I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(64)

A faintly welcoming smile on Mrs. Pollard’s face did little to soften the dark undereye smudges left behind after a sleepless last night. “Officers, how can I help you?”

“Is Mark Foster still here?” Vaughan asked.

“Yes. He’s in the sunroom, resting.”

“We’d like to see Foster,” he said.

Any hint of hospitality slipped away, and Zoe was not sure Mrs. Pollard would let them inside. “My husband isn’t here now. He had to go into the office and won’t be back for a few hours.”

“We have news for Mr. Foster,” Vaughan said. “He doesn’t have to speak, only listen.”

Her brow wrinkled, and then she stepped aside before leading the two down the center hallway to a room filled with plants, floral prints, and sunshine streaming in through the glass.

Foster was sitting in a rocker, facing the back side of his house. He was dressed in a pair of ill-fitting dark sweats, an oversize T-shirt, and a pair of house slippers.

“Mr. Foster?” Vaughan asked.

Foster winced as he rose to his feet and cradled his arm as he shuffled toward them. Beard stubble covered his chin. His hair, which had been flawless when they had first met, looked as if he had spent the night pulling his fingers through it. “Has there been any word on my wife and daughter?”

“Yes, sir,” Vaughan said. “We’ve found your wife.”

Zoe studied Foster’s blank expression as Vaughan approached the man.

“We found her body an hour ago,” Vaughan said.

Mrs. Pollard drew in a sharp breath and pressed trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh my God. That poor woman.”

Foster lowered into the chair and dropped his face into his hands, hiding his expression. “This is a nightmare. My wife has to be all right.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Jesus.” Foster threaded trembling fingers through his hair and then looked up, tears streaming. “What about Skylar? Have you found her?”

Zoe noted a keen desperation in the words.

“No, sir, we have not found Skylar. So far there are no leads. Has your daughter made any attempt to contact you?”

“No,” Foster said. “If she had, I would have said something to you.”

“Would you?” Vaughan asked.

“Of course I would!” Foster shouted. “I want my daughter found. I love her more than anything. I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but I don’t like it.”

“I’m trying to solve this case and bring your daughter home alive,” Vaughan said. “You’ve had the night to think about all this. Have you thought of anything that might be of help to us?”

“No. And I haven’t slept at all.” Foster leaned back and let his head drop against the chair.

“That’s true,” Mrs. Pollard said. “He paced all night. Rodney was up with him until almost 2:00 a.m. The man is devastated.”

“Can you go over again for me what happened yesterday?” Vaughan asked.

“I told you. Twice,” Foster said.

“Do it again.” Vaughan’s polite tone had sharpened.

“I was on my way to work when I remembered the trash. I took out the trash, and when I came in the back door, I heard my wife scream. I ran upstairs and found her standing in our bedroom. There was a man standing behind her, holding a knife to her throat.”

“Had he stabbed her at that point?” Vaughan asked.

“Stabbed her?” Foster asked.

“Your bedroom is covered in blood.” It was common to ask the same question several times. People who told the truth didn’t have trouble with details. Liars sometimes did.

Foster closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

“Mr. Foster, where was your wife stabbed?” she pressed.

“It must have been in the bedroom!” Foster almost shouted.

“Where were her wounds?” Zoe asked.

“I don’t know.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “There was blood on her shirt and around her neck.”

“Was she fighting to get free?” Zoe asked.

“Her eyes were wide with shock and fear. She was terrified.”

“Was she reaching for the knife?” Zoe asked.

“I don’t know. I suppose.”

“Did she speak to you?” Zoe asked.

“Why do you keep asking me about my wife? Shouldn’t you be out there finding her killer and my daughter?”

“We need all the facts from you,” she said.

“I’ve given them to you. But clearly, it’s not what you want to hear, so you keep asking me over and over again.”

“Sometimes people remember more in the hours and days after an event,” Zoe said. That was true, but she was more interested to see if Foster’s story changed.

Vaughan drew in a breath. “Who is Mr. Fix It?”

“I have no idea,” Foster said.

“Your daughter has been in communication with him.”

“Where? How?”

“An app on her phone,” he said. “We were lucky enough to get the password from her friend Jessica; otherwise, we never would have read their messages.”

“Who the hell is he?”