Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(83)

“Well, I see you’re all alike,” Silva said. “Rude. Crass. I want to file a complaint for harassment. If I have to go higher up, I will.”

Li sat quietly, her legs crossed, watching Silva. She looked about as happy as a hangman on execution day. All the chairs in the office taken, Foster moved over and leaned on the windowsill. Silva looked pleased with herself, confident that she had the upper hand.

Foster let a beat go. “Alvin Keyes.” Suddenly, Silva’s face blanched and the smugness went. Foster watched as Silva’s breathing got faster, shallower. She was scared.

“And Stillman-Gates,” Li added. “You left behind ripples. They remember. People talk. You’re tainted goods. That’s why you’re here.”

“I don’t know what—”

Foster shook her head. “Wrong beginning, Doctor. How’d you ever get hired at Westhaven? What deal did you work up with Gershon? How have you kept your license to practice? Or have you? We haven’t checked yet, but we will.”

“Is Bodie Morgan your new Beltway Slasher?” Li asked. “Another notch on your belt? What do you have to do with these murders? Where were you the nights Birch, Rea, and Wicks were killed? What the hell are you doing in the middle of our case?”

Silva bolted up. “No wonder you can’t stop him. None of you have any idea what you’re doing.”

“We’ll be looking at you from all angles,” Foster said.

Li stood. “We’ll lock it all down.”

Foster reached over and plucked a pen off Griffin’s desk. She held it out for Silva.

“What’s that?” the woman asked.

“It’s for the complaint you came to file,” Foster said.

Silva flew out of the office, flinging the door open so hard it banged against the wall and swung back. Foster, Li, and the newly returned Griffin gave the woman a minute or two and then eased over to the window to watch her as she pushed past the media cameras and protesters and legged it to her Beemer across the street.

“Why’s she running?” Griffin asked, taking a sip from her mug. “You two threaten her with a rubber hose or something?”

“No hose. Foster broke her with a look.” Li grinned.

“You got all up in her personal space,” Foster said.

They moved away from the window, Griffin easing into her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. “Check her. Check everybody. If the mayor looks dicey, check her too. Now get out of my office and close the door. I don’t need any more crazy walk-ins today.”



Two days without a new body. No new pushpins for the board. No grieving parents, no Dr. Grant. Maybe he’d moved on? Foster thought. Maybe the heightened police coverage around the city had boxed him in? She hoped so. It didn’t have to be pretty. She’d take the win any way she could get it.

But it didn’t feel like a win. It didn’t feel to her that he had moved on. The welcome respite felt like a pause, not an end: stasis rather than cessation. That was what had them all jumpy—the overhanging threat, the dread of the next call.

“I think I have something,” Foster said, swiveling her monitor around so Li could see it from where she sat. “You couldn’t find a Priscilla or Tom Morgan connected to Bodie, but now I think I know why. I put in for his expedited birth certificate. It’s in. The names of his parents don’t match. But there’s something else.”

Li got up, came around, squinting at Foster’s screen. “Who the hell are Priscilla and Niles Jensen?” Her eyes scrolled down, widened. “Multiple birth? Twins? Get the fudge out.”

“Boy and a girl,” Foster said. “Boden and Anika Jensen. I’m putting in for Anika’s certificate, too, but the info’s going to be the same, right? And you didn’t find a death record for Priscilla Morgan because she’s not Priscilla Morgan . . . but there’s a record for Niles.” Foster pulled up another screen. “He died in a car accident two years after his twins were born.”

“So where’s Priscilla Jensen?” Li asked. “And who’s Tom Morgan?”

“Good questions.”

Li went back to her desk. “Well, let’s see. You go high, I’ll go low?”

Foster sat confused. “What?”

“You take official channels; I’ll google,” Li said. “High. Low. First one to get something wins an Italian beef from Al’s. That’ll be me. I like it dipped. With peppers. No fries. I don’t need the cholesterol.”



It took more than an hour before Foster’s head popped up. “Uh-oh.”

Li froze. “I don’t like the sound of that. Am I out of a beef sandwich?” Foster turned her monitor around. “Missing person report?” They both read the screen, reaching the end at about the same time.

“Priscilla Jensen, twenty-eight. Left to go shopping with her babies and never came back. The kids were three months old,” Li said. “That’s messed up. Did it get any press? Is there more?”

Foster keyed through. “Yes.” A front-page story from a suburban paper included a photo of a young, smiling woman and, inset beside it, a photo of the babies swaddled in blankets. Young Family Missing read the headline. “Look at her. Red hair. Blue eyes.”