If She Knew (Kate Wise, #1)

by Blake Pierce

Anxiety swirled in his guts. He was getting excited—not in a sexual way but in the way he used to get excited when he rode a roller coaster, the anticipation thrilling him as he ascended, clacking up the biggest hill on the tracks.

Kate had broken noses at the bureau because male agents would grab her ass. She had thrown one across a moving elevator when he’d whispered something obscene in her ear while behind her. While the nicknames had stayed with her until well into her forties, the advances and leering looks had not. After word had gotten around, her male peers had learned to respect her and to look beyond her body—a body which, she knew with some degree of muted pride, had always been well-maintained and what most men would consider a ten.

She had lived the last year of her life the same way the small-town jock who never leaves his small town would. Always hanging around anyone who would pretend to listen about all of the touchdowns he’d scored thirty years ago playing high school football. She was no better than that.

“Don’t go there,” Clarissa said, trying on her best smile. “Go where?” “Don’t be Agent Wise right now,” Clarissa said. “Right now, just be her friend. I can see those wheels turning in your head. Jeez, lady. Don’t you have a pregnant daughter? Aren’t you about to be a grandmother?”

In hearing the news, Kate had so easily slipped into agent mode. She knew she should have thought like a friend first—thinking of Deb’s loss and emotional state. But the agent in her was too strong, the instincts still there at the forefront after having been on the shelf for a year.

“Deb…if they released him so quickly, there must have been some very strong evidence. After all…how long has it been since they dated?” “Thirteen years. But he kept trying to connect with her for years, even after she was married. She had to get a restraining order at one time.”

Duran nodded and then managed a cordial smile. “So aside from pitching grown men from their porches, how has retirement been treating you?” “Like hell,” she admitted. “It was great for the first few weeks but it got old fast. I miss my job. I’ve taken to reading an insane amount of true crime books. I’m watching far too many crime shows on the Biography Channel.” “You’d be surprised how often we hear that from agents in their first six to twelve months after retirement. Some of them call begging for some sort of work. Anything we have. Even paperwork or bullshit wiretaps.”

It occurred to Kate that maybe her little breakfast clique really didn’t know one another very well after all. Sure, they knew all about their former jobs, favorite caffeinated beverages, and wishes and dreams for retirement. But they had never really gone much deeper. It had been sort of a mutual silent understanding. They had rarely talked about their families, keeping conversation surface level, fun, and entertaining.

“Well, I appreciate your help,” Tyler said. “And if you need anything else from me, please let me know.” “I will,” she said as she gave him a lame sympathetic clap on the back and left him to his sorrow. The truth was, though, that she doubted she’d ever speak to him again. She’d been an agent long enough to know an innocent and truly heartbroken man when she saw one. She’d bet everything she owned on the fact that Tyler Hicks had not killed his wife. She already felt terrible for hijacking him after his wife’s funeral. She’d stay away from Tyler from this point on; if he could be of any further help, let the cops handle it.

If there had been one aspect of being an agent that Kate had hated, it was the few times she’d had to appear in court to give her testimony or to testify against a prisoner’s parole. However, doing it now, a year removed from her job with the prospect of returning in a minor role in the future, she found it exciting.

“Do you not consider his good behavior and changed ways a sign of turning himself around?” “I don’t think it matters,” Kate said. “Parole would make him a free man. Yes, he’d have tests and restrictions galore, but he’d still be free. He’d have some semblance of a life back. The married couple I found disemboweled on the side of a mountain twenty-five years ago doesn’t get that option. So no…I don’t find Mr. Ellis’s change of personality any reason to grant parole.”

“You really miss it, don’t you?” he asked. “Most of the time,” she said. “How did you know? Is it that obvious?” He smiled and said, “It’s in the questions you ask. The way you talk to people. It spooked me on our first date but I quickly came to enjoy it.” “Yeah, I was impressed it didn’t scare you off.” “Speaking of dates,” he said, “I was hoping to take you on another one sometime.” She almost made a joke about how he likely wanted more than just a date if he was showing up on her doorstep. Given what had happened the last time he’d shown up unannounced, it was easy to assume he was hoping to replicate those results.

Kate watched him disappear from sight, down the hill until he disappeared behind the curb and in the darkness of the night. He’s a good guy, she thought. And she had no idea if she was speaking to herself or trying to convince Michael, wherever he might be. Honestly, though, Michael would want her to date again. He’d want her to enjoy life to the fullest in his absence. So maybe it was just her. Maybe it was her once again trying to fill a hole in her life with work rather than the company of someone who cared about her. It was another one of those things from that past that seemed as if it would just not go away.

The daughter was cute, but he wasn’t into kiddy stuff. He guessed maybe he could be but he figured he had enough issues as it was. The fact that he had been following her for the better part of three months was proof of that.

With Olivia in her room, Lacy allowed herself a few shots of tequila. It had never been her drink of choice but it was the drink that got her drunk the fastest. She’d been going to it a lot as of late, especially on Monday and Thursday nights. It helped her get through putting on a fake smile for her husband. She knew what he did on Mondays and Thursdays. But she didn’t know with whom. The dumb ass had used a credit card to pay for the room one time and he did a poor job of hiding the smell of perfume and sex. He tried, dousing himself in Axe body spray as if that in and of itself wasn’t a clue as to why he came home late on Mondays and Thursdays.

The knock came again just as she reached the door. She turned on the porch light and looked out through the trio of small square windows at the top of the door. The face she saw was not her husband’s but it was a familiar one. Confused as to why she had a visitor so late, she opened the door. She wasn’t afraid; she knew her visitor quite well. While he wasn’t the nicest guy and, quite frankly, creeped her out at times, she thought he was mostly harmless. Also, being here at this hour, maybe something was wrong… She opened the door and he stepped forward. She did not even see the knife. All she saw was him making a hard slashing motion and then her neck felt like it had popped open. She tried to speak, to ask the question What are you doing? But all that came out was blood. So much blood.

Please God, let him stop with me. Please God… And that plea to a God she had never really even believed in was the last coherent thought that raced through her mind as the knife came down again and her blood started to collect in a pool around her on her nicely polished hardwood floor.

That was back before shit got complicated and my career started to form a little history—almost like an urban legend. She supposed that was why she was so drawn to it—why she wanted to go back so badly. If people were going to view her as a legend of sorts, she had something to live up to. Legends didn’t just call it quits and live their days for chats over coffee or reading books on the back porch.

When she finally did drag herself out of bed and started banging around in the kitchen for breakfast, she started to wonder why last night’s nightmare had been so powerful. Was it perhaps the stress of being asked by a friend to look into the death of her daughter? Was it revisiting a courtroom and having to come face to face with Patrick Ellis again?

As promised, Duran sent Kate an email less than five minutes after their phone conversation. Kate pored over it when she got back to her house and learned a great deal about her temporary partner. She did her best not to be too impressed but by the time she was done, Kate found that she was very much looking forward to working with Kristen DeMarco.

She was quite pretty, her blonde hair a bit beyond shoulder length. Her svelte shoulders sagged a bit, as if she were uncomfortable. She wore a dark navy blue top and a pair of pants that were somewhere between dress and casual. Her sidearm was not concealed at all, the holstered Glock clearly prominent on her little hip.

As they made their way up the porch, two local policemen stood in the doorway to block their way. When Kate flashed her badge, the feeling was almost too good to believe. She felt slightly intoxicated for a moment but squashed it down, not wanting to allow it to go to her head. She watched as DeMarco did the same behind her and they then filed into the house.

“We need to speak to the husband,” Kate said. “The daughter, too, if social services will allow it.” “I’ll make the call,” DeMarco said, already reaching for her phone. Young, teachable, and super eager, Kate thought as they exited the Thurmond residence. Yeah, I’m going to get along just fine with her.

Kate glanced over toward DeMarco, every bit as pretty as the two younger women sitting at the table. If they were right about this guy, she couldn’t wait to see how DeMarco handled him. It made her think, however briefly, of tossing Brian Neilbolt off of his porch. With a thin smile, she looked at DeMarco and just like that, the tension that they’d felt in the car for a moment was obliterated and they were on the same page without speaking a single word between them.

Kate parked in front of the Thurmond home half an hour later. She’d learned through updated reports that the husband was still at the precinct, cleared of his charges but unwilling to return home. And who could blame him, really? As Kate and DeMarco approached the house, it had the feel of a haunted house. It was quiet, eerie, its windows like eyes leering at anyone who passed by. Before entering the house, though, Kate and DeMarco made a circuit around the outside perimeter. It was, Kate assumed, the very same way the killer had seen it before knocking on the door.

They had no leads and no matter how hard they looked, they likely wouldn’t. It made Kate wonder if maybe they should speak to the daughter. Maybe she’d know of a family friend they had somehow overlooked. Or maybe she’d even know some sort of secret about her mother that she’d helped to keep hidden.

“You guys want to see your granddaughter?” Kate absolutely did want to see her granddaughter. She also wanted to get an update on Melissa. So while the case was very much still front and center in her mind, the part of Kate that had retired gladly pushed her forward, her hands eager to hold her granddaughter for the first time.

“Sure. How is he? Peter, I mean. Have you spoken with him?” “He’s grieving,” DeMarco said. “And if he’s asked you to please respect his wishes to no longer see one another, please do so.” Crystal seemed a little surprised to hear such a direct line of advice, but she nodded as she stood up and headed back to work. Kate and DeMarco also took their leave and as they walked back outside into a morning that looked to be thinking about rain, Kate’s mind started to filter backward. This whole business with affairs was pinging some memory in the back of her head, one that she could almost pluck out and bring forward. But her head was too burdened with this new case, leaving her grasping at straws.

Kate couldn’t believe her luck. If O’Brien had legitimately changed to such an extent, he could be more helpful than she’d originally hoped. That was, if she played her cards right.

“Did you know who her husband was having the affair with?” DeMarco asked. “There were rumors it was with his ex-wife. Another rumor said it was with a nurse at the hospital.” A pretty accurate grapevine apparently runs through Amber Hills, Kate thought.

The agents made their exit as politely as they could. Caroline stood at the door and watched them get into the car, perhaps already twisting the story for entertaining her own circle of friends later. “Sweet old lady,” Kate said ironically. “Or nosy old bitch,” DeMarco countered. “Either way, it looks like we got a lead,” Kate said. What she didn’t add was that it was, at most, a weak lead. She kept it quiet though because when a case was offering no clues or leads, even the smallest of breakthroughs could often serve as the motivation needed to get the case moving along. With that hope pushing her, Kate got behind the wheel and headed out of Amber Hills while DeMarco pulled up the address for Pritchard Auto Glass.

“Can we talk in private?” DeMarco asked. “The break room, I guess,” the man said. “Is…what is it? Did you guys find who killed her?” “We can talk about all of that in a second,” Kate said. “For now, why not just lead us to the break room.” The young man did exactly that. Kate could tell from the way he walked that he was trembling. It certainly wasn’t a show of guilt but was more than enough to tell Kate that he was nervous—whether about sleeping with a married woman or something deeper, though, was anyone’s guess.

Kate knew she’d reached the end of the conversation. Billy was starting to sound like he was bragging and she was getting frustrated. She was all but certain he had no hand in the murders; there was no way he’d so openly admit to a sexual relationship with Julie Hicks if he were guilty.

Taylor Woodward knew she was attractive. She was thirty-one and could still catch the eyes of the younger men in the gym. But the thing of it was that she had worked her ass off to stay so hot. She dieted, she ate right, and she exercised regularly. Her mother had let herself go around the age of forty and when she’d died two years ago, she’d been almost three hundred pounds. Seeing her mother’s chubby face in that open casket had driven Taylor to continue her healthy lifestyle. And although she knew she often carried it too far, she didn’t care. She liked having her abs, her perfectly toned ass, her still-perky breasts. And more than that, she liked the looks she got at the gym and the pool. And she loved the way her husband sometimes looked at her—in the same way boys had looked at her when she was a teenager, a way that made her think she was all he was thinking about. As she came to the end of her shower, she wished her husband was there with her. Unlike most of her friends, she had never had an affair. She knew she had all the options in the world if she decided to have one—from the eighteen-year-olds at the gym to the wealthy forty- and fifty-year-olds in the neighborhood.

“Study session is over,” Kate said. “Budd just called. There’s been another murder.” “Holy shit,” DeMarco said. “How long ago?” “He says it’s fresh. No details yet. Let’s just get over there as soon as we can.” Yet even before the comment was out of Kate’s mouth, DeMarco was shoveling the remainder of the egg roll into her mouth and getting up from the table. Kate was starting to appreciate DeMarco more and more. Her go-get-’em attitude and teachability made her miss Logan a little less. Though, to be honest, she did miss the sarcastic back and forth they had shared most of the time.

Besides, even at fifty-five years of age, her life was still evolving. She was a grandmother now. She had a man who was very interested in her. And she was back on the job, on a case that was proving to be among her toughest. To dredge the past back up seemed to make no sense. So with the present and the future in mind, they closed in on Amber Hills as night slowly started to fall around Richmond.

While the stab wounds were grisly indeed, it was the woman’s face that shook Kate. She knew this woman. She had seen her in the last few days. Behind her, DeMarco gave voice to what was on Kate’s lips. “That’s Taylor Woodward.” “You know her?” Budd asked. “Not personally,” Kate said. “We questioned her with another woman yesterday. They were both friends of Julie Hicks and Lacy Thurmond. The other woman present was Wendy Hudson. And please send a car to her house right now. Three out of four friends is not a coincidence. Wendy Hudson needs to be placed in protective custody as far as I’m concerned.”

“And that’s a pretty blatant spot to aim for,” Kate said, doing her best not to grimace at the sight. “Like you said…this was intentional. It’s the first sign from this killer that this was more than just murder. I think this might be the first sign of a murder of emotion. Sexual in nature, I’d safely assume.”

“Any theories on how this played out?” DeMarco asked. “All the water on the floor makes me think he just grabbed her right out of the shower,” Kate said. “But the lack of any real sign of a struggle makes me think it was another case of Taylor knowing the killer, or at least expecting someone she knew. He got in easily enough. I’d even venture that he knew she was showering.” “You think this is another affair-related thing, too? That sort of knowledge about someone’s schedule…” “Well, but the husband had to have come home very soon after she was killed. If the killer was a lover or something, you’d think they’d be more careful with their time tables.” She looked around the bathroom one more time and shook her head. “Something just doesn’t add up here.”

They both slowly left the bathroom, Kate giving the body one last look. As grisly as it seemed, her eyes kept going back to that stab wound below the waist. It showed intention, maybe even the kind of malice and spite that had been absent from the other two scenes. He’s either starting to enjoy the act of killing more or there was something different about Taylor Woodward, Kate thought. If it’s the latter, that could point to motive or a solid lead.

They headed back downstairs to the sounds of an anguished husband. She’d heard similar cries at murder scenes before but it was something she had never gotten used to. Even when she and DeMarco circled the property for any signs of breaking and entering, the husband’s wails followed her, sending little chills into her heart.

Kate knew that Daryl Woodward was doing his absolute best. But she also knew that he’d be much more effective in terms of useful information in the coming days. Given that, she took out one of her old business cards, another of the relics she had held onto in the year between retirement and being brought back in to the bureau several days ago. She nearly handed it to him but then realized that the number on it was to the old bureau phone she’d had back then.

Even after spending another half an hour at the crime scene and looking around the body, Kate and DeMarco were unable to find anything that was instantly beneficial. Kate, however, was more convinced than ever that Taylor Woodward would be the key to finding the killer. The focus on the genitals spoke volumes. Upon first glance, Kate had been pretty sure there had been no sexual activity involved in the murder, but of course, the coroner would have to be the one to confirm that.

“We’re here because your cycling class seems to be the one thing that linked them together aside from the occasional wine drinking session and hanging out at the pool. Do you know if they had any relationships established with your other students?” “I can’t say for sure. I don’t know. I really didn’t know them that well. Just enough to say hello when they came into class.” “You sure about that?” Kate asked. “You didn’t know Lacy Thurmond any better than your other students?” The question rocked him and if he tried at all to hide it, he failed miserably. “I…I don’t understand why you’re here,” he said. He was looking around the room like a caged animal seeking a way out.

Kate stepped forward, closer to the bag. She peered inside as, undaunted, DeMarco reached back inside. This time when DeMarco’s hand came out, she brought a pair of white lace panties with her. The white of the material made the dark red of the blood stand out. The blood was not brand new, but it was fresh enough to stick to DeMarco’s skin. DeMarco looked inside and then back to Kate. “Have a look,” she said. Kate looked into the bag. She saw Julio’s gym shorts, his wallet, and a pair of black gloves. The gloves had more blood on them, as did the nylon bottom of the bag. Like the blood on the panties and DeMarco’s hand, it was still relatively new.

Seems almost too perfect, she thought. Of course, if this last murder was based on passion and he maybe felt a sense of finality or accomplishment, maybe he got lazy in his clean-up.

Even after being scolded, Kate couldn’t help but smile. It had been a rocky start, but her first case after coming back had finally wrapped up. Or had it? She continued to feel that finding the panties and the blood had seemed too easy. Julio had even admitted to having the panties in his gym bag—but the blood had seemed to throw him off. If she was in the interrogation room, she thought she might be able to read his expressions. She hadn’t been sure if the look on his face was a fear borne of guilt or of genuine shock at seeing the blood.

“Well, there was this one time that the husband—Daryl, I think his name is—came by the Thurmond home. He was looking for his wife, Taylor. He was really worried about her. Given that group of friends, I don’t blame him. He said he knew she was in some kind of trouble.” “Did Lacy ever tell her husband about the incident?” “No. I think she was scared to. Whatever trouble the Woodward woman was in, I think all of the women might have been wrapped up in it. Her husband was worried sick about her.”

“Daryl was so worried about her, like to the point of almost crying in front of me. And then, two months later, she’s dead,” she added. Kate finally felt certain: Julio was the killer, indeed. And now all she needed was for Daryl to confirm it, to tell her the entire story of exactly the type of man that Julio was.

“The punch to the face left a very small bruise, leading me to believe that it was more of a jab—almost a playful one—than a powerful punch meant to severely hurt the victim. From the punch alone, there are two things that I believe we can determine. First of all, given the placement and the angle, I think it’s safe to say that the killer is left-handed. Of course, any number of elements could prove me wrong but it seems very likely.”