Kill and Run (A Thorny Rose Mystery Book 1) Read online

  With her glaring at his back, he left the room to make another phone call.

  Chapter Seven

  Hearing the impact of a vase hitting the other side of the wall in Murphy’s office and shattering to the floor, Special Agents Perry Latimore, Susan Archer, and Deputy Chief Boris Hamilton exchanged smirks. They heard Hillary’s voice uttering a curse directed either at Murphy or his commanding officer.

  “You’d think the Pentagon would have thicker walls,” Perry said.

  Bringing up the information that he had collected on his tablet and connecting it to the smart white board filling the side wall of his office, Murphy showed no indication that he heard the crash coming from Hillary Koch’s office. “She just got off the phone with my CO,” Murphy said while keeping his eyes on the tablet. “Today’s a quiet day.” He rose up from behind his desk. “You should have heard her the day she found out one of her boyfriends was going back to his wife.” He lowered the light for them to see the information from his tablet on the screen.

  Images of five victims with their names and ages listed below them filled the computer screen. With a laser pointer, Murphy ticked off the names and basic information on each one. “Donna Crenshaw was a petty officer at the Navy Yard. She worked in supply. She was single, thirty-four years old—leaves behind a thirteen year old daughter.”

  “Divorced?” Agent Susan asked.

  “Never married according to her personnel record,” Murphy said. “We’ll want to look into if the father was involved in the child’s life to eliminate the motive being a custody issue.”

  “Where’s the daughter now?” Susan asked.

  “She should be at the police department,” Murphy said. “I’m going to go question her after we’re done here.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Susan said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Murphy said. “I can handle it.”

  “Protocol calls for female witnesses, especially minors, to have a female agent be present at all times during questioning,” Deputy Chief Boris Hamilton said. “That means Archer has to go.”

  “Then I guess you’re going with me, Archer,” Murphy said.

  “Are any of the other four victims connected with the navy?” Boris asked with a stern expression on his weathered face. “Their husbands …”

  “Crenshaw’s the only one,” Murphy said.

  Rising from his seat, the deputy chief scanned the images of the women and their ages.

  Donna Crenshaw was thirty-four years old. Estimated time of death was seven-thirty to eight-thirty. Shot five times.

  A widow, Francine Baxter, the homeowner, was fifty-seven years old. Killed between five-thirty and six-thirty. Shot twice. Once in the back. Second to the head.

  Seemingly poisoned, Colleen Davis, age twenty-eight years old. Unmarried, she was an elementary school teacher and was an authorized Cozy Cook dealer. Thirty-two year old Maureen Clark was a housewife with one young son. Her husband, Colonel Lincoln Clark, was in charge of the Third Infantry Division when they invaded Iraq.

  “An army colonel?” Perry asked.

  “Colonel Clark is twenty-years older than his wife,” Murphy confirmed. “They’ve been married for nine years.”

  The fifth victim was forty year old Hannah Price, an engineer. She and her husband, also an engineer, had been married for close to twenty years and had two teenaged children.

  “Age-wise and profession, they’re all over the map,” the deputy chief said.

  Perry started to say, “If the petty officer was just collateral damage—in the wrong place at the wrong time—”

  “The killer spent at least two hours in the house waiting for Crenshaw and then shot her five times,” Murphy said. “Plus, she had texted the host that she was running late. The killer replied that they were waiting for her—”

  “How do you know it was the killer who replied?” Perry asked.

  “Do you use shorthand when you text or do you spell out every word?” Murphy brought up a screen shot of Donna Crenshaw’s cell phone with the text stream displayed:

  Mtg set 4 7pm tomorrow. Pls come. Important. We need U if we R 2 stop him.

  Running late. Accident has Route 7 @ standstill. B there ASAP. Count me in.

  No problem. We’re waiting for you. Front door is open. Just let yourself in.

  Using the laser pointer to run under the first text word for word, Murphy explained, “The first text came from the host of the party, Francine Baxter, on the day before the meeting. Notice that she uses text shorthand. Meeting is shortened to m-t-g. Instead of spelling out ‘for’ she uses the number four. Please is abbreviated. The next text was from Crenshaw to Baxter after seven o’clock. The medical examiner says Baxter died between five-thirty and six-thirty.”

  “So Baxter was already dead when Crenshaw texted that she was going to be late,” Boris said with a nod of his head.

  “And the killer replied,” Murphy said, “telling her to come right on in—they were waiting … to kill her. If Crenshaw wasn’t the target, why did the killer reply for her to come in, and then wait to put five bullets into her to make sure she was dead?”

  “The killer wanted Crenshaw dead,” Boris said. “She was the target.”

  Susan said in a breathy voice, “And he killed four other women to get to her? You’d think there would have been an easier way—less bloodshed.”

  “I’m suspecting he wanted all of them dead,” Murphy said. “Did you read the text that Baxter had sent to Crenshaw? Clark and Price both told their husbands that they were going to a Cozy Cook Party. That was a cover story. Baxter texted Crenshaw that it was a meeting to plan to stop someone.”

  “They were all targets,” Boris said.

  “But they needed Crenshaw in order to stop him, whoever he is,” Murphy said. “The answer lies with her and since she’s navy, that makes it our case.”

  “Our prime suspect is going to be this ‘he’ they were planning to stop,” Boris said. “I’ll go talk to Crenshaw’s boss at the Navy Yard.” He turned to Special Agent Perry Latimore, who was already on his feet.

  “I’ll go search Crenshaw’s house and take a look at her computer,” the agent said.

  Feeling his cell phone vibrate on his hip, Murphy checked the caller ID, which read “Dad.” “I need to take this,” he said.

  Having a number of investigations under their belts, the team was already coordinating the investigation without him.

  “I’m going with Lieutenant Thornton to talk to the victim’s daughter,” Susan said. “If we’re lucky, the daughter may have something useful for us.”

  “We need to schedule interviews with the families of all of the victims,” Boris was saying when Murphy stepped out into the hallway and made his way to the break room. “Latimore and I will divvy those up.”

  Murphy brought the cell phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  “How’re things going?” Joshua asked in a forced upbeat tone.

  Murphy turned into the doorway of the break room to find Hillary Koch attacking a bag of potato chips that refused to be opened. Uttering a loud obscenity, she tore it open with a vengeance to send chips flying in every direction and raining down to the floor.

  “Great.” Murphy spun on his heels to head halfway down the corridor to his office and leaned up against the wall. “What’s going on there?”

  “Cameron is coming out to Washington tomorrow,” Joshua said. “The feds uncovered evidence that Nick, her late husband, was a contracted hit. They’ve agreed to let her question the killer. I can’t come with her because I’ve got this case and—”

  “She can stay with us,” Murphy interjected with a grin. “No problem. She’ll be our first official house guest. And I’ll go with her when she goes to question this slime bucket. Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll take care of Cameron.”

 
“Call Jessica and—”

  “Jessica won’t mind,” Murphy said. “She loves Cameron.”

  “Murphy,” Joshua replied, “do you have a comfortable bed in your guest room?”

  “Why? Does Cameron have a bad back?”

  “No,” Joshua said with a laugh, “I meant for you.”

  “What do you mean?” Murphy turned away when he saw Hillary come out of the break room. When her eyes met his, they narrowed into falsely lashed slits. Clutching a big bowl filled with potato chips to her chest, she rushed passed him.

  “You haven’t been married for very long,” Joshua said, “and clearly you have a lot to learn.”

  “Dad, I grew up in a house filled with brothers and sisters. I got along fine with Tracy and Sarah … most of the time.”

  “Sisters are different from wives,” Joshua said. “Jessica is your wife. She is your partner in life. She is not above you, but you aren’t above her either. That house is your home—both of yours. Rule number one for a happy marriage, don’t invite people to come stay with you—especially your in-laws—without first checking with your spouse. Cameron is Jessica’s mother-in-law. I love Cameron with all my heart, but I’ll be the first to admit—she is not the easiest person to live with.”

  Joshua sighed. “I had to learn that lesson the hard way. Your mother and I were married only two months when I invited one of my navy buddies to some stay with us after his wife kicked him out. Your mother was pregnant with you and J.J., and having morning sickness, and we didn’t have a guest room in our one bedroom apartment. Let’s just say my next investment after that was in a very comfortable sofa.”

  The mention of his mother’s pregnancy with him and his twin brother reminded Murphy of Jessica’s mention of a surprise. “That’s right. Mom got pregnant right away after you two were married.”

  “Your mother was happiest when she was pregnant.” Joshua concluded his fatherly advice with an order. “Call Jessica and check to make sure it’s okay for Cameron to come stay with you and that you can get off to go meet this hit man with her, and then call me back.”

  Click.

  “Newman, I hate you.” Hoisting the forty-five pound mongrel over her shoulder in order to dig her keys out of the stylish purse hanging from her shoulder, Jessica felt around the doorknob for the keyhole in order to unlock the door. The bulk of the hound in her arms was blocking her view. Finally, she was able to unlock, open the door, and shoulder her way inside. Upon their entrance, Spencer, yapping all the way, bounced across the living room to the entranceway and jumped up on them.

  In her high-heeled sandals, Jessica fought to remain upright in order to gently deposit the dog and enter the passcode in their security box next to the door. She had only seconds to input the code before the security company sent over a unit to check on the house. She was in the middle of typing it in when the cell phone in her purse rang with the opening bars of “When I Fall in Love” by Celine Dion and Clive Griffin.

  Murphy!

  After completing the passcode, she dove into the purse to find the phone.

  Meanwhile, Spencer was rejoicing at the playmate who had dropped from the sky. Snarling and snapping, Newman galloped into the living room for his chair with Spencer yipping and yapping at his heels.

  “Hey, Buttercup!” Murphy greeted Jessica’s breathless answer.

  “I hate your dog,” she gasped out.

  “What did Newman do now?”

  “I took him for a walk down to the river.”

  “Newman hates walks,” Murphy said.

  “I know!” Jessica dropped onto the sofa and removed her sandals to shake out a stone. “We got down to the river and he’d had enough. He sat down and refused to walk back. I tried dragging him on the leash, but it was like trying to drag a forty-five pound bag of rocks. I ended up carrying his fat butt all the way back home. Do you know how steep that hill is?”

  “Are you all right?” Murphy’s tone was filled with concern. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she growled.

  “Well, don’t take Newman out for any more walks,” Murphy ordered. “I’ll walk him from now on.”

  “But you’re not always here when he needs to go and he needs exercise, even if he doesn’t like it,” she said. “I never heard of a dog who waited until the commercial breaks to go to the bathroom and rushed back inside before they were over.” After uttering a deep sigh, she smoothed her hair and asked, “How’s your day?”

  “Fine,” he replied. “I’m investigating my first official murder case.”

  “Great,” she said with a grin.

  “Five women.”

  “That’s terrible.” Her enthusiasm faded.

  “Three of them had children.” Murphy noticed Susan waiting for him by Wendy’s desk. “I’ll tell you about it at dinner. Reason for my call—Cameron is coming out to Washington. Tomorrow. Seems the feds caught the guy who killed her late husband, Nick, and it was a paid hit. She’s coming out to meet with them to get the low-down. Is it okay if she stays with us?”

  Jessica voice was filled with glee. “Our first house guest.”

  “Then you’re okay with it?”

  “Totally! I’ll go fix up one of the guest rooms right now. Hey, dinner at Four Seasons at seven o’clock. This has been a really big day. I can’t wait to give you my news.”

  “Neither can I.” In anticipation of news about expanding their small family, Murphy couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “I love you, Buttercup.”

  “I love you more, Honey Buns.”

  As soon as Murphy disconnected the call, his cell phone was vibrating again with the caller ID reading “Wu.” When he answered the call, the homicide detective sounded unhappy to pass on his news. “Isadora Crenshaw is gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Children’s services took her before I got back to the station.” The detective was as disgusted by the news as Murphy. “She has no family. No father—”

  “She has to have a father!” Murphy said.

  “Not in the picture. No family. Children’s services was here to pick up another kid on another case. They didn’t want to come back to pick her up so they took her. Since she’s thirteen, they’re taking her to a group home because they don’t have a family able to take her.”

  “No!” Murphy yelled. “She just lost her mother. If she has no one then being locked up with a bunch of juvies will traumatize her even more.”

  “You’re telling me,” Wu said. “I’m texting you the address now. Good luck.”

  “I have a confession to make,” Susan said after they had climbed into Murphy’s SUV and merged onto the expressway to take them toward Rosslyn, Virginia.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for a lawyer?” Murphy asked with a grin.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she replied. “But I think you should know since you’re bringing me along to interview this child who has just lost her mother … I mean, thinking that because I’m a woman that I’m all maternal and would know just what to say and all that.”

  “Out with it, Archer.” Murphy glanced across the front seat in her direction.

  “I’m not good with kids,” the agent said. “I can take down felons and unruly, drunken, lecherous sailors and even terrorists, but kids eat me alive.”

  Murphy chuckled. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe it,” she said without humor. “Contrary to popular belief that all women are born with maternal genes and a deep, instinctive yearning to have babies and know instantly how to raise one, I got none of that stuff. I never babysat. My uterus never aches at the sight of a baby. Nada. So, if you think that I’m going to look at Isadora Crenshaw and know instantly what to say to her to make her give us all the answers about this case, I can tel
l you right now—ain’t gonna happen.”

  “That’s okay,” Murphy said. “I come from a family with five kids. I’ve been babysitting since I was ten years old. We’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I guess coming from a big family, you and Jessica are planning to have a bunch of kids.”

  Saying nothing, Murphy smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Murphy and Susan found Isadora Crenshaw at a group home down the freeway from Washington, D.C. The home for juveniles was a big old house in what had once been a middle-class section of Rosslyn. With the shift in economy during the past decade, those who had managed to move up the economic ladder had moved out of the area. With the influx of poorly paid, as well as illegal, immigrants, the once proud middle-class homes were now in dire need of new roofs, siding, and yard work. Simply picking up toys and bicycles from the front yards would have improved the rundown appearance of the community.

  After parking his SUV on the street, Murphy spotted some teenaged boys making a drug deal two doors down from the group home. “Nice neighborhood,” he muttered with sarcasm to Susan.

  “Most nice neighborhoods have home owner associations that don’t allow group homes for kids without families,” Susan explained.

  As Murphy climbed the steps to the front door, two teenaged boys ran outside, leaving the front door open. The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering and the sound of an argument floated to them from the rear of the house.

  “Sounds like someone is calling for help.” Murphy unclipped the holster on his gun.

  While making his way down the hallway leading to the back of the house, they heard the stern voice of an older woman saying, “As long as you’re living under this roof, young lady, we have rules against violence!”

  “She started it!” The girl’s voice was filled with both fright and anger.

  “I didn’t do anything!” another girl said before adding in a tearful tone, “Mrs. Peale, why is she telling lies about me?”