“A little too coincidental.”
“Yes, it is.” Spencer stared up at the house, as if willing it to yield its secrets. Her gaze drifted to the edged grass along the sidewalk. “Did you notice yesterday how perfect Hadley kept her home? Not a speck of dust or misplaced item. And she didn’t have a hair out of place or an extra ounce of fat on her body.”
“She’s a perfectionist.”
“I think it’s a coping mechanism,” Spencer said. “She obsesses over the surface details because she doesn’t want anyone to know how unkempt she is on the inside.”
“My guess: she was wound pretty damn tight.”
Spencer nodded. “And then we arrive with news that her sister is dead.”
“Everyone has the potential to snap,” he said.
“It’s a matter of dialing up the right combination of events,” she said.
“And I would say she was a prime candidate.”
Inside the Foster residence, Zoe found herself face to face with a large bloodstain darkening the entrance floor. Several small splashes of blood dotted the pale-gray walls and family pictures encased in silver frames.
The floor was littered with bloody gauze pads, discarded bandage wrappers, and plastic syringe caps. Positioned by each were yellow evidence tags. The priority in any case involving a living victim was to treat the injured first. Invariably, EMTs, in their need to do their job, unintentionally destroyed a great deal of crime scene evidence.
Past the primary blood pool, her gaze followed the dotted trail that snaked its way through the living room, past the sofa, and to a door leading to what looked like a garage.
Vaughan shifted his attention back to the front door’s lock. “The doorjamb and the lock have no marks indicating forced entry.” He moved from window to window on the first floor, testing each to see if they were locked. They were. Next, he jostled the handle on a set of french doors. They weren’t locked but had no signs of damage. “Whoever came into the house didn’t force his way in.”
She glanced toward the couch in the living room and noted the pillows that had been so neat yesterday were ruffled and appeared to have been hastily tossed back in place.
“We know very little about Hadley and Mark Foster after they left the area,” she said. “That goes for the daughter, Skylar, too? Who knows what kind of trouble those three might have unwittingly brought to their home?”
“You really think this has something to do with Marsha Prince’s identification?” he asked.
“I do. McDonald wasted no time posting the news.”
“She scooped them all.”
She looked out the front window, her gaze trailing toward Rick McGuire. “A bit of revenge against the station that canned her and the reporter who filed a complaint.”
“Whoever messaged McDonald must have known the bones belonged to Marsha Prince.”
“Our informant calls the media, waits for an identification, and then he swoops in and attacks the Fosters,” she said.
“If he was looking for maximum attention, he’s going to get it.”
“We also have to consider that this had nothing to do with Prince’s identification. Foster could have been stealing from his company, or he might have a drug problem for all we know at this time. A mistress. Who had a grudge against him? The three primary motivators for murder are money, sex, and revenge.”
“Detective Hughes is already getting warrants for the Fosters’ financials.”
“Does the wife or daughter have a boyfriend?”
“Again, to be determined.”
She peered out the front door for a security camera and pointed to a single-lens camera aimed at the front door. “That might tell us who paid them a call. It sends the recording to a computer or phone.”
“Let’s hope.”
Zoe paused to study a painting of Hadley and Skylar when she was a toddler. She followed the blood trail up the carpeted stairs to the second floor landing. The blood led down the central hallway toward the end and what was presumably the master suite.
Lights from a camera flashed from the last room, and they moved down the hallway, pausing at the first door. The room appeared to be a man’s study. The soft grays and whites gave way to browns, leathers, and heavy drapes. On the wall behind a heavy mahogany desk was a tall set of shelves that exhibited a series of professional awards as well as snapshots featuring Mark Foster displaying either a hunting or fishing conquest. There were papers assembled into piles around his desk.
“The man cave,” Zoe said. “Lets the wife decorate the house, but this room is his. He knew those piles must drive her crazy.”
“I grew up with three younger sisters,” Vaughan said. “When you’re the only guy in a house, it’s nice to have your space.”
“I don’t see a computer.” She crossed to the desk and discovered the computer cord still plugged in the wall. “I wonder if he backed it up somewhere?”
“I’ll have Hughes look into it.” He sent the detective a text.
She studied the pictures on Mark Foster’s credenza more closely. “Judging by the scenery, Foster traveled out west to what looks like the Sierra Nevada Mountains, maybe Montana, or possibly Idaho. Just about froze my ass off the winter I was stationed in Butte.”
“How long have you been with the bureau?”
“Six years in the bureau and two years on the criminal profiler squad.” She shifted her gaze to another picture. “Mark Foster likes documenting his big game kills.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s our guy.”
“Didn’t say he was. Just making an observation about the photos and the missing laptop, which might have footage of the intruder on it.”
“Mark Foster knew Marsha Prince, and he was on my list of people to interview once I had my bearings on the case.”
Zoe moved slowly and methodically when she collected homicide evidence. This was not a homicide yet, and she hoped it stayed that way. “Has an Amber Alert been issued for the girl?”
“Yes.”
The first few hours a child or young adult went missing were golden. The circle of evidence was tight and the evidence fresh. The more time that elapsed, the larger that circle became and the more tainted the evidence.
An open datebook revealed several appointments with clients as well as a golf pro and a travel agent. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The two made their way to the next room. This room was decorated in soft purples and grays. The bed was covered in a paisley comforter and unmade. The large pillows were rumpled, and a nearly full cup of coffee sat on the nightstand. Jewelry was scattered over the dresser top, but the surface underneath was polished. In the bathroom, nail polishes were lined up in a neat row along the counter, and the rich supply of makeup was organized in clear containers. A hand towel was neatly folded on the rack.
“Skylar slept in her bed last night,” Zoe said. “She was awake long enough to get a cup of coffee, bring it to her room, and take a couple of sips.”
“And then all hell broke loose.”
She walked around the room, searching for anything that was out of place. She had worked a missing persons case in Nevada, and the key to finding the fourteen-year-old girl had been a collection of coffee shop receipts that had led to the store clerk, who had become obsessed with her. The smallest detail could be the important piece.
“Do you see her cell phone?” Zoe asked.
“No.”
“That’s going to be critical.”
“I hear ya. Kids all have social media pages, and most share far more than they should.”
She fished out her phone and searched a couple of social media apps.
“How many apps do you have?” he asked.
“All of them. I routinely search people I’m investigating. I often learn more about a person from their online profiles than interviewing them or their associates.” She paused and then nodded. “Here she is.” Skylar’s profile page on Instagram had been updated three days ago with a picture of the sun shining on an industrial building. The next update was several days before that, and it featured Skylar and a teenage boy. Their heads were tilted toward each other, and their outstretched hands each created the peace sign.
“Nate posts goofy pictures with his buddies. I worry about his posting enough,” he said. “But if I had a girl to raise, I would likely have gone insane with worry.”
“No pictures of her with her mother,” Zoe said, scrolling through the collection. “There are pictures of Skylar with her dad in the spring, but nothing recently.”
“Kids at that age are doing their best to distance themselves from their parents,” he said.
“Maybe. Mother-and-daughter relationships can be strained even at the best of times.”
As tempted as she was to ruffle the bedsheet and begin moving things around to look for the phone, she had to wait for the forensic team to process the room. “The phone was in her hand yesterday when she came into the house with her father. The case is pink and glittered.”
As she walked around the girl’s room, nothing caught her eye.
They left Skylar’s room behind and continued along the blood trail, which grew heavier with each step closer to the master bedroom.