’t know. I spoke to the photographer last night, but she was rattled. She agreed to come back to meet with you. Let’s see what you can get out of her.”
Her name was Becca Chance. After introductions, she turned beautiful brown eyes to Mike. “You’re FBI, like in America?”
“Yes, that’s right. You were here to take engagement photos? Were you a friend of the deceased?”
“He’s not—he wasn’t a friend. Mr. Brooks is—was—a client. He hired me to come take photos of him and his girlfriend. He said he was going to propose right before I got here. He was so excited.” She paused, closed her eyes a moment. Mike lightly laid her hand over hers. She swallowed, straightened. “I’m all right. When I got here, the door was open, and I came in, called for him, and I found him. He was dead on the floor in the kitchen.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “There was so much blood. How could she do this?”
“She?” Mike asked.
“His girlfriend. Who else?”
Mike glanced around. There was a single photo of a couple on the coffee table. She pointed at it.
“Do you have her name?”
“It’s Isabella Marin. She’s a doctor of some kind. I didn’t ask. Why? Mr. Brooks was very nice, a lovely man.”
A cop stuck his head in the door. “DC Scott? Landlord is here, finally, says he has the rental contract. He told us about the security camera in the stairwell and the lift. It’s concealed, and he’s pulling the tape for us. Five minutes.”
Mike said, “There’s luck. Ms. Chance, did you see anyone as you came in the building? Did Mr. Brooks ring you in, or did you come in yourself?”
“As I’ve already said to DC Scott here, the apartment building front doors were open. I let myself in the foyer and came up the stairs, and no, I didn’t see anyone. It felt strange, though. I remember feeling the hair stand up on the back of my neck right before I knocked. It felt like someone was watching me.”
Mike said, “We’ll see what the cameras show. One last thing. When was this gig booked?”
“Over a month ago. I’d have to check my calendar for the exact date.”
“Thank you for being so clear and concise. I appreciate your coming back to speak to me. I’m very sorry you had to be here. This is all very difficult.”
She and Gareth moved to the door together, and the cop standing there led them to the first floor. “Landlord has the video queued.” He took her arm. “Mike, the falcon seen on the windowsill, why is this so important that Penderley asked you specifically to come here?”
“As soon as I can, Gareth, I’ll tell you all about it. Please, be patient.”
The landlord was older, midsixties, no-nonsense, and short on words, something Mike appreciated.
He nodded to her, and all he said was, “Here,” and pushed the small television toward Mike and Gareth.
Mike could see the camera footage was black and white, the angle geared for the stairwell, but the elevator foyer was visible.
They watched for a few minutes—empty hallway, empty elevator—then a man’s head came into view. She could see sandy-brown hair but not his face. He turned to step into the elevator, and she caught a glimpse of glasses. The video went blank when the elevator doors closed.
Mike asked, “Wait, Gareth, did you see a beard?”
“Yes—dark brown, darker than his hair.” Gareth said to the landlord, “Is there a full frontal shot of his face on this?”
“Keep watching. I’m gonna speed it up.”
Twenty minutes later, according to the time stamp, the elevator door dinged, and Mike saw the man exit, still without a good shot of his face, but now, there was a girl on his arm. She was walking slowly, heavily. The man was almost dragging her along.
“Oh my, that’s Dr. Marin,” the landlord said, rising out of his seat. “What’s he doing to her?”
Mike watched them walk out of the shot, and almost right away, Becca Chance, the photographer, appeared in the foyer.
The killer had been in and out in less than twenty minutes.
Gareth said, “Doesn’t look like Dr. Marin murdered her fiancé. She looks drunk, or drugged.”
Gareth said, “The garage is beneath the building, so he lucked out that no one was around to see anything.”
Mike turned to the landlord. “Can you give us all the information you have on Dr. Marin?”
“Already did, to this gentleman here.” He shook his head. “Poor lady, whatever happened—well, sure, she’s been a good tenant, her boyfriend, too, both on the lease.”
“Here, Mike,” Gareth said, and handed her a file.
Mike said, “I see Isabella is American, from Florida, works at the British Museum.”
The landlord was shaking his head. “Both of them, nice kids, quiet, rent’s on time, paid in full. Mr. Brooks travels. He’s a photographer for the Globe. Nature, war, that kind of stuff. What’s wrong with people?”
Gareth asked Mike, “Any emergency contacts on the paperwork?”
“Looks like a three-eight-six area code and the name Nadia Marin. That’s Florida. We’ll have to get in touch as soon as we know what’s happened.”
“Pretty clear to me,” the landlord said, and now the man once short on words, spewed. “Mr. Brooks’s been murdered, right here in my building! And poor Dr. Marin’s been kidnapped. Who would do this? A maniac, I know it’s some crazy. Do something.”