“It appears Ms. Prince didn’t make it more than five miles from her family home.” She laid out a picture taken of Marsha Prince her freshman year of college and then beside it a photograph of the bust she had sculpted.
He was struck by how sweet the girl looked. Thick blond hair swept over an oval face sporting a bright, wide smile. She had earned straight As her freshman year while balancing a part-time waitress job and volunteering at a food bank.
“Shit,” he muttered. He picked up both pictures. “The faces look identical.”
“Even I was surprised by the accuracy.”
“It’s one hell of a job, Agent Spencer.”
“Thanks.”
“As I remember, Marsha Prince’s family appeared squeaky clean. Younger sister, Hadley, was a cheerleader and a senior in high school. She was also slated to follow in her sister’s footsteps to Georgetown. However, during the investigation, the cops learned of the father’s financial troubles.”
“Her father, Larry Prince, owned Prince Asphalt Paving Company, and her mother’s illness put the family on the ropes.”
“The mother had multiple sclerosis,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said. “Father was not particularly beloved by his neighbors because he was so particular about his yard. He hated it when anyone walked on the grass. But the family overall had no issues that anyone really noticed. And then his daughter vanished.”
“Marsha stayed on the FBI’s missing persons list for a long time.”
“She was removed just today.”
Vaughan tapped his finger on the faux-wood-grain tabletop. “Nikki McDonald said she received the original tip via her website. We tried to trace the sender but had no luck.”
“Not surprising. The killer isn’t ready to be caught.”
“But he could be?”
“I’m betting when the identity is made public, he’ll want more attention.”
“Why now?” Vaughan asked, more to himself.
“He needs recognition and validation to fill some kind of void in his life.”
Vaughan nodded. “He’s suffered some loss or upset in his real life. Lost a job, underwent a divorce or breakup, or maybe even his health.”
“Those are the primary triggers,” Spencer said.
“I discovered that Marsha Prince’s surviving sister now lives in Alexandria,” Vaughan said.
“After Marsha disappeared, Hadley married her high school boyfriend, Mark Foster, and they moved to Oregon. The couple has one child. In January of this year, Mark Foster accepted a new accounting job in Alexandria, and the family moved back east. Hadley is a fitness instructor. The daughter, Skylar, is a senior in high school.”
“You’d think after the pain of losing her sister, Hadley would never have returned to Alexandria.”
“Promotions are hard to turn down, I suppose.”
“I owe her a death notification, unless you’ve done that already,” Vaughan said.
“I have not. This is your jurisdiction. I’m here strictly to inform you of my findings.”
He glanced at his watch. “No time like the present. Care to join me? I know you’re as curious as I am about this case.”
She placed the photos back in her folder. “Actually, I would. I’ve spent six weeks molding Marsha Prince’s face, and I’d like to see this girl find justice.”
“We can take my car.”
Wild Blue: My mother and father always fight.
Mr. Fix it: Parents can be so selfish.
Wild Blue: I know, right? They always put themselves first. I hate the shouting.
Mr. Fix it: You shouldn’t have to live like this.
Wild Blue: I don’t want to live like this anymore.
Mr. Fix it: How about we grab dinner?
Wild Blue: I’d like that.
Mr. Fix it: When?
Wild Blue: Always easiest to sneak out on Mondays. Both my parents are always out until late.
Mr. Fix it: Tonight then.
Wild Blue: You keep me sane.
Mr. Fix it: Remember, you are very special.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday, August 12, 4:30 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
One Day Before
The faint scent of french fries still lingered in Vaughan’s car as he watched Spencer click her seat belt into place. The dark interior radiated the day’s heat, but she managed to always look so cool and collected.
“Excuse the fast-food smells. I just dropped my son off at college. The kid was eating like there was no tomorrow.” He had mentioned his son in passing, but she had not asked him any questions about the boy, and when he’d inquired about her personal life, she had confirmed little beyond the fact that she was single.
“I’m sure he was a little nervous. Freshman year of college is a big deal. It certainly was for me.” She typed the address of the Fosters’ home into her phone.
“I always bought him fries after soccer practice or if I had to work a double shift. I think the fries were more for my benefit than his.”
“Feeding is a form of love. He might not have said it, but the ritual must have comforted him.”
“All I got from the kid today were grunts and silence.”
“His prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed; add in hormones and the stress of a new life situation, and you’re bound to get a moody kid. Your son is acting as he should.”
“You should know. You’re the profiler.” He had never asked what she’d noticed about him, but he was slightly curious. “And what advice do you have for his old man?”
“Keep doing what you are doing.”
Up until now, he had tabled whatever additional questions he’d had about her personal life. “You have any kids?”
“No.”
“Did I hear something about you moving?”
“To Old Town. An uncle left me his place on Prince Street.”
He whistled. “That’s expensive real estate.”
“Don’t get me started on the electric bills.”
“You going to keep the place?”
“I don’t know. It’s crammed full of furniture and memories. Until I sort through it all, I’ll hang on to the place.”
The GPS directed him down familiar streets and then on Janney Road and finally into an upscale neighborhood. It was five fifteen when he parked in front of the Fosters’ two-story brick colonial. It had a neat front yard that managed to remain green in the brutal August heat, and parked in the gravel driveway was a late-model Ford Explorer. It was upward of three thousand square feet and, in this high-dollar neck of the woods, would have cost over a million dollars.
Out of the car, she waited as he crossed around the front and joined her. “Business must be good,” he said.
“It appears so.”
No missing her skepticism. She knew as well as he that appearances could be damn deceiving. He had seen plenty of drugs and domestic abuse in expensive homes as well as compassion and tenderness in the slums. You never knew what happened behind closed doors.
The generously trimmed bushes lining the brick exterior offered no hiding place for anyone looking to cause trouble, and there was a tall privacy fence rimming the backyard. He guessed no dog, because if there was one on the premises, it would generally be barking by now.
Still, he flexed his fingers and kept his jacket unbuttoned and his holstered gun quickly accessible, a habit he had picked up early in his detective days. Spencer’s actions mirrored his as she tactically positioned herself a few steps behind him. This should be a straightforward death notification, but a smart cop who wanted to go home alive always expected trouble.
He rang the bell, and footsteps thudded on a hard floor inside the house. Two latches scraped across a lock, and a bolt clicked open. Not typical of suburbia. Normally, folks in the nice areas figured bad things did not happen there. Hadley Prince Foster knew otherwise.
The heavy oak door opened to a petite woman with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore expensive exercise gear that was designed more for fashion than function and athletic shoes that matched the striping on her capri pants. Diamonds winked from her left ring finger and her ears.
“May I help you?” Her smile was pleasant but not warm and welcoming.
Both Vaughan and Spencer held up their badges. “Hadley Foster?”
She tightened her hand on the doorknob. “I am.”
“Your maiden name was Prince?” Spencer asked.
The smile was gone. “That’s right.”
“May we come inside?” Spencer asked. “There’s something we need to talk to you about.”
“Concerning?” Hadley asked.
“Your sister, Marsha,” Vaughan replied.
Under the expertly applied makeup, Hadley’s face paled, and her lips thinned into a grim line. A car door across the street slammed closed, and she flinched. She looked past them to the house across the street, and when the man dressed in a dark suit waved, she smiled weakly and waved back.
“Come inside,” she said.
As she moved to the side, they angled around her and stepped into a foyer. Directly in front of them was a set of carpeted stairs that rose up to a second floor.
To his right, there was a formal room, and down the center hallway, a kitchen filled with white marble and bright stainless steel appliances. A back door fed off the kitchen into the yard surrounded by the privacy fence they had seen when they’d approached the house.