In other words, Darcy Vickers had plenty of enemies. Most lobbyists do. But not every lobbyist ends up stabbed to death in the trunk of a car. Who, exactly, would want to do this? And why?
And for that matter, could this possibly have anything to do with Elizabeth Reilly’s hanging?
Nothing obvious had been taken. Darcy Vickers’s wallet, cash, phone, and jewelry were all still there, as far as anyone knew. That led me to believe that the killing itself was the motive, either to satisfy some impulse for violence or to get rid of this woman in particular—or maybe both.
In those respects, the two cases seemed the same. But the m.o. was completely different.
Assuming Elizabeth Reilly hadn’t committed suicide, her killer wanted the body put on display for everyone to see. He would have had to go to some trouble for that. Whereas with Darcy Vickers, it was all about the act itself—the stabbing, and then for whatever reasons, the cutting of the hair.
My gut was telling me these were two different cases, but we still had a lot of background work to do. Maybe these two women shared some connection, somewhere.
“Any witnesses?” I asked Freemont.
“Not exactly,” he said. “But security cameras picked up something interesting.”
He unfolded several sheets from his pocket, and showed me a series of black-and-white screen captures.
“This is nine oh four last night. We’ve got Ms. Vickers, coming in the east entrance from the alley over there. Then, right behind her, we’ve got this guy.”
The image showed a middle-aged, or maybe elderly, white male. The picture quality wasn’t great, but it was clear enough for a few details. He was bald, with dark-rimmed glasses, and what looked like a Members Only jacket, with the snaps on the shoulders.
“At nine oh nine, we’ve got the same guy leaving a different way, out toward M Street, and still on foot,” the detective went on. “What he was doing in here for five minutes is anyone’s guess.”
“What about cameras on this level?” I said.
“Right there.” He pointed toward a badly battered unit in a corner of the ceiling. “Someone took it out just after eight o’clock last night. Threw a rock at it, or something.”
“So, then . . .” I stopped to think about this. “If the old guy has anything to do with it, why just take out one camera? Why let himself be seen on two others?”
“I know,” he said. “Good question. We’ve got a BOLO out on him right now. If we can get him in, we might start to put together some answers.”
Maybe, I thought. But something told me it wasn’t going to be that easy.
CHAPTER
6
I GOT HOME AROUND FIVE THAT MORNING, HOPING TO CATCH A COUPLE HOURS of sleep.
And I guess that’s what happened. I barely remember crawling into bed next to my wife, Bree. The next thing I knew, light was streaming in through the windows, and we were under attack by a small band of munchkins.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up! Doo-do-doo! It’s a big day!”
Ali, my youngest, had already crawled right up the middle of the bed, and was kneeling there between us. My daughter Jannie stood at the end, all dressed and ready to go.
“It’s seven thirty, Daddy,” she said. “We’re supposed to be there by nine!”
“Oh . . . right,” I said.
“You didn’t forget, did you?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not. We’ll be right down.”
Of course—I had forgotten. I’d been planning on being at the ME’s office first thing for the morning briefing, and then sitting in on Elizabeth Reilly’s autopsy.
But the kids were right. Today was a big day.
This was lottery day at Marian Anderson Public Charter School, the best high school in Southeast, and one of the best in the city. Jannie, as well as Ava, who was living with us now, had both put in applications, along with four hundred and twenty other eighth graders, looking for one of the hundred and five spots available in that fall’s freshman class. By law, charter schools have to hold a lottery when supply exceeds demand—which it always does—and we were hoping against hope to get both girls in.