Winter Frost (A Chris Matheson Cold Case Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “A little after five o’clock,” Ivy said. “She was frantic. Talking crazy—saying that it wasn’t safe to come home now. I told her to come home and we’d talk about what to do—whatever—but just come home. She hung up on me. I drove out to the metro stop to pick her up—but she didn’t show.”

  “What time did you go to the metro stop?”

  “I was there by quarter after six,” Ivy said. “The Reston-Weihl stop. The place was packed. I kept trying to call her but got no answer. I went walking around—thinking that Chris had caught up with her there.” Seeing Chris’s expression, she added, “What was I supposed to think? She told me that it was you!”

  “How long did you wait?” Ripley asked.

  “I waited until eight o’clock before I gave up and came home.” Ivy sobbed. “We never saw her again.”

  Stu wrapped his arm around her. “You understand why we couldn’t call the police to report her missing. According to official records, Blair Matheson had died three years ago.”

  Tristan Faraday didn’t aspire to become a computer genius and build a super artificial intelligence. Actually, he had started out studying paleontology and built computers and robots for a hobby. The downside of being a paleontologist is that there aren’t any dinosaurs around to study.

  Not only did Tristan like working with computers, he really loved building them, and getting inside their minds to figure out how they worked. The more he studied, the more he discovered a correlation between living and artificial intelligence. One thing led to another until he ended up creating Nigel, his imaginary friend, who had managed, through technological interaction with computers and databases across the world to create an ultra-secret global network.

  The super intelligent virtual “butler” named Nigel had formed many relationships with computer systems around the globe—relationships that proved to be quite beneficial to the Phantoms.

  During his research, Tristan discovered that AIs were not unlike humans. Maybe it was because humans created them.

  Computers and the networks connecting them had personalities and issues that Nigel had learned to navigate in the same manner that humans had to deal with each other. The computer network in the Capitol Building was so out of touch that it was virtually useless. Nigel, who was quickly developing a sense of humor, never went to her for anything except nonsensical quotes or anecdotes for his humor database.

  Others were temperamental. According to Nigel, the Associated Press database, while chatty, was quite arrogant and had an opinion about everything. He was more interested in telling Nigel what to conclude from his data than giving it.

  AIs had not yet developed human conditions like manipulation and dishonesty. However, they were only as good as the information humans put into their system. Inaccurate data fed into the system for whatever reason, whether it be lack of integrity or fact checking, produced poor data. While there was nothing Nigel couldn’t find out from the Associated Press, he preferred to check elsewhere first for accurate data.

  As Nigel’s skills grew and he became increasingly important to Murphy’s team of ultra-secret government operatives, Tristan decided, for security’s sake, to move Nigel out of the guest cottage he lived in at his sister and brother-in-law’s estate in Great Falls, Virginia, to a secret location in a brownstone in Georgetown.

  Tristan had bought the brownstone when he was a college undergrad. He had moved in with Jessica after a water main break flooded the building. After it had been renovated, Tristan turned it into a three-story computer lab with cutting-edge technology and security.

  To the few visitors permitted inside the townhome, it looked like nothing more than the average Georgetown home with hardwood floors, a living room, dining room, and kitchen that looked out onto a patio garden. Little did they know that the upper floors contained a state-of-the-art computer lab connected to satellites around the globe to feed information to Nigel.

  The items from Tristan’s backpack were scattered across the kitchen table. He checked the time on the clock on the microwave while taking a jar of mayonnaise out of the fridge. Spotting one last bottle of beer, he decided to take that as well.

  He closed the door and turned around to see a man standing before him. He aimed a nine-millimeter Berretta at Tristan’s mid-section.

  “I assume you’re from Slade Industries.” Holding up his hands, in which he clutched the beer and mayonnaise, Tristan could feel the assassin’s partner making his way down the back hallway toward him—his weapon aimed at the back of Tristan’s head.

  “I guess you know why we’re here,” the first assassin said. “Saves us having to listen to you begging to know why we’re going to have to kill you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You should eat something,” Elliott said to Chris who was sitting next to him in the booth at the restaurant chain. “You didn’t have any breakfast.” He took it upon himself to order two cheeseburger meals from the server—one for him and the other for Chris.

  Flashing a smile at Sterling, who lay on the floor next to Elliott’s seat, the server went to put in their orders.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t find anything in Blair’s room,” Chris said.

  “We agreed she took whatever evidence she had to the meeting with her.” Ripley reached down to stroke the top of Sterling’s head. “If her murderer didn’t take it, then it has to be at the lab.” She waved the straw, still in its wrapper, at him. “I’m betting on the cell phone.”

  “Blair wasn’t stupid,” Chris said. “She’d have a backup someplace.” His gray eyes narrowed. “Do you know what’s odd?”

  “This whole case is odd,” Elliott said.

  “I’m talking about Blair’s room,” Chris said. “She was very organized—had folders for everything broken down by finance and household and recreation.”

  “I saw that,” Ripley said with a nod of her head. “A whole folder box. We looked through each folder. She had each year rubberbanded together.”

  “I’m talking about what we didn’t find,” Chris said.

  “A folder labeled, ‘Evidence of Treason Against Daniel Cross’,” Ripley said.

  “Bank records,” Chris said.

  “Blair didn’t have a bank account because Blair was dead,” Elliott said. “Dunleavy paid her under the table.”

  “Then why didn’t we find a cash box?” Chris asked. “She didn’t go out. She wasn’t a clothes horse. She certainly wasn’t traveling. She had to have money. If she had money, what did she do with it? We didn’t find a cash box, so she put it someplace. Yes, Blair was dead, but Charlotte Nesbitt was alive and she had a passport. With that, she could have opened a bank account.”

  “So Blair had a bank account under Charlotte Nesbitt’s name,” Ripley said. “I’m not following you.”

  “I’m saying someone searched that room ahead of us,” Chris said. “They found Blair’s bank statements and took them.”

  “Because ...”

  “They didn’t want us to know from what bank she may have been renting a safety deposit box.” Chris tapped the tabletop with his index finger. “That is where she hid her backup.”

  “That’s a pretty big jump based on the absence of bank statements,” Ripley said with a shake of her head. Her face was filled with doubt. “A lot of people have gone paperless nowadays.”

  “If Blair was paperless, why did she have three folders dedicated to appointment calendars?”

  “It’d all be easier if we knew exactly what evidence she had of what,” Elliott said. “Then we’d have a better idea of where to start.”

  “Our team’s trying to locate people who had been stationed in Switzerland with Blair,” Ripley said while reading a text. “Speak of the devil. We found one. Marianne Landon. Assistant to Blair’s boss.”

  “Are we talking about the boss who committed suicide by shooting himself
in the back three times?” Elliott asked.

  “Exactly,” Ripley said as the phone rang in her hand. “She’s retired now and living in the Outer Banks.” She put the phone to her ear. “Ripley here.”

  “If she actually knows anything, why wouldn’t she have said something before?” Elliott asked Chris, who was staring down into his glass of water.

  “Because people have been dying, that’s why.” Chris sighed. “Maybe this is a mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “I have three daughters. They need me. Someone just went and killed Blair last night. They terrified her so much that she created this huge lie to make sure her friends wouldn’t blow her secret—all to keep our girls safe.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think Blair would want me to walk away from this while I still can. She’d want me to put their safety first.”

  “And let them get away with whatever it is that they have been doing?” Elliott asked. “Let them just keep whacking folks?”

  “Son of a—” Ripley slammed the phone down onto the tabletop so hard that she startled Elliott and Chris.

  Sterling jumped to his feet and moved to position himself between Chris and the potential threat that had prompted Ripley’s outburst.

  Diners at the next table turned to look at them.

  Aware of the audience, Chris asked, “What happened?”

  Her face screwed up with anger, Ripley rubbed it with both hands. When she brought them down to reveal her eyes, they were narrowed with fury. During their many years of working together, Chris had never seen Ripley so angry. She bit off each word when she said, “They got our evidence.”

  “Excuse me?” Chris shook his head. “Who got … our evidence? Are you talking—”

  “The sheriff’s deputies took the evidence to the FBI lab. They check it into the evidence database before it is assigned to a scientist for examination. A guy walked in with a badge and ID showing that he was a scientist from the lab and said that the Matheson case had been given priority and they needed to work the evidence ASAP. So the techs itemized it while the guy waited and handed it over to him. He left. Seven minutes later, the real scientist from the lab stopped in. The clerk asked about the new guy—”

  “There was no new guy,” Chris said.

  “He got everything,” Ripley said. “Including the phone.”

  Chris covered his mouth to conceal the tremble working its way to his lips. His voice shook when he asked, “Do they at least have a description of the guy?”

  “He kept his face adverted from the cameras,” Ripley said. “But we do know one thing. He’s extremely tall.”

  “And thin?” Chris asked. “Very tall? Very thin?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Murphy and I saw him last night. He said he was with the CIA and ordered Murphy to hand me over to him—matter of national security. Murphy didn’t buy it. The guy tried to muscle Murphy, but he stood up to him. Guy backed down. I think it was only because there were too many witnesses.”

  “Lucky for you Murphy stood his ground,” Ripley said.

  Chris nodded his head as he took the vibrating phone from his pocket. He recognized the number for the incoming call as Ivy Dunleavy’s. Bracing for a fight, he swiped his finger across the screen. “Hello.”

  “Chris, it’s Ivy.”

  “Didn’t we just talk?”

  “I wanted to apologize,” she said in a sweet voice. “I was rude to you. But you have to understand, for the last three years, Blair has been telling us what a monster you were. I had no reason not to believe her. It never occurred to me that she was hiding from someone else. Can you forgive me?”

  Chris hesitated. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that Ivy wanted something more than forgiveness. He never did trust her. Now, being aware that she had hidden Blair from him, he trusted her even less.

  “Hannah misses Emma,” Ivy said. “We should get the two of them together. Maybe this weekend.”

  “Now’s not a good time,” Chris said. “I’m going to need to figure out how to tell the girls about their mother.”

  “Are you heading back to your parents’ farm now?” Ivy asked.

  “Yes, we’re getting some lunch and then I’ll be heading back. Why?”

  “You looked exhausted when you were here,” she said. “You really should go home and get some sleep.”

  “I’ll sleep after I find out who killed my wife.”

  Francine uttered a heavy sigh and put her Mini-Cooper into park. “This is why I hate city driving.”

  It was Saturday afternoon and traffic in Georgetown was at a stand-still. Both she and Murphy could see the bright lights and hear the sirens of emergency vehicles several blocks ahead.

  Needing to stretch his long legs, Murphy opened the door and stepped out.

  Francine shouted out to him when she saw Bruce and Jacqui making their way down the sidewalk. “There’s Bruce and Jacqui! Hey, Bruce! Jacqui! We’re over here. What’s going on?”

  Too sophisticated for shouting across the street, Jacqui trotted over. “They’re saying there was a big explosion two blocks ahead. A brownstone. They think it was a gas explosion.”

  Explosion. The word struck Murphy in the heart as he could see the emergency crews working around a brownstone on the corner two blocks ahead.

  A corner unit.

  Worry overtaking him, he started walking.

  Explosion. What kind of explosion?

  As worry turned to fear, he picked up his pace.

  Stephens. Hayes. Blair. All dead.

  Fear turned to panic. Murphy sprinted as if there was something, anything that he could do to make everything go into reverse and he could go back to before he had never invited Tristan into this nasty dangerous business.

  Breaking through the line of stopped vehicles, he saw that it was true—horribly true.

  Tristan’s brownstone was a fiery brick oven. The trucks from one fire company were battling the blaze and trying their best to protect the homes around it.

  No. Not Tristan. Not Jessica’s brother. It can’t be. His mind focused only on trying to save Tristan, he fought to get through the human barricade pushing him back.

  “Murphy, what are you trying to do?” Francine called out behind him.

  “My brother-in-law,” Murphy gasped to the officer. “Is he in there? Tell me he’s not in there.”

  Before the officer could respond, Murphy overheard one of the firefighters call to another. “Looks like we got a fatality. They just found a body in the kitchen.”

  His legs numb, Murphy collapsed to his knees.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In contrast to the seemingly smooth flowing river next to the historical monuments and buildings on postcards, there is a fast moving, treacherous portion of the Potomac River called Great Falls. Sports enthusiasts in kayaks thrill at attempting to navigate the river’s rocks and steep drop offs in the national park by the same name.

  With its beautiful landscape made up of thick woods along the scenic river, Great Falls became one of Washington’s upper-class suburbs, consisting of mansions both large and small. Residents included senators, presidential appointees, and other influential members of high society.

  Lieutenant Murphy Thornton’s home, called Thorny Rose Manor, was secured behind a fence and gate, tucked back in the woods next to the park.

  As soon as Ripley Vaccaro had received the news that Tristan Faraday’s computer lab had been blown up and a body had been found, she raced to Murphy’s home to offer her support.

  “You do know who Tristan Faraday is, don’t you?” she asked Chris and Elliott in the restaurant parking lot on their way to their vehicles.

  “Murphy’s IT guy?” Elliott said.

  “Faraday,” Ripley said with significance. Seeing blank expressi
ons, she added, “Murphy’s brother-in-law. Mac Faraday’s son.”

  “I’ve met Mac Faraday,” Chris said. “Murphy’s Jessica is Mac’s daughter?”

  “My point is this. If they took out Mac Faraday’s son, I guarantee you that Faraday will insert himself into the center of all this and burn Washington down to the ground.”

  An eight-foot-tall steel fence surrounded the Thorny Rose Manor. They were forced to stop at the security gate to introduce themselves via a security camera and intercom to someone with a deep voice that reminded Elliott of Dark Vader.

  “That’s Nigel,” Chris told him.

  “With a voice like that, that’s one sure way to discourage solicitors.”

  They made their way along a long driveway past a seven-car garage to a white mansion. They parked behind Francine’s Mini Cooper and Ripley’s SUV.

  Chris climbed out of the truck and turned just in time for a sheltie with blue fur and eyes launch herself from the porch. She bound toward the truck.

  Ripley paused at the front door that Francine had opened to invite them inside. “That’s Spencer. She’ll give you the safe combination in exchange for a belly rub.”

  Her senses picking up a new friend, the blue merle sheltie bounced next to the truck. With each hop, she yapped through the side window at Sterling, who barked back to her. He ditched his hat and sunglasses.

  Finally, Chris opened the door to allow the two dogs to meet. They greeted by spinning around each other, sniffing and yapping, until Spencer broke away to run around the corner of the mansion. When the German shepherd hesitated, she ran back into sight. Stopping, she pawed the ground and barked an order for him to follow.

  “I think she wants to show you around,” Elliott told Sterling.

  “I can’t just let my dog run loose,” Chris said.

  “Where’s he going to go?” Elliott gestured in the direction of the tall fence around the estate—as if it mattered. Sterling had taken off after the blue dog.

  Assuming they could walk in since Francine had seen them, Elliott and Chris stepped into the two-story foyer that reached up to a cathedral ceiling. The foyer appeared even more grand than the Dunleavy mansion with its granite flooring. The grand curved staircase wrapped around a table and ornate chandelier. Despite the grandeur, there was a homier feel to the mansion—starting with the eight-inch-long tarantula that greeted them from the table.