A Deeper Darkness Part 10

Washington, D.C.

Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher accepted a cup of coffee from Hart, who looked like a rattlesnake woken from a too-short bath in the sun.

"They found Edward Donovan's car."

Fletcher stopped the cup on its way to his mouth. "Donovan's car?"

"Yeah," Hart said. "Up by Branch Avenue in PG County, near the Safeway in Clinton. Someone torched it."

"Really?" Fletcher allowed himself a contemplative sip of coffee then. Only one reason a suspect torches a car-they think they can erase evidence. Often times, they were right.

"They found a casing, too. Under the front seat-.9 mil."

"But no gun?"

"No gun."

"Donovan was shot with a .9 mil."

"Yep."

"Curiouser and curiouser."

His phone buzzed. He hit the speaker b.u.t.ton.

"Speak," he said, briefly amused as he remembered the response from that Southern belle, Dr. Owens. No one had ever barked before.

"Fletch. Chick here to see ya."

"Dr. Owens," he corrected. "Send her up."

He mashed the b.u.t.ton to turn the speaker off.

"Who's Dr. Owens?" Hart asked.

"M.E. from Tennessee."

"Huh?"

"The carjacking's mother, remember her? Battle-axe called in a second M.E. to do another post."

"Why? She doesn't trust us?"

"Apparently not. Who knows, though. Maybe she was on to something. You know this is starting to look like too much of a coincidence."

There was a soft knock on the door, and he broke off. Standing in the doorway was a most attractive woman. Willowy, with shoulder-length brown hair, light brown eyes the color of aged scotch from a sherry barrel, a perfect mouth. Jesus, she was inspiring him to poetics and she hadn't even spoken yet. He felt a ridiculous pull in his groin. She was just his type.

The mouth smiled, pleasant and polite, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked at once like a child and a woman, all rolled up into a basket of certainty laced with doubt. Pain. That was pain he saw there. Of course. He should have recognized it immediately. He'd seen enough to last a lifetime.

He was immediately intrigued. Who, or what, had damaged this stunning woman?

"I'm Dr. Owens. You'll be Detective Fletcher?"

Fletcher nodded once and gestured for her to come in. Hart almost knocked his chair over getting to his feet. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Fletcher threw him a lifeline.

"This is Lonnie Hart, my partner."

"Good'ta meet'cha," Hart finally blurted out. Fletcher bit his lip. Hart was a sucker for a Southern accent.

"Thank you," she said, and sat in the chair across from Fletcher's desk. "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."

Her voice was soft, cultured, with hints of bougainvillea and sweet tea. Fletcher had been to Nashville before, a long weekend with his son. He'd been struck by how cosmopolitan the city was, while at the same time so very Southern. He'd liked the way they talked, so open and friendly, with those tiny inflections and knowing smiles that screamed: You're a Yankee, brother, and don't you forget it.

"Not a problem. Did you find anything interesting on your secondary post?"

"Actually, yes. Sand in the victim's lungs. Fresh sand."

Fletcher pulled open the file on Edward Donovan, flipped to the autopsy report. "Says here that's most likely attributable to the time he served overseas. He was stationed in Iraq for two tours and Afghanistan for one. Stands to reason."

"That there would be latent sand embedded in his lungs, yes. There was plenty of scar tissue from the old irritant. But this is recent. Like in the past few days. His mother said he hadn't been overseas. I'm having it tested, we should know more this afternoon. Did anything in your investigation indicate that he'd been lying to everyone about his whereabouts?"

Fletcher felt that familiar zing. Croswell had lied to his family, too.

"No. This looked cut and dried. I'm still not convinced it's anything other than bad timing, bad luck."

"Did ballistics come back on the bullet recovered from the scene?"

Fletcher caught Hart's eye, saw the amus.e.m.e.nt in them. He was enjoying this, d.a.m.n him.

"No," Fletcher said slowly. "We're expecting the report back any time now. Dr. Owens, can I ask? What's your tie to Edward Donovan? Why did his mother call you?"

She got a faraway look on her face, brief, fleeting, then snapped back. "Donovan and I went to med school together. Georgetown. We've known each other for a long time. Eleanor just wanted to do right by him."

Fletcher wondered if that was the real reason she was here, but it was plausible enough.

"So other than the sand, did you find out anything else that might help?"

She shook her head. He liked the way her hair swirled around her neck when she did it. She was a deceptive package. On the surface, so strong, smart, capable. But broken inside. Fragile. She needed protecting. And boy, how he'd be happy to be of service.

Hart coughed, and Fletcher realized he was staring. He closed the file.

"Thank you for coming by, Dr. Owens. If we find anything, we'll be sure to let you know."

"That's it?" Her eyebrows arched. "Seriously?"

"What would you like me to say? This is good information, and we'll hold it in consideration as all of the facts come in."

She shook her head again, her eyes becoming frank and a.s.sessing. "Don't even think about blowing me off. Something isn't right here, and we both know it. What aren't you telling me?"

Pretty, and perceptive, too. A bad combination.

Hart spoke up, and Fletcher strongly considered strangling him.

"Another soldier from Donovan's unit was murdered. Yesterday."

The M.E. shut her mouth tightly, her lips compressing into a thin line. Fletcher could swear he felt shadows swirl around the room, darkening the walls with foreboding.

He needed to nip this in the bud, and quick.

"We have nothing to prove that these two cases are related."

Owens laughed, humorless and sharp. "Except your gut, telling you there's no such thing as coincidence. Did you run it through ViCAP yet? There could be related cases in other states. Have you talked to Donovan's commanding officer and gotten a list of everyone in his unit? Better yet, they keep those records at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri-you can make a request for the files right away. You have to move fast, Detective. Tick-tock. Time's a-wastin'."

"Jesus, you sound like a cop."

"I'm a medical examiner in a city that has over a hundred murders a year. I have been for a very long time. And my best friend has spent most of her career in Homicide. We've seen a lot. She's the one who taught me coincidence doesn't exist. Not when people are dying all around you. Something else is going on here. I don't know what, but I'd like to help you get to the bottom of it."

"She's right, Fletch."

Hart. Traitor to the cause. Fletcher gave him the evil eye for a moment before returning his gaze to the pathologist. He checked his libido and really looked this time. Used his gift, his ability to read people. She let herself be read, dropped the walls. She was right. And she knew he knew it.

Someone whistled, and Fletcher dragged his eyes away. His admin, Danny Rama, stood in the door.

"Yo, Danny. What's up?"

"Lots of good news. Ballistics on the Donovan and Croswell murders you asked for. You're gonna want to see this."

Fletched snapped his fingers, and Danny brought him the file. He ignored both Owens and Hart, opened the heavy manila folder.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"What is it?" Hart asked. Owens just sat, watching them, beatific and serene, as if she already knew what the report said.

"According to the wife, Donovan carried a 9 mm Beretta in the car, right?"

"Right," Hart answered.

"Well, ballistics confirm that Donovan and Croswell were both shot with a 9 mm Beretta. And according to this, the bullets in both cases came from the same gun. There was a match in IBIS. It's registered to Edward Donovan. Wait a second." He looked at his admin. "When did they find the gun?"

Rama grimaced. "Sorry, boss. This morning. In the Dumpster on N Street, by that new construction."

"Did anyone think to call me?" Fletcher grumbled.

"They wanted to run the tests first."

The M.E. had stopped moving, was staring at him with her big sherry eyes. "Donovan was killed with his own gun? Then whoever killed him took out Croswell, too?"

Fletcher nodded. "Most likely scenario."

Dr. Owens looked contemplative for a moment. She reached into her purse, pulled out a small plastic bag and handed it to Fletcher.

"You need to see this," she said. "Eddie Donovan gave this to his mother on Sunday for safekeeping."

Fletcher read the words on the tattered page.

DO THE RIGHT THING.

"What is this? And why didn't she give it to us immediately?"

"It slipped her mind. She's not as young as she once was. And obviously it's a threat of some kind. I'd a.s.sume whoever killed Donovan didn't feel like he'd lived up to the bargain. Was a note sent to Croswell?"

"Not that I know of. Lonnie, would you be so kind as to ring Mrs. Croswell, and see if she's seen anything like this?"

"Sure." Hart stood, and nodded at their interloper. "Dr. Owens."

"Detective Hart," she replied.

Fletcher waited for Hart to leave, then turned to the M.E. angrily. "What else have you left out?"

"Nothing. Eleanor truly had forgotten the note. She didn't hold it back from you on purpose. If anything, she needed it to make me believe Donovan's shooting wasn't a random carjacking. But it's not the end of the world. If anything, it should give you more to go on. A handwritten note is better than nothing, right?"

Fletcher wanted to snap at the woman, but refrained. She was right, it was a clue. He couldn't help but feel embarra.s.sed that she'd brought it to him, instead of the victim's mother. That meant he wasn't trusted, and if the victim's family didn't trust him, regardless of whether they should or not, his job was ten times harder. That was why the old biddy had asked Dr. Owens to come to town. She didn't believe in Fletcher.

Hart came back in the room. "Mrs. Croswell is looking through her husband's things. She thinks she remembers seeing something like that."

Fletcher nodded and swallowed his burning pride.

"I'd appreciate your help with this, Dr. Owens."

You wanted it? You got it, sister.

Chapter Seventeen.