I See You (Criminal Profiler #2) - Mary Burton Page 0,109

“It’s an active crime scene.”

“Foster contacted me. I came here to see him.”

“He shouldn’t be there either.” As he reached the next red light, he did a U-turn and headed back in the direction of the Fosters’ home.

“Look, I’m not calling to debate the finer points of crime scene protection,” she said. “You need to get here quickly. Mark Foster is dead.”

“Dead?”

“I called 911, and the uniforms are here,” she said. “I’m on the front porch.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Foster is dead,” Spencer said, more to herself. “How?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Vaughan pressed the accelerator, flipped on his grille lights, and covered the six miles in minutes. He pulled up in front of the house behind three marked cars, lights flashing. He and Spencer got out and quickly approached a uniformed officer.

“How long have you been here?” Vaughan asked the young officer.

“Five minutes. Paramedics have been called, but there’s no way Foster is alive.”

“How did he die?” Vaughan asked.

“He cut his wrists.”

Vaughan looked past the officer toward Nikki, who was standing next to one of the police vehicles. Her arms were folded over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of interest and worry.

“Ms. McDonald,” Vaughan said.

“Detective. Agent.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why did you enter the residence?”

“Foster said he’d give me an exclusive interview. He said he had a lot to tell me, but not a lot of time.”

“Tell you what?”

“I wish I knew.” She pulled in a breath, as if inhaling a cigarette. “He was dead when I found him.”

“Did you disturb anything while you were in the room?” Vaughan asked.

“You’ll find my fingerprints on the back door, but I didn’t touch anything else. When I found Foster, I called the cops right away and got the hell out.”

“Why didn’t you call when he first contacted you?” he asked.

She leveled her gaze on him. “Because I’m chasing a story, Detective. Like you, I want to do my job the best I can.”

“When you say he contacted you, how did he do it?” Spencer asked.

“He texted.”

“Could he have sent you the text at the beginning of the summer regarding Marsha Prince’s remains?”

“It’s not the same number. I double-checked.”

“What else have you found out during your investigation?” he asked.

“I’ve given it all to you.”

“Were you wearing your camera when you entered the house?”

“No. I didn’t want to spook him.”

“How did you know the text really was from Foster?” Vaughan asked.

“I wasn’t sure.” A grin tugged at the edges of her lips. “But you know how it is: you got to play to win.”

“Can I see your phone?” Vaughan asked.

She dug it out of her purse and handed it to him. The screen saver image featured a PR shot of Nikki at the station.

“Password?” he asked.

“Search warrant?” she countered.

“I’m not in the mood for games,” he said.

“Neither am I,” she said. “What little I have of a life, I have on that phone, and I’d rather not give it over to the cops.”

“I can get a warrant.”

She grabbed her phone back. “And that will take time.”

“I want the number of the person who texted you.”

Nikki typed quickly, and seconds later, his phone dinged with several texts. “Why would he kill himself if he didn’t murder Hadley and Marsha Prince?”

Vaughan turned away from the reporter. “No comment.”

Vaughan and Spencer pulled on latex gloves.

“Why come here?” Spencer asked. “Why not make a run for it?”

“If the guy had any good memories, they’d have been wrapped up in this house,” Vaughan said.

They each had their hands on their weapons as they approached the back door. Vaughan took point while Spencer covered him as they went through the house toward the study.

A clock ticked in the hallway. The two exchanged glances and moved forward; he checked the living and dining rooms while Spencer stood watch. They continued this methodical search through the downstairs and garage before they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Skylar’s room was untouched. Like the other parts of the house, there was no sign that Foster had been here.

They entered the master bedroom. Vaughan stepped around the earlier bloodstain and glanced toward the red arch of spray on the wall before he checked the last space in the house.

He pushed open the bathroom door and instantly smelled the copper scent of blood in the room. This was not stale but fresh.

He rounded the corner and found Mark Foster lying in the tub. He had slashed both wrists.

Holstering his weapon, he reached for a pulse. Foster’s skin was pale, cold to