CHAPTER ONE
Richmond, Virginia
Thursday, March 15, 2018; 9:00 p.m.
Homicide detective John Adler held up his badge for the uniformed cop and caught the young officer’s surprised expression. There’d been lots of rumors circling around about Adler during his prolonged leave of absence. He had kept up enough to hear his new nicknames, including Firewalker, Burning Man, and his favorite, Hot Pants. He didn’t begrudge the dark sense of humor cops developed to stay sane.
Three months ago, Adler and his rookie partner, Greg Logan, had been investigating an arsonist who’d set seven fires in the Richmond area and killed three people. Working off an informant’s tip, they’d approached what they thought was one of the arsonist’s former residences.
Adler had entered first. Logan had been ten feet behind him when Adler flipped on a kitchen light switch, which instantly triggered an incendiary device. The blast blew behind Adler and seared the skin on his back as its force threw him forward. His ears ringing and fire roaring around him, he’d pushed up on his hands and knees and staggered toward his partner, who had been near the explosion. Logan had been thrown across the room and was lying in a heap.
He’d pulled his partner from the burning house and called for help. They’d both survived, but Adler had spent a couple of weeks in the burn unit. Logan had lost his left leg.
The uniform shifted and, lifting the tape, grinned. “Detective Adler. Good to have you back, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a hero.”
Though he didn’t mind the humorous nicknames, Adler hated the designation of hero, a title he didn’t want or deserve. “Is Detective Quinn inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
The crime scene tape was looped over the wrought iron railing of the townhome in the historic Church Hill district. Spring was teasing the city with a warm spell and had lulled them into thinking winter had passed. But he knew Mother Nature wasn’t ready to dismiss winter.
This section of town was picturesque and loaded with charm. Finished with the buzz of nightlife and the lure of laughing crowds, he’d opted to move out of the city to the country two months ago. He liked the idea of not locking his doors, but he had been a homicide cop too long not to.
He climbed the steep stone steps and strode across the porch past an oval brass plaque that read RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, 1903. This house, like the city, had deep roots. Church Hill was the original location of the city, and then like most urban areas suffered when the population fled to the suburbs. Now the tide had changed, and after decades of neglect and decay, Church Hill was enjoying a renaissance. Young professionals seeking a trendy address were willing to ignore poverty and crime. They snapped up these forgotten homes and undertook major renovations while keeping the architectural charm of the period. The drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes would have to live somewhere else.
Adler fished out black latex gloves from his coat pocket as he paused in the entryway. This house had the typical floor plan of its era. It was built long and narrow with high ceilings. To the right, a parlor connected to a dining room via huge wooden pocket doors. The occupant had done what many did and flipped the parlor and dining rooms. When the pocket doors were closed, expensive home-entertainment and computer equipment were hidden from view and hopefully safe from theft.
The center hallway shot straight to a kitchen, and he caught a glimpse of the standard white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, the favorite of current remodelers. To his left was a long staircase with an ornate hand railing rising to the second floor. The flash of a camera above told him he’d find his latest case upstairs.
The 911 call had come from the victim’s sister. They’d planned a night out, which included a lecture and then drinks. When the sister couldn’t get the victim to answer the door, she’d used her key. She found her sister stabbed in the shower.
Adler threaded his fingers together, working the gloves deeper onto his hands as he paused by the stairs and looked toward a side table where a woman’s oversize black purse sat. Next to it were keys attached to a brass key ring shaped like the letter C. Several steps from the table were black pumps. One stood upright, and the other tilted gently against it like an old friend. It didn’t appear she had been hurried or forcibly rushed when she came in the door.
He walked toward the kitchen, where an open bottle of wine sat on the marble counter. He moved to the back door in the kitchen. The dead bolt was unlocked. He twisted the knob, and as he pulled the heavy door open, he heard a chime. The security system appeared to be in working order.
A brick patio covered most of the backyard. There was a strip of grass and then a garage. An alley was just over the fence. It would’ve been easy enough to walk up the alley after dark and slip into the yard without being noticed.
He stepped back into the house, then moved toward the stairs leading to the second floor. More flashes and the buzz of conversation drew him to the front bedroom overlooking part of the side alley between this house and the neighboring one, as well as East Broad Street.
He saw a skirted four-poster bed, and beside it, discarded undergarments as well as a forensic technician’s yellow evidence marker. The undergarments weren’t ripped or torn. It appeared as if the victim had removed them while undressing. Slip off shoes downstairs, pour wine, strip.
His attention shifted to the bathroom, where a forensic technician snapped pictures of a nude female’s body sitting upright in the shower. Her legs were spread, and her hands lay on the inside of each thigh. She appeared to have been posed.
He pushed aside the disgust he felt in the face of such sadistic violence and focused on what this evidence told him about the killer. It had not been enough to murder her. She had to be humiliated. Whoever had done this had been angry.
She’d been stabbed multiple times in the abdomen, arm, and neck. One of the cuts had hit her jugular and left arterial spray on the glass door and tile walls. She had soap in her hair. Shampoo bottles lined a niche, but one lay outside the shower.
“Victim’s name was Jennifer Ralston, aged thirty-two,” Detective Monica Quinn said as she came up behind him.
Adler faced his newest partner. Quinn, generally efficient and composed, looked stricken. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her posture was rigid. Her five-foot-ten, chiseled frame was the by-product of daily weight training and running. No matter how long the job kept her each day, she worked out. Breaking a sweat and drinking single malt whiskey kept her sane. Judging by her expression, she’d be logging more miles on the road and extra shots before bed.
He understood doing whatever it took to process this job. His sanity these days came in the form of bathroom demolition and remodeling.
Quinn smiled. “Glad to have you back.”
“Hell of a first day back on the job.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t pack it in after the explosion.”
His father had wanted him to do just that, reminding Adler that his private-school education and University of Virginia law school degree were wasted as long as he carried a cop’s badge. Time to run for state senate. Adler had disagreed.
“I like my job.”
Her gaze lingered an extra beat. “How’s Logan doing?”
“Mending. Still has a lot of rehab in front of him.”
A brow arched. “I offered to visit, but he said no.”
“Don’t ask the next time. Otherwise he’ll never say yes.”
“Duly noted.” She flipped open her notebook.
“I saw the victim’s purse in the entryway,” Adler said. “Was anything taken?”
“Doesn’t appear so. Her wallet was there with cash and credit cards intact. Her phone is on her nightstand. Nothing appears disturbed in the house. I’d bet money, judging by how clean everything is, that she puts the purse and keys in the same place every day.”
“The back door was unlocked.”
“And there are footprints in the backyard by the alley fence. I think our guy left through the back door.”
“How did he get in without tripping the alarm?”
“Good question. Her sister used her key to get in the front door and said the alarm was set. Said the victim is always mindful of security and always had the alarm on.”
The killer knew the security code and had a key. “Is there a lock on the side and alley gates?”
“Yes. They’re combination, both brand-new, identical, and locked.”
“Why would the victim not have heard the security chime?”
“I think he was in the house before she arrived home,” Quinn said.
“He was waiting for her?”
She walked toward the yellow evidence marker by the bed and lifted the beige bed skirt. “Have a look.”
He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and shone it underneath. The beam skimmed over wood floors, and there were white tulips arranged into the shape of a heart. “Jesus. He was waiting for her under the bed.”
Quinn’s lips curled in contempt. “Yes, he was.”
“Did he leave any other mementos behind?”
“No. But the forensic team is also going to sweep under the bed. Keep your fingers crossed for hair samples, a fingerprint, saliva, or semen. The team estimates they have at least twelve hours of evidence collection in front of them.”
“Why isn’t there a trail of blood leading from the bathroom?” Adler asked. “The killer should have been drenched in it.”
“Our boy must be watching CSI and worried he’d leave DNA behind,” Quinn said. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he wore a personal protection suit. He figured it would keep the blood off him and contain the DNA.”
There’d been no signs of blood on the stairs or in the kitchen. “So the killer strips off the suit in here and bags it along with whatever he used to clean himself up.”
“That’s my guess.”
He straightened. “Signs of sexual assault?”
“Impossible to tell. That’s the medical examiner’s call, but there’s no bruising on her arms, legs, breasts, or groin area, and there appears to have been no struggle in the bedroom. I think he waited for her, and when she stepped into the shower, he made his move.”
“Did you shut off the water?”
“No. It was off when I arrived here. Ms. Ralston’s sister, Ashley, thinks the water was turned off when she arrived. She was pretty hysterical when I spoke to her.”
“Where’s she now?”
“In one of the cruisers out front.”
Another look into the bathroom allowed him a better view of the body. The victim was young, pretty, and fit. As he searched her still-stricken features, his gaze rose to the spot above her head. Drawn in blood on the wall of the shower was a heart. “Another heart?”
Quinn’s expression was grim. “Sick bastard.”
“The killer turned off the water because he wanted us to see his message. Why the hearts?” Adler asked.
“I don’t know, but I bet there’s nothing random about this.”
Quinn was right. It would have taken time.
The detective work would soon shift to knocking on doors and searching for any surveillance cameras that may have captured images of the intruder.
He returned his focus to the victim’s home environment. He noted, as Quinn had said, that Jennifer Ralston kept her home immaculate. Her matching gray towels were monogrammed with the letters JR and were clean and neatly folded. Her razor had a fresh blade, and a collection of perfumes lined a sparkling mirrored tray. In her medicine chest was an old prescription bottle for an antibiotic and a much more recent one for anxiety. The same physician’s assistant practicing at the nearby hospital had prescribed both.
“Lady keeps her house neat,” Adler said.
“Too neat.”
Her straight-backed posture and the crisp lines of her blouse and jeans had him commenting, “You always struck me as the orderly type.”
She closed her notebook. “My gym bag is organized, and my house is acceptable. Ms. Ralston took organization to a higher level.”
“Maybe.”
“Speaking of homes, I hear you’re ripping apart a shack in Ashland.”
“I am.”
“You needed a project?”
“I did.”
Two and a half weeks after the explosion, the day the doctors amputated Logan’s left leg below the knee, he’d bought the seventy-year-old three-thousand-square-foot house in Ashland, an old railroad town twenty miles north of Richmond. The historic home was located in the city center, and he’d paid over asking price to close the deal. In less than a week, he’d had a contractor lined up to help him demo and gut the downstairs. While on leave, he’d filled his time meeting with architects, designers, and landscape architects and visiting Logan.
The reno was a couple of weeks from completion, and the breakneck pace had cost him a small fortune. But he was in the house and finding a new routine. These days he rose before five a.m. thanks to the Amtrak train that lumbered along the track through the center of Ashland. The beast rattled every plate and window, and at first, it had startled him awake. Now the rumble, grind, and squeak of the engine’s wheels were comforting reminders that life moved on. You had to keep moving, or you were going to be left behind or run over.
Downstairs the uniformed officer posted at the front door greeted a new arrival. Seconds later the clatter of a stretcher on the first floor signaled the entrance of the medical examiner’s two technicians. The pair carried up the gurney, but the woman trailing behind them approached the detectives. She was tall, slim, and in her midthirties. Long dark hair was coiled into a bun at the base of her neck.
“I’m Jessica Everett. I’m a death investigator with the medical examiner’s office. Are we clear to remove the body?”
Adler and Quinn nodded to each other and stepped back.
Everett moved to the bathroom threshold, and her expression softened briefly with sadness before she crossed to the body. She laid her hand on the victim’s shoulder as if offering comfort. She and her assistants then laid out the body bag and gently lifted Jennifer’s naked body into it.
As she zipped up the pouch, the room’s heavy silence was shattered by footsteps and heated voices echoing from downstairs and then a very loud, “I want to see the police! If I have to sit any longer in that damned car, I’m going to go insane!”
Peering down the stairs, Adler spotted a young woman dressed in jeans, a gray silk top, and a tailored black jacket. She wore her brown hair in a tight ponytail that accentuated dark-framed glasses.
Her gaze locked on Adler. “I need a cop who can give me answers.”
Adler glanced back and motioned to Jessica to halt. “Let me get her out of the house first.”
“Of course,” Jessica said.
He descended the stairs and escorted the woman outside, away from her sister’s body and the ME’s technicians. “I’m Detective John Adler.”
“Is Jennifer really dead? I saw all the blood, but I was afraid to touch her.”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s gone.”
She ran a shaking hand over her head. “I can’t believe I was too terrified to touch my own sister.”
“I know it was tough for you.” Adler led her down the sidewalk several paces and angled her so she couldn’t see the front steps of her sister’s home. “No one would blame you for being afraid and upset. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Ashley Ralston. I live in Rocketts Landing. We were supposed to go to a lecture tonight. Jesus, I told her to be careful. I told her to call the cops again, but she said she had it handled.” Her tone reflected frustration, grief, and shock.
“Why did you want your sister to call the cops again?”
Confusion and annoyance knotted her brows. “Because she had a vibe someone was watching her. She was certain it was a stalker.”
“What made your sister believe she was being watched?” Adler kept his voice calm, almost monotone, hoping she’d hear his steadiness. His life might be a chaotic cluster with his return to work, the renovation of a new home, and keeping up with Logan’s recovery, but he could still be her momentary life raft.
She drew in a deep breath. “No specific issues she could put her finger on except the cat.”
“Cat?”
“Jennifer came home a couple of weeks ago and Morris was missing.”
“Maybe she accidently let him out.”
“That’s what she thought at first, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that the last time she saw Morris he was sunning himself on the sofa in the front room. He did that every morning. Jennifer searched for hours and put up flyers all over the neighborhood, but no one ever contacted her.”
“Was there anything else bothering your sister?”
“The feeling you get when someone has been in your house, but you can’t prove it.” Ashley shoved out a breath. “She said the other day she hadn’t had the feeling in a few days. She thought maybe it was work stress. Too much caffeine.” Tears filled her eyes, and she pressed her fingertips against closed lids. When she looked up, the tears fell down her cheeks. “How did Jennifer die?”
“We’re still collecting evidence,” Adler deflected. “Did she receive any letters or communication giving her reason to worry?”
“She said no, but I’m not sure. It was like she was always trying to convince herself this problem couldn’t be real in the face of everything else she had going on.”
“What else was happening in her life?”
“She had trouble at work, and this house was way too expensive for her to maintain.” She brushed away a tear. “And she kept telling me she was over the breakup but, again, I wasn’t convinced.”
“A breakup. Who had she been dating?” Quinn asked as she joined them on the sidewalk.
Ashley dragged the back of her hand over her nose. “She saw a guy from work for a while. He ended it months ago, but she still missed him.”
“How did it end?” Quinn pressed.
“As far as breakups go, it was benign. Jennifer said it was smarter to keep the sex out of the office.”
“What’s the guy’s name?” Adler asked.
“Jeremy Keller. He’s one of the partners at her company, Keller and Mayberry.”
Adler pulled out a black leather notebook. “What’s your address and phone number?”
She recited the information.
From a pocket in the notebook cover, he pulled out a business card. “What type of cat was Morris?”
“A purebred Siamese. He has a chip.”
“Okay. I want you to call me directly if you recall anything else. I’ll likely have more questions for you later.”
She took the card and absently flicked the edge with her finger. “Sure. Thank you.”
“You said you live in Rocketts Landing?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you drive?”
“No, I Ubered over.”
“I’ll have an officer take you home.”
As she turned to leave, Adler asked almost as an afterthought, “What was the lecture you were planning to attend tonight?”
“A local communications professor was speaking. We went to high school with her. She’s making some kind of documentary or podcast about a classmate of Jennifer’s who went missing fourteen years ago. I’m not really sure about the particulars of this lecture. It could be anything, knowing Kaitlin. She always did march to her own drum.”
“What’s Kaitlin’s last name?”
“Roe.” She pulled out her phone. “I have the address. Jennifer texted it to me.”
Adler scribbled the name Roe.
“It’s a warehouse studio just across the river in the Manchester district.” She rattled off the address and time. “She’s probably still there. There was a reception after her talk. Until ten, I think. What does Kaitlin have to do with Jennifer?”
“Maybe nothing. Trying to piece together her last day.”
“Jesus, it’s her last day.” She tipped back her head, but the tears rolled along her cheeks. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
He motioned to the patrolman who’d approached. “This officer will take you home.”
She looked up at the house. “I can’t leave my sister.”
“We’ll look after her,” Adler said. “I promise.”
She wiped away another tear and allowed the officer to escort her to the waiting patrol car. She didn’t take her eyes off Adler as the car drove away.
Quinn handed him a printed postcard encased in a plastic evidence bag as the medical technicians carried the stretcher onto the porch and down the steps toward the waiting van. “It’s a handmade invitation to a lecture scheduled for tonight,” she said.
Adler studied the postcard. The time was underlined with three red lines.
He flipped the card over to see a black-and-white image of huge boulders in the rapids of the James River. The picture captured the rising sun illuminating a thick mist hovering above the river’s waters. He knew the location of the picture. It was Pony Pasture, a popular spot where people gathered on warm days to sun, swim, and drink.
“Kaitlin Roe.” Saying the name drew the memory closer to the surface. And then he remembered.