Cold Snap Page 18

  “You think someone’s threatening him?”

  “Or maybe he’s the threat. Maybe there’s a restraining order against him, and he didn’t like it. Denver isn’t running anything that isn’t an emergency because they are on generators.”

  “Got it.” Sean rubbed the back of Lucy’s neck. “You’re tense.”

  “Just tired.”

  He kissed her lightly. “It won’t be long until we’re in San Diego.”

  “You looking forward to meeting my parents?” She smiled slyly.

  “On second thought, the blizzard is looking better and better.” He didn’t sound scared. “They’re going to love me.”

  “If you eat, my mom will love you. If you’re respectful without being a kiss-ass, my dad will love you.”

  “Did you just say ‘kiss-ass’?” Sean laughed. “I’ve rarely heard you swear, and I’ve never heard you say ‘kiss-ass.’”

  “A first time for everything.” She winked at Sean as she walked out.

  * * *

  After reading the concierge ticket that all guests were given when they left their bags, Lucy felt better about searching St. Paul’s luggage. Signing it, he’d given away the right to privacy, as the hotel claimed the right to search belongings under a wide variety of circumstances. The hotel was happy to let her access his solitary suitcase.

  She wore gloves—again, disposable housekeeping gloves—and unzipped his quality bag. Inside she found neatly folded clothes. Jeans, slacks, sweaters. Toiletries. There was nothing in the suitcase that told her where he was or what he was planning. No day planner, no computer, no journal.

  But something was missing. There was no coat. In this weather, and it had been below freezing when St. Paul flew in three days ago, he would have brought a heavy jacket. There was also no cell phone or any electronics.

  “Agent Kincaid?” The valet stepped in. “This laptop was also part of Mr. St. Paul’s belongings.”

  “But his ticket said he had one piece.”

  “Yes, but he returned later and checked his laptop. It wasn’t on the same ticket.”

  “Thank you.”

  The valet left, and Lucy opened the laptop case. She slid out his MacBook Pro and opened it. She considered calling Sean, but she was computer savvy, and there were no security protocols on the laptop. It was already on, just sleeping, and when she opened the lid the screen lit up.

  She first checked his calendar. He had only partial travel plans on his calendar—no exact times, no airline, and no destination. The only thing on his calendar that indicated that he’d been traveling was a car that had picked him up in Chicago at ten-fifteen the morning he departed. There was a confirmation number.

  If he was paranoid—and it seemed that way to her because of the lack of details in his calendar—then why would he include confirmation numbers? That would give anyone who wanted to hurt him valuable information. Many companies would share information if you had a confirmation number.

  She went further back into his calendar and noted that it was about two months ago that he’d stopped adding any specific information and only made vague references to meetings and events. But there was nothing to indicate why.

  She pulled up his e-mail.

  At first she didn’t see anything suspicious and, in fact, he had sent out very few messages of late. He’d sent a message to his staff that he was taking vacation time over Christmas and would be back after the New Year. No mention of where he was going, just that he would be available by cell phone only.

  She focused on the messages during the week he’d changed how he managed his calendar. There she found the key: he had a series of messages to and from a lawyer about a restraining order. But it wasn’t against him—he’d filed it against his ex-girlfriend.

  The last message from St. Paul to his attorney was two months ago, almost to the day:

  Joe, she’s hacked into my e-mail again. She knows where I’m going, where I’ve been, she’s calling my clients—if you need me, call my new cell phone. Don’t e-mail me anything sensitive.

  She dug a little deeper, into his social media pages and files. Two months ago he’d stopped posting on all the social media sites, except specific business-related topics. But he’d never deleted his archives. She found a heartbreaking message from a girlfriend sent four months previous.

  James, I can’t do this anymore. She keeps calling me, she keeps showing up outside my work. She’s driving me crazy. I’m scared. I told you that you had to do something, that she’s dangerous. I thought she was going to hurt you; but now I really think she wants to kill me. I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. I’m moving, because I don’t want her to know where I live. I love you so much, but I don’t know how to do this anymore. ~ Denise

  Lucy found Denise’s phone number and called her. It went to voice mail after several rings. She winced. It was late, after midnight, and she was calling a stranger. She left a message.

  “Denise, this is FBI Agent Lucy Kincaid. I’m calling regarding your past relationship with James St. Paul, specifically an e-mail you sent him regarding threats you’d received. Please contact me as soon as you can.” She left her number and hung up.

  She then searched around on his computer for photos. He didn’t have many, but she found one in his e-mail sent by Denise over a year ago. The message said:

  James, I had such a wonderful time last weekend! I thought you might like this photo Tim took on the boat.

  The man was James, looking happy and relaxed, in swim trunks and a T-shirt, sitting on a small yacht with a lake behind them. Denise was sitting next to him, smiling, her shoulder-length blond hair blowing out behind her.

  Her cell phone rang. She thought it might be Denise returning her call, but the caller ID said Kate.

  “I have some interesting information,” Lucy said.

  “And I have a dead body.”

  “You found our stabbing victim?”

  “No. Security found a woman outside nearly buried in snow. No visible stab wounds, but she’s definitely dead. Grab your coat, we’re going outside.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Kate was waiting for Lucy at the end of a long corridor in the back of the hotel, just inside double glass doors that led out to the courtyard. The ballroom where guests were staying who couldn’t catch their flights was around the corner, but security managed to keep them out of this wing.

  Kate was talking to an all-around large man in slacks and a thick black jacket with a bright yellow stripe around the chest. DENVER PD was printed in yellow under the stripe. He had a gray buzz cut, either former military or hiding a receding hairline, or both. While he was a big guy, he wasn’t fat—in fact, he looked like 250 pounds of solid muscle.

  “Lucy, Detective Howard Harris, Denver PD. I’ve filled him in while we were waiting for you. Howard, my sister-in-law, Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. Frankly, I’m relieved you’re taking over because this situation has me scratching my head.”

  Harris laughed, reminding Lucy of a beardless Santa. He even had crinkly blue eyes. “I think you’ve done more in three hours than most cops could do in a day.”

  “I’ve found I like ordering around the security staff. The power of being in charge,” Kate teased. She gestured to the carpet inside the door. “A staff member noticed there was melting snow inside this door. He thought maybe smokers were going out here, instead of the main entrance where there is a roof and designated smoking area.”

  “Every winter I’m glad I gave up smoking,” Harris said.

  “You and me both,” Kate said. “Because the staff has been alerted to contact security about anything out of the ordinary, security inspected the courtyard and found the victim.”

  Kate zipped up a jacket, which was much too big for her. Lucy looked at her quizzically. “Gift from security,” she snapped. She turned to Harris. “I stuffed my jacket in my suitcase before I left. I didn’t expect to be stranded in a blizzard on my way to San Diego.” She handed Lucy another pair
of disposable gloves. She kept her hands in her pockets.

  They stepped outside and the driving snow made walking the ten feet to the body cumbersome. Already, the body was nearly covered.

  Shouting to be heard over the wind, Kate said, “She was mostly covered, but the security guard saw the bright green jacket. He reached down and pulled up her arm.”

  Lucy squatted to inspect the body, the cold already seeping under her jacket. “Help me push the snow aside,” she said.

  The victim was a woman. She lay facedown wearing jeans and a heavy jacket. Her long blond hair was matted with blood.

  “Could she have come out for a smoke and not gotten back inside?” Kate said.

  “There’s a significant amount of blood on the back of her head,” Lucy said. She inspected the area around the skull. “I don’t see a bullet hole, more likely blunt force trauma, but we’ll have to inspect her inside. She was either knocked unconscious and died from exposure, or killed and left here. Do we have a place for this body?”

  “At Dillon’s suggestion, the assistant manager, Abby, took one of the conference rooms and put the AC on its coldest setting,” Kate said. “It won’t get cold enough, but it’ll help.”

  They didn’t have the proper supplies to bag the bodies and keep them outside, and they couldn’t leave them exposed to the elements, which could destroy or contaminate any trace evidence on the victims.

  Harris said, “The coroner should be here by morning. They can’t get here sooner, not enough equipment or manpower and everything is running slower because of the blizzard.” He pulled a small digital camera from his pocket. “I’m going to get a couple pictures. Stand back.”

  Lucy and Kate stood to the side while Harris snapped pictures of the body, the doorway about ten feet away, and the surrounding area. The security lights on the outside of the hotel gave the snow falling around them an odd, unearthly glow, but the courtyard was dark and the only sound was wind whistling past their ears.

  “Okay, let’s get her inside before we freeze alongside her,” Harris said.

  Kate stepped into the hotel and retrieved a stretcher, and the three of them lifted the unyielding corpse.

  The designated room was directly off the back corridor, making it easy to move the body without any guests watching. Abby and Dillon were both there, cataloging external injuries on the body from the Jacuzzi.

  “Put her over there,” Abby said, gesturing toward a conference table covered by a sheet. “Leave her on the stretcher.”

  They did as she asked and Abby covered the body with another sheet. Harris had a crime-scene field kit and took out vials and bags. “We need to collect as much evidence as we can from the bodies since the coroner is delayed. Bag the hands. I’m going to take better photos of the injuries on each victim.”

  Lucy took the paper bags and carefully put them around each victim’s hands. Harris inspected the head injury to Jane Doe number 2. “You’re right, Kincaid—no bullet entry or exit. Definitely not the stabbing victim from the hotel room. Something heavy and wooden did this damage. I see splinters, and if they’re big enough for these bad eyes, they’re big.”

  Lucy looked at them. She took tweezers from Harris’s bag and collected several of the larger splinters from the wound and put them in a vial, then labeled it. “The weapon could still be outside,” she said.

  “And we’re not going to find it tonight. It’s buried, but I’ll lead a security team tomorrow morning when there’s light. Kate, can you call security and have them keep a guy on that door all night?”

  Kate stepped aside to make the call. Harris gently turned the victim’s head back, then pulled the sheet over her face. Lucy liked the older detective. Even though he was burly and a bit on the brusque side, he had gentle hands and took great care with the two victims in front of him.

  He searched her body for identification. He found a hotel card key, but no ID—not uncommon. He bagged it and said to Kate, “I need the hotel to run this card key.”

  “Not a problem. At least it’s more than we have on the first victim.”

  Kate introduced Dillon to Detective Harris, then said to Lucy, “You told me on the phone you found out something interesting about St. Paul?”

  “Who’s St. Paul?” Harris asked.

  “We believe he used his company to rent a room in the hotel, the room with the blood spatter. We can’t locate him, but his luggage was checked with the concierge,” Kate said. “I’ve also talked to staff who’ve interacted with him, and the only thing we’ve learned is that he spent most of the three days in his room.”

  “But he checked out, correct?” Harris said.

  “Yes, noon today. I planned to contact Homeland Security to check his flight status, but since his luggage was left here—” She looked at Lucy. “Was it time-stamped?”

  “Five hours after he checked out.”

  “So he could have gone to the airport, realized he couldn’t get out, and returned, but they had no rooms available.”

  “What did you learn about St. Paul?” Harris asked Lucy.

  “He was being stalked by an ex-girlfriend. I don’t have her name, but I have his lawyer’s name and number.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “A recent girlfriend named Denise, no last name, broke up with him a few months ago because his ex was stalking her. She said in an e-mail that she was terrified for her life.”

  “Maybe St. Paul decided to take matters into his own hands.”

  “And kill two women?”

  “Maybe they’re not connected,” Harris said.

  Lucy said, “I couldn’t help but notice these two victims are both blond and under thirty. And so is Denise, James’s scared girlfriend.”

  “What, you think James St. Paul is a serial killer targeting blondes?” Kate said. She wasn’t joking, either.

  “I think we need more information,” Lucy said cautiously. She didn’t want to indulge in speculation that might influence how they investigated these two deaths.

  Dillon spoke up for the first time. “I know what Lucy is thinking. She suspects the stalker ex-girlfriend.”

  “That makes no sense,” Kate said. “Maybe if she went after St. Paul, but randomly targeting blondes?”

  Kate needed facts. Everything had to make sense, and on the surface, nothing made sense about these murders.

  “These two victims have very similar looks and builds,” Lucy said. “The one photo I found on St. Paul’s computer was primarily scenery. Denise was in the picture, but she was without makeup, casual, in the background. It was on a lake, and these blondes, at first glance, might pass for her. Especially if his ex-girlfriend had only looked at the picture and didn’t have a copy.” Lucy turned to Harris. “If it’s all right with you, Detective, I’d like to turn over St. Paul’s laptop to a computer expert who might be able to pull more information.”

  He said to Kate, “The same guy who found out that the hotel’s camera system was compromised?”

  “That’s him,” Kate said. “Do it, Luce, and send me the lawyer’s information. I’ll see if we can track him down and find out what’s going on with St. Paul.”

  The door opened abruptly and a tall, lanky man stood stone-faced on the threshold. The manager, Lynn Thomsen, was behind him looking worried. “Sir—let me get the detective.”

  “I want to know if that’s my wife!” His voice cracked.

  Detective Harris approached. “Sir, what’s your name?”

  “Martin Katz. My wife was in the Jacuzzi and didn’t come back to the room. I couldn’t find her—and then I saw all the people, and the hotel wouldn’t tell me anything! Is she okay? Is she in the hospital? Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening!”

  “Sir, I’m Detective Harris with Denver PD. Was your wife in the Jacuzzi at approximately ten-thirty this evening?”

  “Yes! I told the manager that! She left for her workout, and then to relax in the pool. I wanted to sleep. We’re driving to my parents’ in the morning; they live in Col
orado Springs, and with these roads…” His voice trailed off. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Harris nodded to Abby to turn down the sheet on the strangulation victim. Katz rushed over and stared, then his knees buckled and he grabbed the table.

  “No.”

  Lucy went to his side and helped support him, taking him to a chair lined up against the wall.

  “No,” he repeated. “No, no, no.” His voice cracked. “Maggie’s a great swimmer. How?”

  “She was murdered, Mr. Katz,” the detective said bluntly. He was watching Katz for a reaction—any reaction might indicate whether he was involved in his wife’s death.

  Katz looked up at the detective blankly, as if he didn’t hear a word. “She’s a terrific swimmer,” he repeated. “Did she hit her head? Why didn’t anyone help her?”

  Harris went on and asked, “Do you have anyone who can verify that you were in your room this evening?”

  Katz didn’t react. Lucy realized the fact that his wife had been murdered hadn’t sunk in. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You said that your wife went to the gym this evening, and you stayed in the room.”

  “Yes, I said that. But—”

  “What time did she leave the room?”

  He blinked and said, “I don’t know. After nine. I was half asleep. I’d been driving all day in this weather, and I needed to crash. Oh, God, I should have been there with her. I could have helped her.”

  “When did you realize she was missing?”

  “I woke up at eleven-thirty, and she wasn’t back. I called her cell phone. I thought she might have gotten something to eat. She didn’t answer. I started looking around. I went to the gym. Security was there. It took me nearly an hour to get the manager to finally talk to me!” His voice was escalating. “Tell me what happened!”

  “Your wife appears to have been strangled or intentionally drowned,” Harris said. “We’ll know more after the autopsy, but the coroner won’t be able to get here until morning.”