Kiss Me, Kill Me (19 page)

Either way, she was onto something, and she’d get Dennis to tell the truth. It was just a matter of time and patience.

She had all the time in the world.

Until James Thorpe walked into the apartment a minute later and put an end to her questioning of Dennis Barnett.

TWENTY-ONE

Ryan lived in a nondescript, run-down, brown, eight-story apartment building with at least one hundred units in the Fifties near Third. Whereas the Upper West Side near Columbia was a mix of quaint old and new, this section had a mix of office buildings circa the 1950s and a hodgepodge of apartment housing.

Sean appreciated New York, he liked visiting, but seeing so many people packed together reminded him that he was a bit homesick for California and the elbow room he’d enjoyed.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Sean told Trey when he buzzed Ryan’s apartment.

“But—”

Sean shot him a stern look and Trey scowled, but didn’t talk back.

“Yup,” a voice said in the speaker.

“You called about a phone.”

“Come on up.”

The door buzzed and Sean led the way to the third-floor apartment. The hallways were so narrow he and Trey had to walk single file. The entire building smelled of stale food from poor ventilation, but it wasn’t a tenement.

When Ryan opened the door, he seemed apprehensive at the sight of Sean and Trey. Ryan was of average height, gaunt but clean-cut enough that he might still be considered attractive to the opposite sex.

Sean handed him his card. “The phone you found belongs to a runaway. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“You’re a private eye?” Ryan asked, skeptical.

“I was hired by her parents to find her. I know she was supposed to be at a party in Sunset Park. Can we come in?”

Sean took Ryan’s moment of hesitation to enter the apartment. Trey was right behind him.

The place looked like a typical, sloppy college student’s studio apartment. Bed in the corner that doubled as a couch; large-screen television that dwarfed the room; a couple of chairs; desk with computer, books, and papers; and a small lopsided table. Dirty clothes were heaped in one corner. Two posters were tacked to the beige walls—one showing a sleek red Lamborghini with a naked blonde on the hood, the other commemorating the Pittsburgh Steelers’ Super Bowl XLIII victory.

“I just found the phone.” Ryan stood next to the open door as if he would bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Sean spotted Kirsten’s smart phone next to the computer. He picked it up. It had a crack on the front of the screen, but he didn’t know whether the damage was old or new. It was on, with only one battery bar.

“You just now found the phone? I couldn’t get a GPS lock on it, but it has one bar.”

“I mean, I found it Saturday night, but I forgot. I was pretty wasted, didn’t know I had it in my pocket. I was doing laundry this morning and found it. It was totally dead, but I had an old charger that fit and, um, I liked the girl who dropped it, thought we could go out if I gave her the phone.”

Trey stepped forward and opened his mouth to talk, but Sean cut him off. He showed Ryan Kirsten’s photo.

“Is this the girl who dropped the phone?”

Ryan grinned. “Yeah. Ashleigh. She’s hot.” Then he looked nervous and said to Trey, “You’re not her brother, are you?”

“Boyfriend,” Trey said.

“I doubt that,” Ryan snorted.

Sean said, “Trey, do you need to step out?”

“No,” he grumbled.

To Ryan: “Tell me what happened Saturday night.”

“Is she really missing?”

“Yes.”

“It was a rave. Seven hundred people, maybe more. I lost track of her.”

“When did you find the phone? I know she used it late Saturday night.”

“Um, no. I was, um, dancing with her. We had a little action, she said she had to meet a friend but would be back. She took off, then I saw her phone on the floor.”

Sean kept his face neutral, but he knew what Ryan meant with his euphemisms. He wanted to pound sense into the jerk, but that wouldn’t get them any closer to finding Kirsten.

“How did you know it was hers?”

“Saw her with it. She said she was coming back. But she didn’t, and I pocketed her phone, got another drink. Forgot all about it until I found it this morning and remembered how she—” He cut himself off with a glance at Trey.

Trey burst out, “And you didn’t go look for her? You weren’t worried that something might have happened?”

“Hey! It was a big party. I figured she hooked up with someone else. She was dressed for it.”

Trey stepped forward aggressively, and Sean had to put his hand on his chest to physically hold him back. Ryan backed up, obviously not wanting a confrontation. He was definitely not the stand-up-and-defend-your-girl kind of guy. Trey, however, was, and Sean needed to defuse the situation.

Sean showed Ryan Wade Barnett’s photograph. “Know him?”

“Sure. Wade.”

“Was he at the party?”

“Oh, yeah. He knows how to have fun.”

“Do you remember what time he arrived? When he left?”

Ryan shook his head and leaned against the door-jamb. “Have no idea when he showed up, but he made a stink as the party was winding down that his ride had left.”

“Did he call a car service? Do you know how he got home?”

“He left with some girl, but he didn’t look too happy about it.”

“Can I take your charger? You said it was an old one.”

“Well—”

Sean put a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and picked up the charger. “Thanks for your help.” He walked out, Trey on his heels.

Before Ryan had even closed the door, Trey said, “Do you believe that guy? Kirsten would never go out with a loser like that.”

“At least he tried to get her phone back to her. This is going to help.”

“He didn’t even know her name!” Trey said, shaking his head.

“And you have to let it drop. He’s a witness; don’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know, got it?” Sean was already scrolling through the text messages on Kirsten’s phone. He skipped the messages that had been sent Sunday and Monday before the phone died—they were from her mother, Trey, and a few friends at her school—and looked at the messages during the time frame of the party.

At 1:13 a.m., a message from “Jessie” came in:

Don’t be such a slut and meet me outside. Now, Ash.

Twenty-three minutes before that last message from Jessie, she had sent another:

Plz, K, need 2 talk 2 u. I’m freezing.

And eight minutes before that, at 12:42 a.m., Jessie had texted:

i see u with that guy. we need 2 talk now. im getting worried. outside 10 min.

Sean frowned. There were other messages between Jessie and Kirsten, but the battery was flashing low. He saw that there were nineteen voice mail messages, but didn’t know if the phone would last until he could retrieve them all. He pocketed the phone. He’d go back to the hotel, charge the phone, and download everything. He’d listen to the voice mail while Lucy put together the text message threads chronologically.

“What did it say?” Trey asked.

“I’m trying to create a time line before she lost her phone. I need to download the text messages and retrieve her voice mails. Go home, Trey.”

“No.”

Sean stopped walking. “I appreciate you calling me. You did the right thing, and I have information that may lead me to where she’s hiding out. But it’s going to take all my time and concentration, and I can’t worry about you getting into trouble.”

“I’m not!”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about going back to talk to that guy.”

“No,” he said, averting his eyes.

“Trey, you’re eighteen, you can do what you want, but I’m telling you to stay out of it.”

Trey glared at him.

“You’re not going to listen to me, are you? What are your plans? How are you going to find her? You don’t know anything about her life as Ashleigh, and you damn well better not go back to Ryan’s apartment.”

“I have to do something!”

Sean sympathized with the love-struck teen. If it were him, he would have gotten into far more trouble if he were looking for his missing ex-girlfriend.

“Do you have a picture of Kirsten?”

“The same one you have, but wallet size.”

“Good. Get a list of all the hospitals and clinics in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Show her picture to several staff members; see if anyone has seen her.”

“The police sent out a notice to all hospitals,” he said.

“Yes, and so did I. But some of these places get busy; they might not have made the connection. And in her message, she said she couldn’t walk. She might have broken her leg or sprained her ankle, which means she may have gone to a clinic to get it looked at.”

“There have to be hundreds of those places—it would take all week to go to all of them.”

“Start in Brooklyn closest to Sunset Park. That’s where the party was. Work your way out from there.”

“She said she could see a bridge,” Trey said.

Smart. “Good point. Find clinics near the bridges leading out of Brooklyn. She also said it was a nice place, so the neighborhood may be a bit upscale.”

Trey nodded. “Okay, I can do that. Do you really think it’ll help find her?”

“Yes, it gives us one more avenue.” He got out his wallet and handed Trey all but a few of his business cards. “Give these out. Tell people to call me if they remember anything after you leave, got it?”

“Got it.”

Sean waited across from Ryan’s apartment to make sure that Trey didn’t circle around and go back. Sean considered going up himself—he didn’t think Ryan knew anything more, but he needed a lesson in how to treat women. Trey hadn’t quite figured out what “a little action” at a rave meant, but Sean knew exactly what Ryan was doing. Had he been the one to drug her? Would he do it again to another girl?

Sean crossed the street and went back up to Ryan’s apartment. He didn’t need to be buzzed in—the buzzer was a standard electronic gadget that Sean easily bypassed.

Ryan was leaving with a basket of laundry. “Hey,” he said, nervous.

Sean grabbed the basket and dropped it to the floor. He got in Ryan’s face until Ryan backed up against the wall.

“I don’t like you,” Sean said. “You use women without a thought.”

“I-I d-didn’t,” Ryan stuttered. “Sh-sh-she was willing. I swear.”

“Did you drug her?”

“No!”

“I know she was high on something.”

“Everyone was. The drinks were spiked. It was a really wild party, but I swear, I didn’t give her anything. I wouldn’t do that! P-p-please believe me.”

Ryan tried to squirm away and Sean put his forearm across the skinny kid’s chest and held him there.

“You may not have given her a mickey, but you sure took advantage of it.”

“I’m s-sorry!”

“I have a lot of friends. I’m putting the word out on you. If you ever show up at another rave and take advantage of another girl, and I find out, you won’t have a dick left to screw around with.”

Sean turned and walked away, confident that the kid believed everything he’d said.

TWENTY-TWO

Suzanne was in a fantastic mood after the morning interrogation of Wade Barnett, serving the warrants, and a late working lunch with Vic Panetta to compare notes. She had the computer from Barnett’s apartment with deleted files her cybercrimes team was confident they could rebuild; and at Barnett’s office, Panetta had found a coffee mug with a picture of Wade and Alanna Andrews smiling with a heart.

The only little tickle of doubt that crept into her mind was why Barnett would delete his home computer files but not destroy the mug that proved he’d had a relationship with the first victim, or the half-written apology. They also hadn’t found the victims’ shoes in either place.

Panetta walked back to FBI headquarters with Suzanne from the deli where they’d eaten, and said, “We have a viable suspect; we just need to seal the deal.”

“We’re arraigning him on perjury Monday morning,” Suzanne told Panetta. “He’ll make bail, unless we find hard physical evidence in the next thirty-six hours and change the charge to four counts murder.”

“Looks like I’ll be missing dinner with my family tonight.”

“Sorry,” Suzanne said without meaning it. Late nights and weekends were the nature of the business, and every cop who ever had a case take ahold of him knew it.

“Time for a lot of legwork. I’ll send Hicks and a team out to start interviewing co-workers, friends, and family.”

“You take Barnett’s side, we’ll work the victims’ friends on my end. Except Thorpe, Barnett’s lawyer, put the quash on talking to Dennis Barnett, the nineteen-year-old brother.”

“Why?”

“He stated that the kid was mentally incapacitated. I don’t buy it. He’s slow, but not severely handicapped. And get this: he told me that he drove his brother to these parties after Wade lost his license for those two DWIs.”

“Did he take Wade to the parties in question?”

“I was working him until the damn lawyer walked in. I can get a warrant to interview him. I’ll probably need a shrink in the room to testify that he wasn’t under duress, was competent to answer questions. Dennis Barnett is our single best witness, but he doesn’t want to get his brother in trouble.”

“You don’t think they were working together?” Panetta asked.

“I sat with Dennis for nearly twenty minutes. I don’t think the kid can lie; at least, he won’t be able to keep it up. He never answered my question about the Sunset Park party, only asked me if his brother was in trouble. If little brother is involved, it won’t take long to break him. But the Barnett attorney took him home, and now his mother is freaked out, and I have to find a way to get him back in here while not risking having his testimony tossed. But the important thing is that Wade Barnett is in jail, and he’s not getting out until Monday at the earliest.”

Panetta headed to his precinct station and Suzanne entered the large federal complex. The only thing that had been enticing about the position she’d been offered in Montana was that the Helena office was so small, she’d likely be on a first-name basis with everyone from the special agent in charge down to the janitor. Here, she considered herself lucky to see a familiar face before she reached her squad.

She’d been assigned to Violent Crimes before 9/11, but after world terrorism breached American shores with such violence, priorities had been shifted to counterterrorism and counterintelligence. When she’d received her commission, there had been well over two hundred agents in New York’s Violent Crime Squad, not including the five resident agency field offices. She’d watched as her colleagues were reassigned to other squads, until now there were only thirty-two dedicated VCMT agents at headquarters and a handful of support staff. She’d joked with her cop friend Mac that either she was so bad at her job that they didn’t want her anywhere else, or she was so good that they didn’t dare take her away from Violent Crimes.

Her messages and emails had stacked up, typical of any day but more so in the middle of a joint task force investigation like the Cinderella Strangler case. She quickly prioritized the messages, responded to the emails that needed immediate answers, and then focused on contacting friends of the victims. She preferred to talk to people in person, because body language often said more than words. She couldn’t justify another trip to New Haven to talk to Alanna Andrews’s roommate, but Alanna was the girl Barnett seemed to have publicly dated. She could talk to the cousin again—Whitney Morrissey had possibly seen a witness, or the killer, with her cousin that night. Had she finished the sketch? Suzanne made a note to follow up on that. If she had an eyewitness, that would go a long way with the U.S. Attorney.

For the other locals, she split the list between those she wanted to talk to in person—such as the staff at the coffeehouse where Erica Ripley, the second victim, had worked—and those she was comfortable calling, such as Jessica Bell’s roommate. She planned to talk to Josh Haynes again in person. He was the one who’d first mentioned Wade Barnett—but only in connection with the parties, not Barnett’s relationship with Jessica Bell. Had he known? Lucy Kincaid thought he’d acted distraught over Jessica’s death; had he been in love with her? A “friend with benefits” who got too close? If he had found out that Wade Barnett was sleeping with her, would he have killed her?

That didn’t explain the first three victims. But according to Lucy, Wade had met Jessica at Josh Haynes’s party.

The rest of the weekend promised to be as busy as her morning, but Suzanne was invigorated. This was the part of the job she liked the best: building a mountain of evidence to convict a killer. She planned on turning over an airtight case to the U.S. Attorney as soon as possible.

She called Alanna’s roommate Jill Reeves first, glad she’d gotten her cell phone number so she didn’t have to maneuver her way around her hovering mother.

“Hi, Jill. It’s Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux from New York. Can I ask you a few more questions?”

“Sure.”

“During our investigation, we’ve been looking into the past relationships of each victim, to see if there is any connection. You indicated that Alanna didn’t have a boyfriend, or anyone who made her uncomfortable, when she was killed, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What about a past boyfriend?”

“I told the detective that none of her boyfriends were mad at her or anything.”

“Were you aware of Alanna’s relationship with Wade Barnett?”

“Yeah, but why? You don’t think he killed her? Wade?” She sounded skeptical.

“When did they first start seeing each other?”

“I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly. “Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think they met that summer Alanna stayed with her cousin. Alanna was really secretive about it, probably because he was so much older.”

Suzanne counted back. Alanna would have been seventeen, Barnett twenty-three.

Jill continued. “I know they were really serious when we first moved to New York, about a week before classes started. Like for two months they were inseparable.”

“Do you know why they broke up?”

“No.”

“You were her best friend.”

“She wouldn’t talk about it.”

“A witness told me he cheated on her.”

“Well, cheated how?”

“Had sex with another woman?”

“That wouldn’t bother her.”

Suzanne didn’t believe it. “Her rich, handsome, older boyfriend cheating on her wouldn’t have fazed her?”

“They had a sort of open relationship.”

“You’re going to have to explain that.”

“Well, an open relationship means—”

“I know what an open relationship is. Why did you qualify it with ‘sort of’?”

“At the parties they went to, people had sex with strangers. It was just the thing, and Alanna and Wade used to play these sex games. It’s like they were both addicted to it, but they still loved each other. But they had an agreement that it was open only at the raves.”

“So if he had sex outside of a rave then that was cheating.”

“Yeah. But Alanna never gave me a reason for the breakup specifically. I think she was hurt, whatever it was, then she convinced me to go to the Haunted House. And that’s—” Jill’s throat hitched. “But Wade sent her this letter and apologized for being a jerk.”

“You read the letter?”

“No, just a couple lines.”

“Do you have it? Is it with Alanna’s things?”

“She tore it up. Oh! She said something when she threw the pieces away. She said she could tolerate a lot, but not lying.”

“That helps, thank you.”

Suzanne wrapped up that call, then talked to Jessica Bell’s roommate. Lauren had heard Jessica mention she knew Wade Barnett, but she’d never met him and didn’t think that Jessica was involved with him.

She tried Alanna’s cousin Whitney Morrissey, but her voice mail came on. Suzanne left a message, giving her cell phone number since she planned to be in the field, and looked at the clock. It was already after four and she had a hundred things to do. She saw a text message on her cell phone from Sean Rogan. Damn, he’d called her while she was eating lunch and she’d said she’d call him back. That was two hours ago.

We’ll meet you at your office.

She dialed his number.

“Rogan.”

“It’s Suzanne Madeaux. Sorry, I’m about to leave—I should have called you back. I have interviews all day; just tell me over—”

He interrupted. “Lucy and I will be there in ten minutes. You’ll want to see what we found.”

Irritation flared, but she tried to keep it out of her tone. “Sean, I appreciate your help, but unless it’s directly related to the Strangler investigation, it’s going to have to wait.”

“It is. See you in a few minutes.”

He hung up. She stared at the phone, then slammed it down in the cradle.

“If you break another phone, Facilities is going to charge you,” the squad secretary said as she approached Suzanne’s desk.

“It’s justified,” she said.

“You have a call from Washington on line four. It sounded important.”

“Thanks. Oh, call down to security and tell them to escort Sean Rogan and Lucy Kincaid up when they get here. They’re apparently coming by with information they won’t tell me on the phone.” Her phone rang and she picked up the receiver again, looking at it carefully to make sure she hadn’t cracked it. “Agent Madeaux, Violent Crimes.”

“Agent Madeaux, this is Assistant Director Hans Vigo from D.C. I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

Suzanne automatically said, “No, of course not,” while her mind raced through all the reasons why an assistant director would be calling her, and why the name Hans Vigo sounded familiar. She had evidence at the lab on not only her current case, but several others; she had a case going to trial in three weeks and was awaiting expert testimony confirmation; then there was … Hans Vigo. Profiler. Lucy Kincaid had mentioned him yesterday.

All that ran through her mind in less than five seconds.

Vigo said, “I’ve been reading about your serial killer investigation and wanted to offer my assistance if you require it.”

“Um, great, thanks.” She was flustered by the call, but recovered quickly. “We have a suspect in custody, and I’m confident that BSU can handle any psych profile we might need for trial.”

“Of course, we have a terrific team down at Quantico. They told me you’d requested a profile a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, but I didn’t have lot of my evidence at that time.”

“Lee told me there wasn’t enough information for a good profile, but if you have additional evidence now, please send it down.”

“Dr. Vigo, may I ask why you have an interest in this case?”

“I had a call this morning about it, and it’s unusual enough that it intrigued me.”

Suzanne moved from simmering to boiling anger, but tried to keep it out of her voice. “Would that call have been from Lucy Kincaid?”

She must not have done a good enough job, because Vigo’s tone changed slightly from friendly to formal. “Ms. Kincaid called about another matter, and told me she was in New York.”

Just how connected was this young wannabe FBI agent? “And talked about my case? With all due respect, Dr. Vigo, I have ten years’ experience working cases just like this one, and I have one of the highest clearance rates in the Bureau.” She didn’t want to sound defensive, but she did. She backtracked a bit and added, “I appreciate your insight, and Ms. Kincaid seems like a smart woman, but if I fly off in ten different directions at once I’ll never be able to logically put this case together.”

“I agree,” he said. “I’ve looked at some of your cases, and your methodical approach to serial murders is outstanding. I certainly prefer such a straightforward method of investigation. Nine times out of ten it gets you exactly where you need to be to close the case.”

“Thank you, sir.” She didn’t have to wait long for the
but
she expected—even though he didn’t use the word.

“Occam’s razor—specifically, the principle of parsimony—suggests that the simplest explanation is more often the correct one. In crime analysis, we’ve seen this proven time and time again—and it’s why we look first to the husband when a wife is murdered, or to a male relative when a child is molested, for example.

“Behavioral science—profiling—works because we have a long history of crime and punishment in this country,” Vigo said. “We can look at what has occurred in the past and why, and coupled with our knowledge of human psychology determine—with amazing accuracy—the most likely victim type, or killer, in violent crimes, particularly serial crimes.

“In some cases, a killer defies conventional wisdom,” Vigo continued. “We focus on the obvious because in our training, the obvious is usually correct. When a woman is raped, we look to male offenders. When black women are killed, we look to a black offender. When four young women are killed at a party, we look to a male offender who knew all of them.”

Suzanne responded slowly. “Are you suggesting that I’m wrong about my primary suspect?”

“No, of course not. Clearly, Wade Barnett had the means and opportunity, and because he knew all four women he likely has motive, even if it’s unclear without more evidence or a confession what that might be. I’d just suggest that while you’re continuing to put together your case against him, you also continue working with the assumption that he’s innocent.”