A Deeper Darkness (12 page)

The scent of roasted coffee filled the kitchen. From the corner of her eye Sam watched Susan try to regroup. She was brushing away tears, straightening her hair, pulling her shirt down in the back so it covered the top of her pants. Her movements were clumsy, and Sam turned without thinking and finished the job for her. As if Susan were a child who needed neatening.

But the attention didn’t rile her, as Sam thought it might. Instead, she leaned into Sam’s hand, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

McLean, Virginia
Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher and Hart watched the crime scene techs print the doorknobs of the Donovan home.

“You think she’s just losing it?” Hart asked. “It’s not that hard to misplace a hat.”

“It’s possible,” Fletcher replied. “Then again, anything’s possible. She seemed pretty adamant that she threw the hat out. Trash comes on Tuesday in this neighborhood. According to her statement, she put the trash out Monday night, with the hat in it, so that leaves a good ten hours for someone to go sneaking around.”

Hart hid a yawn behind his palm. Fletcher pretended not to notice, but had to admit he shared the sentiment.

“Eh, there’s nothing we can do here. Let’s go talk to the neighbors, see if any of them saw something.”

Hart’s face lit up. The man was a ball of energy. Sitting and thinking wasn’t his style.

They split the street, Fletcher taking the north side, Hart taking the south. The Donovans’ house was the end house of a cul-de-sac, with eight houses on either side leading up to it. It was a pretty neighborhood. Safe. Sturdy. The houses were two-story, brick on four sides, fenced yards, with gaily-painted shutters and matching front doors.

Suburbia. The perfect place to raise a family, and feel safe doing so.

No wonder Donovan lived here. From what everyone talked about, the man was overly concerned with safety, and this was as safe as he could get without putting bars on the windows or digging a bunker.

Even though Fletcher recognized that Susan Donovan’s intruder story could easily be that of a grieving widow hoping for attention, something felt off about this whole case. He had put a uniform on the Croswell house, just in case, and was waiting for the Army to give him the list of everyone who’d served in Donovan and Croswell’s unit. The wives could only give them so much information—the Ranger battalion had nearly six hundred soldiers in it. It was probably a long shot at best, but Fletcher wasn’t about to take any chances. Two good men were dead already. He didn’t want to have a third killed on his watch.

He had a short list of men who were in the immediate group that Donovan and Croswell hung out with. There were two names both Betty Croswell and Susan Donovan had mentioned—Billy Shakes and Xander Whitfield. But he hadn’t been able to find addresses on either man yet.

Betty Croswell had given him the names of the men her husband was supposed to meet in Denver. Fletcher had talked to them all—and hit another dead end. Croswell had stood them up, and while they were his friends, they’d been furious about it. Fletcher got the sense that most everyone was exasperated with Hal Croswell. Of course, once they found out why he hadn’t shown, they’d grown quiet, teary and apologetic. Death was a pretty good excuse for missing a job interview.

Fletcher felt like he was overlooking something. As he made his way down the tree-lined street, knocking on doors and striking out, that lack of knowledge nagged at him.

It took an hour for him to meet back up with Hart, who’d managed to get a rock in his shoe, and was looking rather pained over it. He leaned against the car and started to unlace.

“Did you have any luck?” Fletcher asked.

“I don’t know if you want to call it luck. Chick in the gray brick house remembers seeing a truck she didn’t recognize over the weekend. But all she could say was that the truck was blue. There’re teenagers on this street, it could be a friend of any of them. A bunch of people aren’t home from work yet. We’ll have to come back and recanvass later tonight.”

“Did you ask if the truck had four wheels?”

“And a bed in the back, too, dickwad.”

Fletcher grinned. “Fuck you. A blue truck. That’s all we got. Let’s go see what the print guys found.”

The crime scene techs were also miffed—they’d finished half an hour before and were champing at the bit to get to their next case. The lead tech—Fletcher couldn’t remember his name—shook his head.

“We scanned what we could, but don’t be expecting much, if anything. The maid came Monday. Wiped everything down. She’s thorough, I’ll give her that. All we got was a couple of partials upstairs in the bathrooms.”

“Great. Anything else?”

“You said the maid told you she didn’t see anything, or anyone, unusual, and that jibes with what we’re seeing here. No alarm bells from us.”

Great. A clean house and a mysterious blue truck. Exactly squat.

“Thanks, guys.”

The team trudged down the driveway and loaded themselves in their van, then drove off.

The neighborhood’s natural noises surrounded Fletcher. Crickets, a child shouting in the distance, birds twittering. He gave the place a last glance, then shrugged.

“Might as well go on back to the Croswell site, recanvass there, see if anyone remembers a blue truck. Maybe stop by and talk to Mrs. Lyons again.”

Hart groaned.

“If you have a better suggestion?”

“No. Who knows, we might actually catch some of the folks who’d gone off to work right about now. Let’s stop at the 7-Eleven. I need a Slurpee.”

“A Slurpee?”

“Pure energy, my friend. I think you need one, too. Cheers what ails ya.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Georgetown
Susan Donovan

Susan had sobered up by the time Eleanor came home from her bridge game. The girls were playing quietly in their room. Ally seemed less traumatized by her morning, though Susan doubted that would hold true during the overnight hours. Sam Owens was on the computer in the den, tapping away. She was writing up the secondary autopsy notes, making everything she’d seen and heard official.

Susan wanted to hate her. She wanted to demand that Sam leave and never come back. And yet she found herself, well,
liking
was too strong a word. Understanding the woman. Feeling sorry for her, even. Losing Eddie was bad enough. If she’d lost the girls, too, she would go completely mad. The simple fact that Sam Owens was walking, talking and somewhat functioning gave her hope that, one day, she might do the same.

Susan took one last swig of coffee, then sought out Sam. She stood in the door to the den for a minute and watched her type, a pencil in her mouth. She looked like a journalist, not a doctor.

Susan guessed they must be about the same age, at least within a year or two of each other. Eddie was a year older than she was. Susan had hit thirty-eight on her last birthday, and vowed to stop counting after that. Eddie thought that was hysterically funny.

Maybe in another world Susan and Sam Owens would have been friends.

Susan cleared her throat. “Having any luck?”

Sam looked up, staring through her as if she didn’t recognize her for a moment. “Oh. Yes. Somewhat. I’m done now, I was just proofing the report. What’s up? Are you feeling better?”

“I am. Listen. I was wondering… I think you should come out to the house and have a look through Eddie’s things. I started thinking about that note that was left for him. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Eddie kept a journal, religiously, every day. But it’s in Latin. You took Latin to prep for med school, didn’t you?”

“Four years. I double majored in Classics and Biology.”

“Then you could read it, couldn’t you?”

“I should be able to, yes.” Sam sat back in the chair, a longing smile on her face. “He used to do that in school, you know. Everyone thought he was being a pretentious jerk. We gave him such a hard time. A journal, sure, that’s cool. But in Latin? He always was a show-off. I can’t believe he kept it up all these years.”

Susan burst out laughing. The idea of her serious, capable,
humble
husband being teased for showing off just hit her funny. Sam joined in, the tension from earlier dissipating a bit. They weren’t ever going to be friends, but maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t be constantly at each other’s throats.

“Eleanor just got home. She can watch the girls for a bit. What do you say? Are you game to take a ride with me?”

Sam nodded. “Sure. My Latin wasn’t ever as good as Donovan’s, but I can give it a whirl.”

She stood, and Susan noticed again how thin she was. She thought back over the day and realized that she hadn’t had anything to eat. How easy it was to forget. She had no appetite. She’d gotten the girls fed and off to their respective schools, meaning to stop somewhere and grab a coffee and Danish, and had completely spaced it. All she’d had today was coffee, and for an afternoon treat, quite a bit of scotch.

She was going to have to make a better effort to take care of herself. If not for her own sake, then for the girls.

“Do you mind driving?” Susan asked. “Just in case. The last thing I need is to get pulled over.”

“Of course. Just let me grab my coat.”

Georgetown
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam was glad Susan finally seemed to be accepting her. They needed to work together to figure out what Donovan was involved with that might have killed him. Sam wanted to get into his office, into his things, but hadn’t known how to approach Susan about it.

Susan drove a Volvo station wagon, the backseat filled with toys and dolls and books. Sam glanced once, then forced her eyes away. Forced away the nasty thought that followed—
this could have been my car
—and tried her best to refocus. They got settled in the seats. Sam checked the mirrors, then asked, “What’s the best way to get there?”

“I normally go GW Parkway, but we’re going to hit traffic this time of night, so let’s go Canal. We’re on Spring Hill Road, so you can get to it from Chain Bridge or Georgetown Pike. Your choice.”

“That’s a pretty part of town.”

“Perfect for raising a family.” Sam didn’t miss the bitterness in Susan’s tone. They really were castaways, the two of them. Sam started the car and navigated through the streets of Georgetown to Key Bridge, turning right and following the Potomac River out of town.

Her cell phone rang a few minutes into the drive. She didn’t recognize the number, but it had a 202 area code, so it was either Fletcher or Nocek. She apologized to Susan and answered it.

“Dr. Owens? Sam? This is Amado Nocek. I have received the results from the lab about the chemical makeup of the granulomas found in the lungs of both Edward Donovan and Harold Croswell.”

“Oh, wonderful. What did you find?”

“The irritant is indeed sand, but it is not from the Arabian Peninsula. It is indigenous to western Maryland. Specifically, to the Savage River. I cannot pinpoint it better than that, unfortunately.”

“The Savage River. Isn’t there a state park up there?”

“Yes, there is. It is a beautiful area, if you like to go camping or fishing. Or hunting.”

The word hung in the air, pregnant with meaning. What was cold-blooded murder, if not the culmination of a hunt?

“What did Detective Fletcher say about the results?”

Nocek gave a warm laugh. “I will call him right away.”

“You told me first?”

“Yes. You seem to have the victims’ best interests at heart. Not that the detective does not, as well—it just seemed you have a deeper connection to this story.”

“You’re a very astute man, Amado. I owe you dinner. Maybe not this trip, but sometime soon.”

“I would enjoy that very much. When do you return to Nashville?”

When, indeed? She’d gotten drawn into this case, into their lives, so seamlessly that she’d nearly forgotten she needed to go home tonight. “I’m not sure,” she answered. “I was supposed to fly back this evening, but I think I’ll be missing the flight.”

“Understandable. It is difficult to leave loose threads unraveled. Let me know if I can assist you any further. It has been my great pleasure to work with you. Perhaps one day you will desire to work with us again, under better circumstances.”

“Perhaps I will. Thank you, Amado. For everything.”

She hung up and realized Susan was staring at her.

“The sand we found in Eddie’s lungs was from western Maryland, not Afghanistan. The same for Hal Croswell. Do you have any connections to that area? Know anyone who lives there?”

“You said the Savage River, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird.”

Sam felt a little thrum in her chest. Her adrenal gland was throwing a party in her brainstem.

“What’s weird?”

“We vacation there. It’s great for the girls. We camp, hike, go fishing. It’s one of…was one of Eddie’s favorite places. But we haven’t been since last summer.”

Susan got quiet and Sam knew she was thinking about something.

“What. What is it?”

“One of Eddie’s old Army buddies lives up there. I haven’t met him. According to Eddie, he’s a bit of a recluse. Saw too much in the war. Usually when we go up there, Eddie will take a morning and go fishing with him. I don’t know the last time they spoke, though.”

Bingo.

“What’s his name?”

“Xander. Xander Whitfield. They served together during Eddie’s last tour in Afghanistan.”

* * *

Sam left a message for Fletcher, asking him to call when he had a chance, then finished the drive to the Donovans’ house in silence. She didn’t like what the evidence was saying. Someone connected to the Savage River was involved in the murders. She hated the thought that it could be someone from Eddie’s unit, but knew that was the most likely place to look.

The intersection of Old Dominion and Spring Hill Road appeared ahead. She took the right turn, realizing she wasn’t entirely prepared to roll up on Donovan’s house. She’d never seen where, and how, he lived before. Left. Left again. The final turn came up before she’d fully steeled herself, and then they were there, in a perfect little cul-de-sac, facing an elegant two-story whitewashed redbrick house, with black shutters, a red door and a fenced-in backyard.

It was so unlike anything she pictured Donovan in, and yet it was exactly right. A perfect place to raise children, away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. Another
what if
strolled through her mind to poke at her, and she abruptly slammed on the brakes in response. Susan shot her a glance.

“Sorry. Shall I park out here on the street?”

“It looks like all the police cars are gone. You can pull right in.”

Sam drove around the side of the house and left the car in the drive.

They walked in through the mudroom, which exited into the family room. It was a beautiful space, honey oak floors and built-in bookshelves, with an indoor-outdoor glass conservatory hidden in the back. The family room led to the kitchen, the heart of the house.

Sam could smell Donovan. God, it was like being thrust back fifteen years. He obviously hadn’t changed his cologne since she’d dated him. She wondered if this was the case in her own house, and she was so used to the way it smelled that she never felt Simon and the twins there.

“Oh, my God,” Susan said. Sam focused and saw the mess. There was fingerprint powder everywhere, a fine black dust that coated everything like soot after a fire. Susan ran her finger across the kitchen counter, leaving a snail’s trail in the dust.

“Yeah, crime scene techs aren’t known for their neatness.”

“I can tell. What’s the best way to get this up?”

“Clorox wipes work great. Just be thankful you don’t have carpets. Stuff will never come out properly.”

“I’m going to need a gallon of them. Can I get you something to drink?” Susan asked.

“Water would be nice, Susan. Thanks.”

“The refrigerator water is filtered.”

“That’s great. Tap is fine, too. Good old Potomac never messes me up.”

Susan got the water from the refrigerator, anyway, then handed it to Sam. “It’s colder this way.”

Sam took a sip, fortifying herself, then set the glass on the counter. Now or never.

“Why don’t we take a look at his office, Susan.”

Susan was delaying, Sam knew that. It was one thing to invite a stranger into your home, but when that stranger used to sleep with your husband, it became a whole different matter. Sam was about to go someplace Susan hadn’t been allowed, into the very private mind of her spouse.

Sam would be stalling, too.

Susan took a deep breath.

“Just promise me one thing, Sam.”

“Anything within reason, Susan, of course.”

“If he didn’t love me, but couldn’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”