I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(51)

“He’s a desperate man.”

“Desperate to find his family or shift blame?”

“Good question.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tuesday, August 13, 9:30 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Just over Fourteen Hours after the 911 Call

Vaughan wove through various vehicles, tightening his hands on the steering wheel as he negotiated the snarled traffic. He dialed the police department’s public information officer to get an update on the press situation.

“Britta Smith.” The woman’s voice was young but clear and direct.

“This is Detective Vaughan, and I have FBI special agent Zoe Spencer with me. You’re on speakerphone.”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Britta said.

“I’m minutes from the Foster home.” Vaughan flipped on his dashboard light and cut right, driving up the shoulder until he reached yet another shortcut.

“I’m in DC right now and have no chance of making it in time.”

“What about Captain Preston?”

“He’s on board with you taking the lead. He’s spoken to Agent Ramsey, who wants Agent Spencer on site at the press conference as well.”

“I can do that,” Spencer said.

“Call me after it’s finished,” Britta said. “Nikki McDonald has already texted me and said she’ll be livestreaming the event.”

“Understood,” Vaughan said before he hung up.

“Mr. Foster is putting his wife and daughter at risk by doing this. The abductor would have made contact by now if this attention is what he wanted. He could panic under the extra attention and kill one or both women,” Spencer said.

“Do you think they’re alive?” he asked.

She stared at the strip malls and cars racing past in a blur of whites, reds, and neon. “No.”

They arrived at the Foster home, and Vaughan parked the car behind the forensic van that still had personnel working the interior of the home. He clenched his jaw as he calculated the next complication in this already convoluted case.

Out of the vehicle, the two crossed the street and approached the yellow crime scene tape, where Foster and Pollard faced off with a young uniformed officer. Foster was wearing a gray sweatshirt and pants, sneakers, and a Nationals ball cap. A sling was wrapped around his shoulder, holding up his injured arm, and he appeared to wince as he scooted to the door. Pollard, a portly man with thin graying hair, wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and polished black shoes.

Nikki McDonald was on scene and ignoring another reporter who was trying to get her attention. Vaughan had to give her props for her dogged pursuit of this story.

Pollard glanced at Nikki and then Vaughan before he whispered a few words to Foster. Like a windup doll, Foster stumbled toward Vaughan.

“This is my house,” Foster shouted. “I have a right to go inside. You can’t keep me out!”

“Yes, we can, Mr. Foster,” Vaughan said calmly. “This house is a crime scene, and we need to preserve as much evidence as we can.”

A few of the neighbors appeared on their porches or in front windows. Two news vans rolled up at the end of the block with their reporters and camera crews spilling out of them.

“The house is covered in my wife’s blood!” Foster shouted. “It’s not right.”

“No, sir, it’s not right,” Vaughan said. “But we have to tolerate it for now.”

Rodney Pollard put his arm around Foster’s shoulders. “Mark, you came here to make a statement. What do you want to say?”

The pain in Foster’s eyes appeared genuine. Even if Foster had planned to murder his wife as Spencer had suggested, he certainly couldn’t have been expecting this mess. “Yes, I have something to say.”

The cameramen and reporters edged closer, but it was Nikki McDonald and her GoPro that made it to the prime spot first.

“I want my wife and daughter back,” Foster said. “I will do whatever it takes to get her safely home. I love you both very much.” Tears welled in his eyes and then spilled down his face. He wiped them away and clenched his fingers into fists. “Please don’t hurt my girl.”

Vaughan was struck immediately by his use of the singular. My girl, not my girls. Her. Not them. It could have been the meds and stress addling him.

Pollard looked at the cameras with the practiced confidence of a man who was comfortable with the spotlight. “Mr. Foster loves his family, and he’s just as much a victim in this case as his wife and daughter. If anyone knows anything about Hadley or Skylar Foster, call the police or my office. We’re prepared to pay a reward for any information leading to their safe return.”

A reward would ensure twice the number of bogus calls.

“Detective Vaughan,” Nikki said, “is there any link to this crime and the recent identification of Hadley Foster’s sister?”

“No comment at this time.”

All the reporters began to volley questions at Vaughan. The back-and-forth between media and law enforcement went on for another twenty minutes before Vaughan called a halt to the conference and ordered everyone to leave.

Foster’s gaze held a mixture of sadness and anger. He appeared almost in a stupor. “Find my wife and daughter. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”