Scorched (6 page)

And—dear God—
Blake.

He was dead. Kelsey’s chest convulsed as she pictured the blood pooling beneath him. Bile rose up in her throat and she remembered the red rivulets spreading out over the tile grout.

“Where to?”

She glanced at the driver, an enormous black man wearing an Astros cap. Kelsey stared at him blankly.

Where to?

Her pulse pounded as she tried to think. She brushed her hair out of her eyes with a trembling hand and took a deep breath. San Marcos was north. Her home was north.

“South,” she croaked. “Just drive . . . south. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He smiled into the mirror and shook his head. “South it is.”

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth LeBlanc disliked airports, especially at rush hour. But today she wasn’t complaining as she made a fifth lap around San Antonio International. Instead of sitting at a computer running background checks, like the other newbie FBI agents in her field office, she actually got to drive. Forget that she was under strict instructions to go straight from her office to the airport and back to her office again—which essentially made her a shuttle service. It was an opportunity to get out from behind her desk.

Elizabeth scanned the doors, looking for a man in a dark suit. Having never laid eyes on Supervisory Special Agent Gordon Moore, that was all she knew about his appearance, and it was based on a guess. But the passengers pouring through the automatic doors weren’t wearing suits—in June in San Antonio, why would you?—and Elizabeth sighed as she checked the clock. He was officially late. The airport security guy waved her forward and looked completely nonplussed when she flashed her badge at him. She was about to
roll down her window to explain when she spotted Moore in her rearview mirror.

Tall, suit, computer bag. This was definitely her VIP from Washington. It wasn’t his attire that identified him, but the way he carried himself. Men throughout the Bureau had a certain look about them that made them easy to spot. Elizabeth threw the car into reverse and maneuvered into a gap near the curb, earning a honk from a pickup driver.

Moore noticed her, no doubt recognizing the “unmarked” gray sedan as a Bureau vehicle. He approached the car and she got out to offer him a handshake.

“Special Agent Elizabeth LeBlanc.”

“Gordon Moore.”

She was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t rattle off his superior job title or try to sneak a peek down her blouse. He tossed his garment bag into the back of the car and hung on to his computer case as he slid into the passenger seat. Elizabeth hurried around to her side and got behind the wheel.

Okay, progress. She’d picked him up without incident and now all she had to do was get him back to the office in time for the briefing. If she sped the whole way, she just might make it.

“So.” She checked her mirrors and pulled into traffic. “This your first trip to the San Antonio field office?”

It was a weak opening, but it was friendly without being personal, so she’d decided to use it anyway.

He glanced up at her from a stack of files on his lap. Not two minutes in the car and already he was working.

“No.”

Okeydokey.

“It’s not usually this hot in June,” she said. “Actually—”

“Four twenty-nine Chavez Avenue. How far is that?”

“Uh . . . fifteen minutes maybe? Depending on traffic.” Damn it, he wanted to go to the crime scene.

“Drop me off there. I’ll get a cab when I’m finished if you need to get back to work.”

Ha. Like she had more important things to do than chauffeur him around.

“I’d be happy to.” She cleared her throat. “There’s a briefing at six, though, and we’ll probably have trouble making it.”

“They’ll wait.” He glanced out the window as they entered the interstate.

“Sir?”

He turned to her, and she noticed the hard look in his dark brown eyes.
Damn.

“Should I call and let them know or—”

“This won’t take long.” He stowed his bag on the floor and settled back in his seat, ending the conversation.

Elizabeth bit her lip, annoyed with herself. She should have just made the call instead of asking permission. She stepped on the gas and did her best to make good time to the home of Blake Reid, the FBI agent who’d been murdered yesterday. She knew exactly where he lived—not because she’d been assigned to the case, but because the story had been on the news all afternoon. “Murder on the River Walk” had already become the tagline.

Moore remained silent as she drove to the scene. By some miracle, she found a parking space at the
end of Blake’s block. They got out. Moore seemed unconcerned by the pair of news vans parked nearby as they walked briskly toward the residence. The air felt hot and muggy, and they were hardly out of the car ten seconds before Elizabeth was sweating beneath her navy blazer.

“What do you know about this case?” Moore asked.

“Not a lot,” she admitted. “Mostly what I saw on the news.”

“You ever work with Reid?”

“No.”

He gave her a sharp look, and she realized that might have come out a little strong.

“I’ve only been with this office a few months.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she could tell he’d picked up on the edge in her voice.

A heavyset patrol officer got out of his car as they approached.

“Evening.” Moore flashed his badge. “Officer Resnik? I talked to Lieutenant Tooley a few minutes ago. Mind taking us inside?”

The officer darted another glance at Moore’s FBI shield before ducking back into his car to retrieve a key and a clipboard, which presumably contained the crime-scene log.

“Sir. Ma’am.” He nodded at Elizabeth. “Right this way.”

They followed him up the stairs. Elizabeth noticed the fingerprint powder all over the door frame. Resnik donned a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and used the key to open the door.

“Crime-scene techs just left an hour ago.” He passed
the clipboard to Moore. “Said someone might be back later to get a carpet sample.”

Moore handed the clipboard to Elizabeth and she scrawled her information beneath his. Her first real murder scene. She felt a little numb. She glanced around and tried to seem calm as the officer left them alone in the condominium.

A square piece of butcher paper lay near the door. Moore stepped onto it and traded his black wingtips for a pair of paper booties from one of the cardboard boxes sitting there. He snapped on some latex gloves and handed her a pair. Elizabeth took his place on the paper and swapped out her navy flats.

“Ever been to a homicide scene before?”

“Just at Hogan’s Alley,” she said, referring to the area at Quantico where New Agents in Training—or “gnats,” as they were affectionately known—practiced takedowns and worked mock crime scenes. “I’m brand-new, sir. Just graduated this year.”

“Call me Gordon.” He stepped into the kitchen and looked around, then opened the cabinet beneath the sink and checked the trash can. He used an index finger to tug open the refrigerator. “And new’s all right. It’s good to have a fresh perspective.”

He stepped back into the hallway and crouched beside a pool of dried blood. Elizabeth saw little dots in the reddish-black where it looked as though a CSI had used a cotton swab to get a sample. Dark rivulets radiated out along the lines of the floor grout.

Elizabeth studied the walls but saw no sign of bullet penetration. Still, a slug could have lodged in the body.

“Cause of death?” she asked.

He stood up. “I talked to the ME. Someone snapped his neck, then stabbed him through the right kidney with a combat knife.”

Elizabeth frowned down at the blood. “Not the most common way to murder someone.” She glanced around the foyer. “Then again, it’s quiet.”

“It’s also up close and personal.”

He stepped over the puddle and walked into the living room, where numbered yellow markers on the coffee table took the place of evidence that had been removed.

“TV was on when the maid showed up at eight this morning,” he informed her. “There was a beer on the table. Looked like he’d been home watching ESPN when someone came to the door.”

“Someone he knew?”

“No sign of forced entry.”

Elizabeth surveyed the room, taking in the spare furnishings, the empty bookshelves. The walls were bare, which wasn’t that surprising given that Blake Reid was single. Most guys Elizabeth knew didn’t spend a lot of time decorating their apartments. She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was 6:10. Any minute now her boss would be calling, wondering what she’d done with their VIP. Headquarters had sent one of their top investigators down to oversee the case.

“What’s Reid’s reputation?” he asked from across the room.

Elizabeth shifted on her feet. “I hear he’s a good agent. His team took down that terrorist cell—what was it, two summers ago?”

He kept watching her and she decided, What the
hell? If he poked around long enough, he was going to hear this anyway.

“You mean personal reputation?”

“Whatever you heard around the office,” he said. “Or what you know from your experience with him.”

“Well, like I mentioned, I haven’t been here long.” She tucked her hands in the pockets of her blazer. “But he was pretty forward. He asked me out three times.”

“What’d you say?”

“No.”

“All three times?” He looked skeptical.

“I don’t mix work and personal. And anyway, he was engaged to someone. At least that’s what I heard. I thought it was pretty sleazy for him to be hitting on new agents when he had a fiancée up in San Marcos.”

“Kelsey Quinn. What do you know about her?”

She shrugged. “Just her professional reputation, really. She’s a forensic anthropologist at the Delphi Center. She’s trained some of our people in bone recovery.”

“I understand she and Reid were no longer together,” he said.

“That’s news to me.”

“Did he hit on all the new agents or just you?”

“I know of at least two. And they said yes. You should talk to them if you want more about his private life. I really only saw him at work.”

Gordon glanced around the living room. His gaze lingered on the coffee table.

“What’s a combat knife, exactly?” Elizabeth asked.

He looked up at her. “Typically, a seven-inch, double-edge blade, partially serrated on the bottom for
cutting rope, et cetera. KA-BAR makes them. They’re somewhat expensive, but standard issue for active-duty Marines, Navy, spec ops guys.”

“That doesn’t really tell us anything,” she pointed out. “I bet any ten-year-old can order one off the Internet.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He walked past her into the hallway. The light was on, and Elizabeth noticed the fingerprint dust on the switch. He paused beside a bathroom, then walked to the door at the end of the hall. The door got stuck on the carpet and he had to push it open with his shoulder. Elizabeth followed him into the room and looked around. The bed had been stripped. She guessed this was a guest room based on the lack of items on the dresser and nightstand. A band of sunlight seeped through a gap in the curtains and she peered outside at a balcony. No plants, no patio furniture. There was a nice view of the trees along the River Walk, but it didn’t look as though Blake had spent much time outside enjoying it.

Gordon went back into the hallway. Elizabeth stood in the room a moment longer, looking around at the paint, the carpet, the draperies. Everything was very generic.

She followed the veteran agent down a carpeted flight of stairs to the ground floor. At the base was a hallway. Elizabeth poked her head left into a utility room and saw what looked like an exterior door to the carport. She turned right down the hall and joined Gordon in what was clearly the master bedroom. Tossed over the nearest chair was a suit jacket and tie. On the wall opposite the king-size bed was a huge flat-panel TV. The
bed had been stripped here, too, but the nightstands on either side were blanketed with clutter: a TV remote, a
Sports Illustrated,
an alarm clock. Gordon pulled back the curtain to reveal a pair of French doors looking out on a private patio. He glanced up and seemed to be checking out the security system.

“No evidence of forced entry, you said?”

“None,” he confirmed.

Elizabeth added that info to the up-close method of attack. Breaking a man’s neck
and
stabbing him was not only violent but personal. And Blake was tall. It wasn’t just any man who would be able to get the drop on a guy like him.

“So, are you assuming he knew his killer?” she asked.

“Don’t assume.” He glanced over at her as the phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.

“Moore.”

Elizabeth sauntered over to the nightstand and pretended not to be eavesdropping. A
TV Guide
tucked under the
Sports Illustrated
was open to Sunday’s date. She tapped the button on the alarm clock. It was set for 6:10 a.m.

“All right. And we have this confirmed?” Pause. “You mean the Delphi Center?”

Elizabeth glanced over at the dresser, trying to add to her catalog of clues. If this were
her
case, what would she make of all the items in this bedroom? What about his medicine cabinet? His refrigerator? His laptop computer? Any one of those things might hold the key to understanding Blake’s murder. But she, of course, wouldn’t be finding it because this wasn’t her case. Gordon Moore had clearly brought her along to get the
inside gossip on Blake’s private life, but he didn’t take her seriously as an investigator. And why should he? She was brand-new.