his secrets?”
“He wanted the world to know. Didn’t want his skills going to the grave.”
“You going to sell the house? It’s got to be worth a fortune.”
“Maybe. Eventually. I have to clean it out, and that’s going to take time.”
“Looks pretty good to me.”
“Don’t be fooled by the outside.”
“You could get two million right now even if it was crammed full of stuff.”
“That stuff contains a lot of my history. And I want to figure that out before I make a decision.” She shifted in her seat. “Now, if we are finished with the twenty questions about my strange inheritance, can we figure out who killed Veronica and abducted Hadley and Skylar Foster?”
He pulled onto the cobblestone street and drove toward the banks of the Potomac River. The moon was full and cast a bright light over the smooth waters that drifted past.
“What can you tell me about Veronica Manchester?” she asked.
“As you already know, she worked as a new accountant at Foster’s firm. She was thirty-four and from the area. That’s all I have so far.”
He drove along Union Street and then worked his way back up toward King Street and I-395. Another ten minutes, and they were in Arlington, parking in front of a high-rise modern apartment building. In the lobby, they showed their badges to the guard at the desk.
“I’m Agent Vaughan. I called you about an hour ago. Agent Spencer and I are here to see Veronica Manchester’s apartment.”
“It’s early,” the guard said.
“I know it’s early. I still need the apartment opened.” He removed a piece of paper she knew was a search warrant from his breast pocket. She had to give Vaughan credit for finding a judge so quickly and getting a warrant executed.
“I’ll take you up,” the guard said. He spoke into a two-way radio and notified his partner to work the front desk. As soon as a second guard appeared from a side door, the trio took the center elevator up to the eighth floor.
“You know your residents pretty well?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. That’s part of the job,” the guard said.
“When is the last time you saw Veronica Manchester?” she pressed.
“At least a week ago.”
“Did she travel a lot?” Vaughan asked.
“Not a lot. She works long hours and only recently started talking about a vacation to France, I think. She was real excited. I figured she was in France.”
“Do residents notify you when they travel?”
“Most do, but not all.”
The doors opened up to a simple carpeted hallway painted in light grays. At apartment number 806, the guard paused and typed a code into the keypad and pushed open the door.
The guard switched on the lights, and they found themselves staring at a modestly decorated one-thousand-square-foot apartment. She knew firsthand that rent in this area went for about three grand a month and was barely affordable on a cop’s salary, including overtime.
“Do you mind leaving us?” Vaughan asked.
The guard glanced at the neatly folded search warrant and held it up. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s your copy.” Vaughan dug out his business card and handed it to the guard. “Any questions can be directed at me.”
Zoe dug out her own card. “Or me.”
The guard glanced at her card. “Does murder always get federal attention?”
“It does this time.” She studied the guard a bit more.
The guard closed the apartment door behind him, leaving them alone. She walked into the galley-style kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The standard single-girl fare, including a box of old Chinese takeout, three bottles of white wine, and a container of expired strawberry yogurt, was staring back at her.
She checked cabinets and found a collection of plates, utensils, and pans that all looked fairly unused. The living room looked as if it had been furnished from a Pinterest page. A large piece hanging over the couch was made of rustic whitewashed wood and sported the word BELIEVE in black scripted letters.
The single bedroom was off the living room and featured a queen-size bed covered in a rumpled coverlet. The pillow closest to the door still had the impression of a person’s head, as did the pillow to its right. Two people had slept in this bed.
As Vaughan studied an open calendar on a small desk, she went into the bathroom and found a used towel hanging on the rack.
Draped on a shower door was a washcloth covered in old makeup. There was a collection of hair-care and makeup products on the counter. Off to the right of the feminine chaos was a man’s