Silenced

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“It looks like these murders are connected to Jocelyn’s work,” Genie said as she drove across town to Hawthorne Street. “I want to talk to the neighbors, check the house.” She got on the phone with her team to get the details about the fire.

Lucy sent Noah an e-mail through her phone about what they had learned, growing increasingly frustrated with the small keyboard. She wanted to talk to him about Wendy James and the message left on her body, along with the idea to show both Wendy and Maddie’s pictures to Cora Fox, but she didn’t want to do it over messaging.

And she especially wanted to talk to him about Senator Paxton. She wanted to talk to Jonathon one-on-one, but she wouldn’t do it behind Noah’s back. He wasn’t involved in killing Chris and Jocelyn Taylor, but she had no doubt that if he knew who had killed them, he would seek his own vengeance.

He’d done it before.

But she could put none of that in e-mail. And she couldn’t tell Noah that, because he would ask her why she hadn’t come forward with the information she had on the senator. And she would have to say she didn’t have proof, she had no evidence, she just had her intuition and a theory and her masters degree in criminal psychology.

Plus the fact that she understood Jonathon Paxton better than anyone else.

She closed her note with a request to talk to him as soon as possible about a theory. She hoped he’d call her immediately, and waited for her phone to vibrate the entire drive over to Hawthorne. It didn’t.

Genie pulled up in front of the burned remains of what appeared to have been a large, Craftsman-style home—though it was hard to tell as every wall was black from soot and smoke.

Caution tape surrounded the crumbling structure.

What was left of the house was on a quiet, tree-lined street with well-maintained, stately, older homes. It was only blocks from a main thoroughfare, but the blocks surrounding it were equally attractive. It wasn’t what most people think of when they think “Washington, DC,” but Lucy had lived here long enough to know there were many pockets like this in the city.

“I talked to the lead fire investigator,” Genie said. “They believe it started in the basement. The house was on an old furnace system, but the owners”—she looked at her notes—“George and Karen Schwartz, currently of Satellite Beach, Florida, said they have maintenance records that the furnace had a clean bill of health as of March.”

“Any fatalities?”

“No, though two firefighters were injured fighting the blaze. The renters haven’t come forward.”

“And the house was rented to Ivy? Do we have a last name yet?”

“The owners don’t know—they use a property management company.”

“And?”

“And no one has talked to them yet. The fire started before dawn Tuesday morning, the owners were contacted later that day. By this morning, it got buried under eight more investigations. They’re sending me a copy of the file.”

They walked around the property, but found nothing of interest. Everything inside the house had been destroyed by fire or water from the fire suppression. There seemed to be little left. Lucy wasn’t an expert on fires, but this one must have burned hot and fast.

“Was there any accelerant?” she asked.

“That’s inconclusive as well—they’re awaiting lab results.”

“It’s highly suspicious that the house where two of our victims lived was burned down this week,” Lucy said.

“You’re thinking that the killer tried to take care of all of them at once.”

“But they got out—or maybe they weren’t here.”

“Then why burn it down?” Genie asked. “As a warning?”

“We should talk to the neighbors.”

“I’ll take left and right, you go across the street,” Genie said.

The first house Lucy approached was a white, two-story, clapboard-style home with an inviting covered porch. She knocked and an elderly woman answered the door. After identifying herself, she learned that Mrs. Patricia Neel was a retired federal employee. She was shriveled with age, but had all her faculties.

Lucy said, “I’m looking for the young women who lived in the house.” She gestured toward the remains across the street.

“A tragedy,” Mrs. Neel said. “What happened?”

“The arson investigator is looking into it, but we think they may be in danger. They haven’t come forward since the fire.”

“Of course they’re in danger, their house burned down. That was no accident.”

“You know for a fact it wasn’t an accident?”

“I didn’t see anyone toss a match on the place, if that’s what you mean. But houses just don’t burn down like that. There was an explosion, everyone on the street heard it, and my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

“What time was that?”

“Just after four in the morning, it woke me up and I looked at my clock. It wasn’t a big explosion, and I think there were two, and I heard the second. You know how that is, where you think you hear something, but aren’t quite sure. I thought they all died in the house.”

“The fire department said there were no fatalities.”

“I know, but it burned so fast, and when I went out on the street I didn’t see any of the girls. I told the fire chief the same thing, and they inspected the building, didn’t find anyone inside.”

The girls had to have been at the fire—the CSU had found clothing that reeked of smoke. Maybe they had some kind of a warning and got out quickly. Or they had been involved. But why would Ivy or any of the other girls burn down a rental house?

Unless they wanted someone to think they were dead.

“Do you know the girls?”

“Some of them. They’re very quiet, keep to themselves. But I went over there a couple of times—kept my eye on the place, you know. Karen Schwartz—she and her husband moved to Florida when they retired—asked me to let her know if there were any problems. They were good girls. All in college. Except for Mina.”

College? “Who’s Mina?”

“Sweetest girl. Very sad, though. Her sister was upset she kept coming over here to talk to me, but Mina was lonely, and with her sister and the other girls taking night classes, she was scared being alone in the house. She’d come over for tea after dinner and we’d chat or watch television. Nothing important—she was very quiet, just liked company.”

“Do you know her sister?”

“Ivy.”

“Does Ivy have a last name?”

“Hmm, Harris, I think.” Lucy made a note, and Mrs. Neel continued. “After the second or third time Ivy found Mina here, she told me that their parents were killed in an accident, and she was taking care of Mina, but that she worried that social services would separate them because Ivy was only eighteen. At least she was eighteen then. It’s been nearly two years. I told her as long as Ivy was as responsible as she seemed, there didn’t seem to be any reason to notify anyone. Mina loved her sister. I think they had a very rough childhood.”

“Do you know how old she was?”

“Oh, I don’t know—she’s been here for nearly two years, I think she was thirteen when they moved in. Beautiful young woman. Ivy agreed to let Mina visit me when she wanted, but I haven’t seen them much the last few weeks.”

“How many girls were living there?”

“They came and went, no more than eight, I don’t think. I didn’t keep tabs on them. They probably had changes in roommates with each semester.”

Lucy wondered whether that was true or not, or if Mrs. Neel didn’t want to seem to be a busybody.

“They probably liked that someone in the neighborhood was looking out for them, especially if they were from out of the area and not familiar with DC.”

Mrs. Neel smiled. “I try. I love this little street.”

“Do you know how many girls lived in the house right before the fire?”

“Six or seven.” She thought. “Ivy, Mina, I didn’t know the others. There was a new girl—young, I couldn’t imagine she was in college, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“New girl? How new?”

Mrs. Neel closed her eyes, counted silently, her lips moving. “About a week before the fire. It was a Wednesday, garbage day, and I had forgotten to take mine out. I got up early, and couldn’t go back to sleep. Saw a car drive up, a girl and a man get out. I assume her father. They went in, and a while later the man drove off.”

Mrs. Neel sat down on the porch swing. “Please excuse me, I’m getting old.” She sighed as she relaxed. “They really kept to themselves, and I don’t think Ivy would have spoken to me if her sister hadn’t wanted to visit. It must have been hard on them, but I’ll admit, I liked seeing how they looked out for each other. Families get torn apart these days, living everywhere around the world. I have three children, all of them more than a day’s drive!” She shook her head.

Lucy took a chance. She pulled Jocelyn’s driver’s license photo on her phone and said, “Have you seen this woman around lately?”

Mrs. Neel put on her glasses and looked closely. “Yes, yes I have. She’s been over several times. I haven’t met her.”

“Do you recall the last time?”

Mrs. Neel thought. “I can’t say, really. But it’s been awhile. More than a month, maybe two.”

That surprised Lucy. “Thank you.” She handed Mrs. Neel Noah’s card, but wrote her cell phone number on the back. “If Ivy or Mina or any of the girls contact you, please let me or Agent Armstrong know.”

“Is something wrong?”

“We’re worried about them. Since the fire, no one has spoken to any of them.”

“But they weren’t hurt, right? The firemen said no one was inside. I told you that, right?”

“No one was hurt in the fire, but we need to talk to them.” Then Lucy had another idea. She pulled up the unidentified girl from the Hotel Potomac. “Is this one of the girls?”

She squinted, put on her glasses again, and smiled. “Yes, yes, the new girl. Doesn’t she look young to be in college?”

Lucy didn’t respond to the rhetorical question, thanked Mrs. Neel for her time, and made sure she remembered she’d put Noah’s card—with Lucy’s cell phone written on the back—in her pocket.

* * *

Ivy didn’t want anything bad to happen to Pastor Marti North, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“If you can just keep Mina awhile longer,” Ivy said.

“As long as necessary,” Marti said.

Marti was pastor of His Grace Church. She was a forty-five-year-old former Army chaplain who ran the church and preschool for lost souls. At least, that’s how Ivy viewed it. She’d been coming to services ever since moving to the house on Hawthorne. She listened to the message of forgiveness, redemption, and love, but didn’t truly believe she deserved it.

Not when she harbored dark feelings of murder.

“Please be careful,” Ivy begged. “I’ll come for her as soon as I can.”

“Ivy.”

She turned to the pastor. “Once I get my sister safe, I’ll be back.”

“There are people who can help.”

“Like Jocelyn?” Ivy paced, her voice rising. “She’s dead. So is her husband. I’m worried about what could happen to you if you help me.”

“No one knows Mina is here. She hasn’t been outside. I’ll do everything I can to protect her.”

“I hate asking—”

Marti showed a rare irritation. “Ask, and you shall receive,” she quoted.

“Don’t—if God cared, Jocelyn would be alive. She never hurt anyone, she was only trying to help me. As soon as I get Sara settled, I’m coming for Mina. No later than tomorrow.”

She turned and started to leave the small, simple church.

Mina stood in the back.

“You don’t have to come back for me,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Tears threatened, but Ivy wasn’t going to cry. “I promised to take care of you, even after I rescued Sara. I promise I’ll come back.”

She shook her head. “You only had two passports.”

“I was working on getting yours.”

“It’s okay, Ivy.”

“You have to believe I care about you!”

“Sara’s your sister.”

Ivy strode over and hugged Mina. “So are you. In my heart. I’m not leaving you in DC. You’re coming to Canada with me. I just need to get the money, I already have three passports lined up.”

Marti said, “I have some money.”

“I can’t take your money.”

“It’s not enough, but it will help.”

Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, nodded her head once. “We’ll talk tonight.” She hugged Mina again and left.

Hawthorne Street was six blocks over. Ivy went the long way, through alleys, staying off the main streets. Truly, she didn’t know who was trying to kill her, and that made everyone a potential killer.

Ivy knew Mrs. Neel kept cash in a wall safe in her house. She also knew, because of Mina, that Mrs. Neel never remembered her password, so had written it in her address book, which was in her top desk drawer.

It was probably not enough, but it was something, and she would make it work.

She didn’t want to steal from the old woman, but she’d leave a note, promise to pay her back. Mrs. Neel had been so kind to them. Ivy already missed the house, the neighborhood, the small sense of peace.

No time for regrets.

If she had to, she’d sell her body to ten guys tonight, give blow jobs to a hundred, if that was what it took to raise the money to go to Canada.

Ivy came at Mrs. Neel’s house from the narrow alley that backed up to the rear yard. She kept hidden as best she could along the side of the garage, but she’d have to cross the driveway to reach the house.

Voices came from the front porch, and Ivy feared she’d have to wait. She didn’t have time. She peered around the corner and saw the back of a woman with long, dark hair pulled back, dressed professionally in slacks and a thin blouse. Cop? Arson investigator? Ivy didn’t see any law enforcement vehicles on the street, but she only had a partial view of the road.

Mrs. Neel seemed occupied, and the desk was in the back of the house, far from the front door. She had to take the risk.

Without giving herself time to change her mind, Ivy slipped in through the back door, using the key that Mrs. Neel had given Mina for emergencies. Guilt made her head ache, but she had no other choice.

She heard the voices, but not what was being said. Without hesitating, she flipped the address book over, memorized the passcode, and carefully took off the picture frame from the wall. She typed in the numbers, heard a click, and the light turned from red to green.

Her heart started beating again.

There were a lot of papers—insurance, bank statements, tax records, and for a moment Ivy feared Mrs. Neel had no cash.

Then she found the white, business-sized envelope.

She had no idea how much was inside, but she put it down her shorts, closed the safe, put the picture back, and slipped out of the house.

She’d been inside for less than four minutes.

The woman was still on the front porch, and down the long driveway, a black woman was talking to her next-door neighbor.

They had to be cops.

Almost at the same time, a dark blue van turned down the street. The driver wore a ball cap, but there was something familiar about him.

She’d seen him with Wendy many times.

What did Wendy call him? Dumb and Dumber. He had a brother. She called the two of them Dumb and Dumber, said they were her partners, but she ridiculed them.

But that was so long ago. Why was he here?

Did he have a hand in Wendy’s death? He shouldn’t even know where Ivy lived! Did Wendy tell him? Did Wendy hate her so much that she sent a killer after her?

Ivy didn’t believe it. They had a major disagreement, but Wendy wasn’t violent. And Wendy was dead.

Had the killer tortured the information out of her?

Ivy had to keep her wits about her. She’d run—but not to Marti’s church or St. Anne’s. She had to go far away, turn the attention away from her sister and Mina.

She wished Kerry had gotten in contact with her—she needed to be warned. But it had been three days and total silence.

What if she and Bryn were already dead?

A cry escaped Ivy’s chest and she swallowed it, the lump sticking like unchewed steak in her throat.

She squatted behind the shed, hoping he was gone. Waited. But she was nervous and antsy and couldn’t just sit here waiting for Dumb or Dumber to find her.

Wendy was obviously wrong about their intellect if they could kill so many people and not get caught.

She started across the backyard, but moved too fast. Or too slow.

The woman at the door caught her eye.

Ivy sprinted to the fence sealed it quickly. Then she and saw Dumb’s van again. He grinned at her, pointed his finger like a gun.

Ivy ran faster.