Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“Did anyone find a car belonging to Walsh nearby?” Evans asked Guthridge.

“No, but we’ve got an APB out,” the sergeant answered.

Evans stood up and copied the address on the license into a notebook. Then he replaced the wallet in the evidence bag and handed it back to Hillerman.

“I really want to catch this son of a bitch,” Evans muttered.

“I’ll drink to that,” Standish said before taking a sip of coffee.

Guthridge’s cell phone rang. He stepped away and pressed it to his ear. After a brief conversation, the sergeant returned to the small group.

“They just found Walsh’s car in a remote part of the lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. The car won’t start because someone disconnected the battery, and there’s blood on the driver’s seat.”

“Is there a crowd around the car?” Evans asked.

“No. A security guard noticed the car sitting by itself before the mall opened and got suspicious. When he saw the blood he called it in.”

“I’m going to send a forensic team out there. But we’ll tow the car as soon as they give the okay. Play this down.”

“I’m on it,” Guthridge said.

Evans talked to one of the members of the forensic team before walking over to the Dumpster. He held his breath when he looked in so he wouldn’t have to smell the odor of rotting food that permeated the area behind the restaurant.

“Where was she lying?” he asked.

Hillerman handed Evans a bag with crime scene photos that had been snapped before the body had been removed. The top shot showed Walsh’s corpse splayed across several black garbage bags. He rifled through the other shots, which documented the place where the body had been found and the condition of the Dumpster after the body was removed. All of the other victims had been found in Dumpsters. Evans didn’t have to be an English lit major to figure out the symbolism for which the Ripper was aiming.

“I can’t do anything more here. You can take the body, Art.”

Dr. Standish signaled to two men who were waiting to take away the corpse.

“I’m going to drive over to Walsh’s apartment.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have any results.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, feeling twice as tired now as he had when he’d entered the alley.

Charlotte Walsh lived on the fourth floor of an eight-story building, part of a shiny new complex that combined housing with trendy restaurants, upscale chains, and quaint boutiques. As soon as Evans found the address, he knew Walsh came from money. No starving student could afford to live in this apartment house, which was meant for young professionals earning six-figure salaries.

During the drive from the crime scene, Evans had called his partner, Maggie Sparks, and told her to meet him at Walsh’s place. A slim, athletic woman in her early thirties dressed in a black pinstripe pants suit and a white, man-tailored shirt was pacing the sidewalk near the entrance to the building. Sparks ’s glossy ebony hair, high cheekbones, and dark complexion suggested Native American DNA. She did have some Cherokee blood but her ancestors had also been Spaniards, Romanians, Danes, and others of unknown origin, so she wasn’t certain where she belonged in the genetic hodgepodge that had produced the human race.

“Sorry to roust you out of bed,” Evans apologized.

“No you’re not,” Sparks answered with a smile. “Misery loves company.”

Evans smiled back. He liked Sparks. She worked as hard as any of the task force members but was able to keep her sense of humor. They’d gone out for drinks a few times after work but he’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her to do more.

The lobby was marble, dark wood, and polished metal lit by Art Deco wall sconces. Colorful abstract art hung on the yellow pastel walls. Evans flashed his ID at the security guard who sat behind a desk in the lobby. The guard was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks and looked like he pumped iron. His black hair was slicked back, and he eyed Evans’s credentials suspiciously.

“We need the apartment number for Charlotte Walsh, please,” Evans said.

“I’m not certain I can give out that information, sir,” the guard said as he squared up his shoulders and tried his best to look dangerous.

Evans read the black lettering on the guard’s gold name tag.

“Miss Walsh was murdered this morning, Bob. I’m sure you don’t want to impede a homicide investigation.”

The guard’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry,” he said as he ran down the list of tenants, all traces of his tough guy persona gone. “That’s seven-oh-nine.”

“Does she live alone?”

“No, she’s got a roommate, Bethany Kitces. She came in two hours ago.”

“Thank you. We’re going up. Don’t tell Miss Kitces. Let us break the bad news.”

“Yeah, of course.” The guard shook his head sadly. “That’s terrible. She was a sweet kid.”

“You knew her?” Sparks asked.

“Just to say hello to. She was always friendly.”

Evans briefed Sparks during the elevator ride to the seventh floor and the walk down a lushly carpeted hall lit by more wall sconces. Evans stopped in front of a black lacquered door with a decorative gold lion’s head knocker and a doorbell. He opted for the doorbell and they waited patiently through three rings before a sleep-drugged voice ordered them to stop their racket. Evans told Maggie Sparks to hold her ID up to the peephole.

“Miss Kitces,” Sparks said through the closed door, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Sparks. I’m with the FBI and I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?” Kitces asked. Evans could hear the suspicion in her tone.

“It concerns Charlotte Walsh, your roommate.”

“Has anything happened to her?” Kitces asked, concerned now.

“I’d prefer to talk to you in your apartment where we’ll have some privacy.”

Evans heard locks snapping and the door was opened by a barefoot woman who looked to be in her late teens. She was wearing pajama bottoms and an AU T-shirt and could not have been taller than five feet. Bethany Kitces’s round face was framed by long, unkempt, curly blond hair, and she wore no makeup. It was obvious that she’d been roused from bed, but the presence of the FBI agents had acted like a cup of powerful espresso and her large blue eyes were wide open.

Evans found himself in a small foyer standing on a blond hardwood floor that was partially covered by a Persian throw rug. Beyond the vestibule was a large cluttered living room outfitted with ill-used but expensive furnishings. The agent noticed a state-of-the-art stereo system, a large plasma TV that hung from the wall like the abstract art in the lobby, a black leather couch, and a coffee table. Sweatpants were draped over an arm of the couch, and a bowl stained by melted ice cream stood on a coffee table next to an opened Coke can. The floor and two leather recliners were littered with other items of clothing, fashion and fan magazines, and CD holders with the names of pop groups Evans didn’t recognize. A bookshelf held a mix of textbooks and trashy novels.

“This is Special Agent Keith Evans, Miss Kitces. He’s working on Miss Walsh’s case with me.”

“What case? What’s happened to Lotte?”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sparks suggested, walking past the wary young woman and heading toward the couch. Evans held back until Walsh’s roommate was seated. The young woman looked nervous.

“We’re sorry to wake you up,” Sparks said. “I understand you just got in a few hours ago.”

Kitces nodded.

“Were you out all evening?”

“Yes.”

“When did you leave the apartment, last night?”

“A little after seven.”

“Was Miss Walsh still here?”