CHAPTER THREE
Nineteen days had passed since Kate had set foot in FBI headquarters.
The semi-retirement arrangement she had with the Bureau was loose by design, and DeMarco had never pushed her to fill it with structure she didn't need.
She came in when there was a reason and for little more than that.
It was freeing, sure, but she did miss this place that had, for so long, felt like a home away from home.
Today, Kate had a reason to be there. Sloane had called an hour ago at the request of DeMarco.
She badged through the lobby, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and walked the familiar corridor toward DeMarco's office.
A few agents she recognized nodded as she passed.
She nodded back, wondering if she was being called in because DeMarco had somehow found out about her visit to see Harold Ryan.
When she arrived at DeMarco’s office, the door was open. She stepped in, smiled, and took the chair beside Sloane in front of DeMarco’s desk. DeMarco sat behind it, quickly reading over something on her laptop before she looked up at Kate.
"Thanks for coming in quickly," DeMarco said. “We have a case that may need your eyes, if you’re willing.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” Kate said. She appreciated the fact that they weren’t making a big deal about her appearance. This was just another case and it was time to get down to the facts.
"A woman named Carol Paige was found dead in her home this morning," DeMarco said.
"Mid-fifties, recently divorced, lives alone in a residential neighborhood in the northwest part of the city.
Her neighbor found her at 6:15 this morning when she came by for coffee.
She said the back door was standing open.
She called it in immediately. Local PD responded, determined quickly that it needed to come to us. We got the call an hour ago."
"Why us?" Kate asked.
"The staging," DeMarco said. "Or rather the lack of it. The first responding officers noted that nothing in the house appeared to be disturbed beyond the living room. Nothing stolen, no signs of forced entry. The back door was unlocked, but the neighbor says that’s not unusual, as Paige left it unlocked most of the time.”
"Cause of death?" Sloane asked.
"Pending the ME's determination, but preliminary indication at the scene is that she was stabbed. Twice in the chest, and once in the throat." DeMarco looked at Kate directly.
DeMarco picked up a folder from her desk and handed it across. "I want you both out there this morning while the scene is still fresh. Local PD is holding it for us."
Kate opened the folder and looked at the top sheet.
Carol Paige. Fifty-four years old. The address was in a neighborhood Kate knew slightly, with older houses and tree-lined streets.
It was the kind of block where most residents had been there for twenty years-plus, knew each other's cars and the names of their pets.
She closed the folder and looked at DeMarco. "Want to head over now?"
“Yeah, let’s get to it,” Sloane said. Kate caught the slight excitement in her eyes and was reminded of just how enjoyable it was to work alongside Sloane.
"Keep me posted," DeMarco said. "Anything at all."
Kate and Sloane made their way back through the building, and Kate sent a text to Allen to let him know what was going on. He had a lazy day today so he was wide open to look after Michael.
They took the first bureau sedan they came to in the lot, Sloane taking the wheel.
She pulled out of the parking structure and navigated the first few blocks without speaking.
Kate didn't push conversation. She had the folder open on her lap and went back through it as they drove, reading the responding officer's preliminary notes a second time.
Carol Paige. Fifty-four. Divorced two years ago after an eleven-year marriage.
No children listed at the residence. Employed part-time at a local library.
The neighbor who had found her was listed as Deborah Leander, residing two doors down, who had apparently been in the habit of coming by through the back.
Kate looked up from the folder as Sloane turned onto the highway.
The morning was gray and slightly gloomy, the kind of late autumn overcast that made everything look drained of color.
She watched the city move past the window for a while and thought about an unlocked back door and a neighbor who used it regularly enough that it had become routine.
Was there potentially more there than met the eye?
They pulled up to the house at 9:14, as Sloane parked behind a pair of police cars.
The house was a modest two-story on a quiet residential street.
It looked to be well-maintained, with a small, covered porch and a narrow flower bed along the front that had been cut back for winter.
A length of yellow tape crossed the front walk.
A uniformed officer met them outside, lifting the tape for them. They ducked under one by one, making their way up the porch. On the porch, a second officer handed them gloves and paper booties without being asked. They pulled them on quickly and efficiently and pushed the front door open.
The interior was tidy. That was the first thing Kate registered. The entry hall was clear, a coat rack with two jackets hanging neatly, a small table with keys and a bowl for loose change. There was no chaos, and no sign that anything had moved through here in a hurry or by force.
They moved down the hall toward the living room.
The body was on the floor near the couch.
Carol Paige was on her back, one arm at her side and one extended slightly away from her body, her legs straight.
She was still dressed in what appeared to be the clothes she had worn out the previous evening, a navy wrap dress and nylons.
Two separate pools of blood surrounded her, one having seeped into a rug in front of the couch.
A CSI technician was working near the far wall and acknowledged them with a nod.
Kate stood in the doorway for a moment and looked at the room before she stepped into it.
The couch cushions were undisturbed. The throw blanket folded over the arm of the couch was still neatly folded.
The lamp on the end table was on. A coffee table book sat squarely in the center of the table, its corners aligned with the edge.
None of it had seemingly been touched. She stepped carefully into the room and moved around the perimeter, looking at the floor, the walls, and the arrangement of the furniture.
Sloane came in behind her and positioned herself near the door, watching, giving Kate the room to work without crowding it.
Near the couch, half beneath the coffee table, were the remains of a wine glass. It had broken into three large pieces and several smaller fragments. A pale stain spread out from the point of impact on the area rug. That stain was quickly overtaken by the blood, which had dried enough to be sticky.
Kate crouched beside the broken glass and looked at the pattern of the shatter.
It had not been thrown. It had not been knocked over by a struggle.
The distribution of the pieces and the shape of the stain indicated it had dropped and hit the floor at a relatively low velocity.
She supposed it had merely slipped from someone's hand.
Kate looked from the glass to the position of the body, calculating the distance.
Carol Paige had been sitting on the couch when she was attacked. The glass had been in her hand. Something had made her let go of it.
She stood and looked at the back of the room, toward the kitchen doorway.
"Back door," she said as she looked over to Sloane.
They made their way through the kitchen, which was also clean and undisturbed. The back door was a standard residential door with a single deadbolt, located just inside the kitchen. The bolt was still in the unlocked position. The door frame showed no damage.
Kate examined the door handle and the frame carefully without touching either. A CSI technician appeared behind her and confirmed that they had already processed the door for prints.
"Anything?" Kate asked.
"Smudged on the handle. Possibly gloved. We'll know more once we process everything back at the lab."
Kate looked out through the door's narrow window into the backyard. It was an ordinary yard, with a small deck, a dormant garden, and wooden fence along the back. The fence was about six feet tall, and a little swinging gate sat in the corner along the neighboring property.
Kate and Sloane made their way back through to the living room.
Sloane had her phone out and was photographing the broken glass, the intact glass, the position of the body relative to the couch.
She moved around the room with a quiet, methodical focus, documenting without commentary, not filling the silence with observations that weren't ready yet.
Kate watched her for a moment. She was good…
genuinely good. To see Sloane in a state of controlled focus was truly something to behold.
Kate looked back at Carol Paige on the floor in her navy dress, one arm extended, the wine glass broken three feet away.
And all of that blood. She looked the body over for a moment, seeing the evidence of what the repots had indicated: two stab wounds to the chest, one likely right into the heart.
The other had taken her in the neck… not slitting the neck but stabbing it straight through.
This had not been a robbery or a break-in that escalated. Someone had come through an unlocked door with the knowledge that it would be unlocked, and had found Carol Paige on her couch with a glass of wine in her hand.
The staging, as DeMarco had put it, was too calm. And that calmness was the most troubling thing in the room somehow.
"I think we need to speak to the neighbor," Sloane said quietly, lowering her phone.
"I was thinking the same thing.”
The same officer who had held the crime scene tape up for them just ten minutes ago stepped over and gestured for them to follow him. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to her.”