Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,52
on his way from work.
“I can give you his approximate height and weight,” Brian told them.
“That will be terrific,” Keenan said. “I think I can tell you right now. You’re going to find out that he’s about five-ten in height and stocky. He was slim and athletic once, but he’s quit his rounds of exercise and giving way to excess.”
“You think it’s Smith, right?” Stacey asked him.
“I do,” Keenan said.
“But you couldn’t prove it in a court of law,” Stacey said. She gave him a grim smile. “We might know that it’s him, but from this video—unless Brian miraculously comes up with something a little more—this only proves that a dark-haired man of approximately Smith’s height was in that car on that street with Jess.”
He smiled at her. “We know that. But Smith will have no idea just exactly what we got off the video. I think that, when we finish here, we’ll pay him a visit at his DC home. We might have enough to bring him in, but I don’t want to have him weaseling out on any technicalities or lack of evidence until we do have more.”
They watched the video several more times.
“When the car drives in,” Fred Crandall said, pointing at the screen, “you see the front of the vehicle, but I can’t tell what kind. Looks like there is mud over everything. On purpose, I imagine.”
“Give me a little time. I’ll name the make and model,” Brian told them. “There are all kinds of comparisons we can make with manufacturers’ models online. Won’t take me too, too long. But I should be able to make a match.”
“When you do match it, we’ll still be legally taking a shot in the dark,” Fred muttered, shaking his head. “Think of all the black SUVs in Washington, Virginia and Maryland. Hey, there are plenty in the FBI and among detectives throughout the surrounding counties. High-quality SUVs from every manufacturer out there—all black.”
“That’s true,” Keenan agreed. “And Smith—or whoever Jess’s client was that night—made sure that he kept his face down the whole time.”
“As if he knew there just might be a camera somewhere,” Jean said.
“He was angry that he had to get out of the car. I don’t think he had planned to get out,” Stacey theorized, echoing Keenan’s own thoughts. “She was late; he was growing apprehensive. He stepped out but remembered he didn’t want his face to be seen. He yelled at her—Candy heard him—probably because he was just as angry at himself for having stepped out. Then he must have remembered he was playing the part of a gentleman, and he opened the car door for her.”
“I think that sounds about right,” Keenan agreed. “So, we’ve got possible links for Congressman Colin Smith to two of the murders. Can we connect him to the victim in Alexandria in any way?” He looked at Detective Channing.
“On our Alexandria victim, we still have just about nothing,” Jean said. “I’ve walked the neighborhood in jeans and a T-shirt, tried to engage the street girls in the area. One girl took a look at the picture I was showing of the victim and went racing down the street so fast I couldn’t catch her.” Jean made a face. “And I run marathons! And other than that... I couldn’t get close to anyone. No one was talking. I’ve gone over the medical examiner’s notes, and all I know is that her organs were removed—completely—and that she was killed elsewhere and dumped where she lay. We’ve asked police at her last-known address to find out anything they could about her. We’ve been through government records. Her parents are deceased. She was an only child. We’re just nowhere.”
“A forgotten person,” Keenan said. “As the others might have been. Except for Billie Bingham.”
“It’s sad but true,” Fred put in. “We all know that cases can grow cold. We’ve got a big caseload. And sometimes, we’re spurred into action because of a persistent loved one. And that usually means people not afraid of the police. Sex workers, even frightened ones, have a tendency to run from police and law enforcement, not to them.”
“What if Billie was a wild card?” Stacey asked. They all looked at her. “An unintentional wild card, or someone who didn’t quite fit the bill, but worked? The plan was to kill street people. Make it look like a deranged Jack the Ripper wannabe was on the prowl. Finish it up and slide into history and mystery like the real Ripper.