I See You (Criminal Profiler #2) - Mary Burton Page 0,65

He was tall and lean like the man in the first video, and this time he walked directly toward her. When it became clear she had not noticed him, he called out to her. She lifted her gaze and at first appeared confused. Then she took a step back.

Grinning, the man moved closer, stopping less than three feet from her. Her confusion shifted to worry, and she gripped the handle of the cooler. She stumbled backward and then turned and ran toward her car. The stranger pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up.

“Who is our mystery man?” Vaughan asked.

Hughes selected the man’s face and enlarged it. “I don’t know.”

“Can you print that out for me?” Vaughan asked.

She dropped her gaze back to the list of phone numbers. “Sure.”

When the printer across the room spat out the image, Hughes crossed to the machine, retrieved it, and handed it to Spencer.

“Judging by Hadley’s expression, she knew this guy very well,” Spencer said.

“We find this guy, we might find Skylar and Hadley?”

“Maybe,” Spencer said.

This added a new dimension to their search. “I’ll show the picture to the motel manager where Galina died. He said he didn’t see who Galina showed up with, but he might still know this guy.”

Hughes studied her computer notes. “FYI, Mark Foster called the same number sixteen times in the last two weeks. It’s an unregistered phone, but I called it. The owner’s voicemail was canned, and the inbox was full and didn’t accept a message.”

“Read it off to me?” Vaughan asked. As she did, he scribbled down the number.

“Mr. Foster’s cell phone records indicated the last time he called this individual was seven days ago. They spoke for thirty-two minutes.”

“What about Skylar’s phone?” Vaughan asked.

“Most of her calls were to Neil Bradford,” Hughes said. “And there is one more number that doesn’t appear to be attached to a name. It has a North Carolina area code and, like the number Mark was calling, is a burner.”

“One thing for Mark Foster to call a burner, but Skylar?” Spencer said.

“Not all kids can afford the better phones,” Vaughan said.

He took several more bites of pizza and then dialed the number. “Let’s see.” It rang several times but never went to voicemail.

She nodded to the man’s image on the screen.

“Kids from nice neighborhoods think they’re invincible and trust too damn easily. They think that protective bubble will follow them everywhere.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wednesday, August 14, 2:00 a.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Nineteen Hours after the 911 Call

Zoe and Vaughan worked past three o’clock in the morning, reviewing the Fosters’ financial and phone records. Fatigue was settling into her body, but she pushed through it, refusing to quit. A couple of times, he checked his watch and, when he caught her studying him, smiled sheepishly and admitted he had to remind himself that Nate wasn’t home. She felt for the guy but knew there wasn’t much she could say.

They had learned the Foster family enjoyed nice clothes, fancy restaurants, and expensive jewelry, but they were in deep debt. The house had two mortgages against it, and both Hadley’s and Mark’s credit cards were nearly maxed out.

Vaughan had also discovered that Mark had taken out a three-million-dollar life insurance policy on his wife a year ago. He was listed as the sole beneficiary.

By three in the morning, Zoe and Vaughan agreed to take a two-hour break so each could swing by their home to shower and change clothes.

He walked her to her car, and she drove back to her town house, cutting down the quiet streets of Old Town Alexandria. She parked and hurried down the brick sidewalk to her front door.

Zoe’s ring of keys rattled in her hand as she twisted the old lock to the front door of her home. The hardware was brass and had stunning detail on both the handle and faceplate. However, it required finesse and jiggling to work, as if it really did not want her in the house.

She missed her modern condo with the doorman and the view of downtown Arlington and the Potomac. She also dreamed about the dual-head jet shower and the huge walk-in closet. Sure, it had had zero personality or history, but it had been convenient for work, which was what had kept her going after Jeff had died. And yet here she stood.

She closed the door behind her and hooked her purse strap on the end of the bullnose banister. Climbing the narrow staircase, she passed the wall cluttered with photo memories and paused