He was a fucking lunatic. But she’d forgotten that Ethan, though probably certifiably insane, was also dangerous.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
CHAPTER THREE
Megan went home late Monday night, the murder of George L. Price weighing heavily on her mind. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much-murder was part of the job.
She poured herself a glass of red wine, kicked off her shoes, and sat heavily in her armchair. A white ball of fur jumped into her lap and meowed loudly.
She frowned at Mouse, as she called the cat, and said, “I already fed you.” She’d never been an animal person. Her job wasn’t nine-to-five, and she didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. Megan liked to come and go as she pleased. But her ex-husband had recently presented her with the furry creature, rescued by his new fiancee when someone threw the animal into a local lake.
Unconsciously, she stroked her pet, who immediately started to purr. The purr was surprisingly soothing, and Mouse kneaded his paws on her lap.
Megan sipped her wine and closed her eyes. It was close to midnight after a long, long day. Her squad was the only Violent Crimes Squad in the Sacramento Regional FBI Office, and she’d spent hours on the Price homicide, following up with Detective Black and Simone Charles several times throughout the day, reviewing the little evidence they’d thus far collected.
Their one lead-the license plates noted by the security patrol Sunday night-was still viable, though Megan wasn’t holding out hope. Two of the vehicles cleared quickly-the owners had valid reasons for leaving their cars in the garage, and they had verified alibis as well.
The third plate was a possible. The plate was registered to an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother. When Black went to her house, he discovered that the plates on her sedan did not match the numbers logged by garage security-someone had switched them with those off a black Econovan registered to a neighbor who had reported his vehicle stolen Monday morning. When Black followed up with him, the owner said the last time he’d driven his van was on Saturday morning, and he didn’t know it was gone until he left for work on Monday. So far, the van hadn’t turned up. Black was checking into neighbors and relatives. He was thorough and methodical.
In addition to this priority serial murder, Megan had to clear the paperwork piling up on her desk. She preferred taking care of her supervisory duties as they arose, not putting anything off too long, knowing how quickly the stacks of paper grew. But in the course of dealing with paperwork, she had to delegate new assignments, review reports, and attend a joint task force meeting on child prostitution while the assigned agent prepared to testify in a high-profile case.
She hadn’t submitted her own written report on the Price homicide until after ten that night. But she left the office with a clean desk and a plan for tomorrow.
Now that she was home, she could think about why this morning’s crime scene bothered her so much. Price was a veteran. He should have been taken care of by the country he had fought to protect, but instead he’d been marginalized and homeless. How had he gotten to that point? What had happened to put him on the streets? Drugs? Alcohol?
Megan’s father had been a career soldier and had died on the field during the first Desert War. He’d been her hero, and while he hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol, many of his peers had. It wasn’t just from what they’d seen or done as soldiers; it was also how they were treated when they came home. Megan had known too many veterans over the years who had serious medical problems, physical or emotional, and often did nothing about it. Partly because they were men-they felt they should be able to handle it on their own-and partly because the system was a bureaucratic mess.
What if her father had been discharged instead of killed? Her father had been a soldier. He couldn’t have been anything else. But if he couldn’t be a soldier, would he have walked the streets? Lost? Confused? Angry with his fate? What about Price’s family? Did he have kids wondering where their dad was?
Men like Price often slipped through the cracks.
She was still waiting on the dead veteran’s files. All they had was one of his dog tags-if they were even his. He could have picked them up off the street or found them in a garbage can. They’d take prints at the autopsy, and the coroner’s investigators would track down family. Hopefully, they’d soon have his identification confirmed.
But Megan knew soldiers after being raised by one. She couldn’t imagine any of them tossing their tags in the trash. Not the men and women she knew.
Of course, maybe Price’s wife or ex-wife had tossed them out of spite.
And thinking about her mother. If Caroline had still been married to William Elliott, she would have tossed all his medals, commendations, and the numerous newspaper articles Megan had carefully preserved over the years, intending to give him a scrapbook on his retirement.
The last page in the scrapbook was her father’s obituary and a photograph she took of his headstone at Arlington National Cemetery.
Her cell phone’s symphony ring tone startled her. She grabbed the phone from the table, looked at the caller I.D., and didn’t immediately recognize the number. But it was after four in the morning-she’d fallen asleep in her chair.
“This is Megan Elliott,” she answered, clearing her throat.
“You have to get to the morgue
Morgue. “Who’s this?”
“Simone! Simone Charles, from Sac P.D. CSU. The army is snatching our victim. Says he’s AWOL and wanted for attempted murder.”
Megan sat up and Mouse jumped off her lap with an irritated
“I’ll be right there.”
“I called the district attorney and asked him to file some motion or something to stop them. But he thinks the U.S. attorney needs to do it. He’s going to try to slow them down.”
“Matt Elliott?”
“Is there another D.A.?”
“Sorry. You woke me.” Of course the Sacramento P.D. would know the Sacramento district attorney, who happened to be Megan’s brother.
“I’ll call my boss,” she said. “Hold them there.”
“They’ll have to arrest me before they take my body.” Simone hung up.
Megan jumped in and out of the shower before the water warmed, pulled her wet blond hair back into a tight braid, and slid on slacks and a thin blouse, then her shoulder holster. She poured some dry food into Mouse’s dish and added water to his bowl on her way out of her downtown loft, and was in her car twenty minutes after Simone’s furious call.
She dialed her boss at his home. He answered quietly, probably so as not to wake his wife. “Richardson.”
“Megan here.” She told him what Simone told her.
“And?”
“That’s all I have. I’m on my way to the morgue to see what we can do.”
“We probably won’t be able to stop them. They have jurisdiction over their soldiers, dead or alive.”
“It would be much better if we worked together on this.”
“If anyone can convince the army’s CID to share, it’d be you, but I’m not holding my breath.” He sighed as if to emphasize the point. “I’ll call Olsen’s office.” Olsen was the U.S. attorney who oversaw their district. “Let me know what you find out. It may not be worth fighting them for.”
“Sir, Price is connected to two other murders. Did you read my report? I emailed it last night. We need the evidence to track down a serial murderer, CID and their rules notwithstanding.”
