I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(29)

Just beyond the blood was a king-size bed that had been neatly made. The pillows were in place and the comforter smoothed.

One tech faced them. “Scene reminds me of the motel room. What are the chances of two similar stabbings in twenty-four hours?”

“Two stabbings in a densely populated area like this aren’t out of the realm of possibilities,” Zoe said.

“Bud, this is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer,” Vaughan said. “Agent Spencer, this is Bud Clary, and his colleague is Mike Brown.”

“Gentlemen,” she said. “Feel free to kick us out if we get in the way.”

Both men glanced at each other and then nodded to her. Having the FBI on scene always changed the dynamics of their interactions.

“What’s your status of the motel scene?” Vaughan asked.

“We wrapped up late last night. But the room remains sealed should we need to double back.”

Zoe suspected now that the Foster case was front and center, the faceless sex worker’s death would sadly be shifted to a back burner. And judging by Vaughan’s frown, this truth did not sit well with him.

“We’ve only started with the house,” Bud said. “It’ll take us a good twenty-four to forty-eight hours to process it. I’ve called Fiona so she can also join us. As you can see, there is blood through most of the house.”

“Mind if we have a look?” Vaughan asked. “We won’t touch.”

“Much appreciated,” Bud said. “Just follow the path I’ve marked.”

“Will do,” Vaughan said.

“Bud, let us know if you find cell phones or computers,” Zoe said.

“Consider it done.”

She looked past the techs, noting more studio-quality photos of the Foster family. In the early pictures, when Skylar had been about twelve, there was a black lab puppy in the picture; however, in later shots, the dog was gone. How old would the dog have been now? Five or six?

Zoe walked up to the entrance of the bathroom. The floor appeared wiped clean, and there was no visible blood. The towel rack was empty. “The towels are missing.”

“Towels?” Bud asked.

“The bath towels. They were arranged neatly in Skylar’s bathroom, but they aren’t in here.”

“Someone tried to stop the bleeding.”

“Or clean up the floor,” Zoe said.

“It was the same in Jane Doe’s motel room,” Bud offered. “The bathroom had been wiped clean, and towels were missing. He took the towels he used with him.”

“Another similarity between the two crimes,” Zoe said.

“They are hard to ignore,” Vaughan said.

“A gut feeling?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“As long as you don’t mix gut feelings with facts,” she said.

The collection of perfume bottles was lined up perfectly on the marble countertop, and beside them was a small notebook that appeared to be a workout log. Today’s date was written on the left side, but there were no miles logged. She looked back to the neatly made bed. “I would bet money, given Hadley’s rigid schedule, she got up, dressed for her run, and then made the bed.”

“If she was able to make the bed, where was Mark?” Vaughan asked.

“It’s a three-bedroom house, and the extra room is Mark’s office. The pillows on the couch looked creased. Maybe he’d been banished to the couch.”

Vaughan tapped an index finger against his thigh, as if he was mentally cataloging and thumbing through the facts. “Bud, did the paramedics say what Mark Foster was wearing when they found him?”

“He was wearing his business suit pants, white shirt, and tie. His clothes are being tested for DNA as we speak,” Bud said.

“Maybe he had been up early,” Zoe said.

“Is there another shower in the house?” Vaughan asked.

“There’s one off the upstairs hallway,” Bud said. “It’s dry, just like the one in the master bathroom. No one showered here this morning.”

Zoe and Vaughan moved down the center staircase to the kitchen, where one coffee mug sat on the counter. It was an extra large cup and sported the Washington Redskins logo. It was half-full. She touched the cup and then the pot. “Both are ice cold.”

“A man’s mug, unless Hadley liked large cups of coffee.”

“Fingerprints will tell us more.”

Zoe shifted her attention to the wooden knife block on the counter. The set of knives was expensive, the type a chef would envy, and all the slots were filled except one. “This slot is for a boning knife.”

“To cut meat?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any sign of it in the dishwasher?”

She opened the stainless dishwasher door and peered inside to an empty interior. “No.” She searched the drawers but didn’t see it.

“It would have been handy enough for anyone to grab on their way upstairs.”

“Agreed.”

Vaughan peered out over the kitchen window, toward the backyard. “The privacy fence gate is ajar.” He checked the door leading to the patio. It was unlocked.

But the blood trail led to a side door. Again, following what amounted to forensic bread crumbs, they opened the door and stepped into an empty garage big enough for one car.