CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the narrow streets of Dupont Circle, Riley wove the car through late afternoon traffic. Less than thirty minutes had passed since their call with David Kim.
“There it is,” Ann Marie pointed to a storefront with large windows and a tasteful green awning—the Riverstone Café. Riley found a parking space half a block away.
“He sounded genuinely terrified on the phone,” Ann Marie observed as they exited the vehicle. “I’m curious to see if his behavior matches in person.”
The café welcomed them with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and baked goods.
Edison bulbs hung from exposed beams, casting warm light over polished wooden tables where customers bent over laptops or conversed in hushed tones.
Behind the counter, two baristas worked efficiently—one operating the espresso machine while the other assembled a complex-looking pastry display.
Riley approached the counter, where a young woman with a nose ring and an intricate sleeve of botanical tattoos was wiping down the coffee grinder.
“Excuse me,” she said, holding up her credentials.
“I’m Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Esmer.
We called earlier about David Kim. Is he available? ”
The barista’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the badge.
She set down her cloth and leaned forward, lowering her voice.
“I was the one who took your call.” Her gaze darted nervously to the other barista, who was occupied with a customer at the far end of the counter. “And no, David’s not here.”
“When will he be back? He told us he’d be working until five.”
“That’s the weird thing,” the barista kept her voice near a whisper. “Right after he got off the phone with you, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Said he wasn’t feeling well and needed to leave immediately. He literally grabbed his bag and bolted out the back door. Didn’t even clock out properly.”
Ann Marie stepped closer. “How long ago was this?”
“Maybe twenty minutes? The manager’s not happy—we’re short-staffed as it is.” The barista glanced at the door as if expecting Kim to reappear. “David’s never done anything like this before. He’s super reliable, always picks up extra shifts when someone calls out.”
“We need to locate him immediately,” Riley said. “It’s related to an ongoing homicide investigation.”
The barista’s eyes widened further. “Homicide? David?” She shook her head vigorously, silver earrings catching the light. “No way. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s like the gentlest person I know. Apologizes to the plants when he bumps into them.”
“We just need to ask him some questions,” Ann Marie clarified, her tone soft. “He may have information that could help us.”
Riley pressed further. “We need his home address and personal phone number.”
The barista hesitated, conflict evident in her expression. “I’m not supposed to give out employee information. I could get fired.”
“I understand your concern,” Riley said, leaning in slightly, “but this is a matter of public safety. Two women are dead, and others could be in danger.”
The color drained from the barista’s face.
She glanced over her shoulder to ensure her coworker was still occupied, then reached beneath the counter for a small notebook.
“Give me a second,” she murmured, flipping pages until she found what she was looking for.
She scribbled something on a napkin and slid it across the counter.
“Please don’t tell anyone I gave you this. ”
Riley palmed the napkin, noting the address in Kadota Junction and a phone number with a DC area code. “Thank you. You’ve potentially helped save lives today.”
The barista’s resistance dissolved. “David lives alone in that little house. If you talk to him, tell him Tara says to call the café. The manager’s going to put him on the schedule for every weekend shift for the next month if he doesn’t explain himself.”
Riley thanked her again, and they turned to leave.
“He’s running,” Ann Marie said, pulling out her phone as they walked briskly back to the car. She dialed the number from the napkin. After several rings, the call went to voicemail. “No answer.”
“He told us he’d be at work until five, willing to talk with us. Then immediately fled out the back door after ending the call.” Riley started the engine, checking traffic before pulling away from the curb. “What’s he hiding? And why run unless he’s involved in the murders?”
“Fear doesn’t always indicate guilt,” Ann Marie pointed out as she entered the address into the navigation system. “Sometimes it’s just... fear.”
Riley considered this as she wound through the afternoon traffic toward Kadota Junction. The neighborhood was a good thirty-minute drive in the best conditions, and considerably longer with the current congestion. Time enough for David Kim to disappear if that was his intention.
“He said ‘Am I in trouble’ when we mentioned his students,” Riley recalled. “Not ‘What happened to them’ or ‘Are they okay.’ His first thought was for himself.”
“True,” Ann Marie acknowledged. “But his accent suggested English isn’t his first language. Cultural and linguistic differences can affect how people respond to authority figures.”
Riley nodded, appreciating Ann Marie’s perspective.
She was right, of course—fear of law enforcement could stem from many sources beyond guilt.
Still, David Kim’s abrupt departure from the café after agreeing to meet with them heightened her suspicion.
Innocent people rarely ran from the FBI unless they had something significant to hide.
As they inched through the congested streets, Riley’s thoughts turned again to the two victims and their identical deaths. Somewhere in this city, a killer was methodically selecting targets, watching them, planning their executions. Was David Kim that killer?
The Kadota Junction neighborhood felt like a different world from DC’s urban core.
Small, well-worn homes from the 1940s nestled beneath mature trees, their branches forming a canopy over the narrow streets.
Riley slowed the car as they approached David Kim’s address.
The house was a modest bungalow with weathered green siding and a small covered porch.
A detached single-car garage stood to the left, its door partially open.
Nothing about the property suggested anything unusual until Ann Marie suddenly straightened in her seat.
“The garage—movement,” Ann Marie said sharply. “Someone’s in there. Block the driveway!”
Riley reacted instantly, swinging the car across the concrete driveway just as a small blue hatchback began to emerge from the garage. The hatchback’s bumper stopped mere inches from her driver’s side door, its engine revving briefly before falling silent.
Through the windshield, Riley could see a man behind the wheel—presumably David Kim—his face a mask of panic. The car was packed nearly to the ceiling with what looked like hastily stacked belongings.
“He’s running,” Riley stated flatly, her right hand already moving toward her sidearm as she pushed open her car door. Ann Marie was out of the passenger side almost simultaneously, positioning herself with a clear view of the hatchback’s driver.
“FBI!” Riley called out. “Step out of the vehicle slowly, Mr. Kim.”
The man behind the wheel froze momentarily, then his shoulders slumped in defeat.
He pushed open his door and emerged slowly, his hands already rising above his head.
David Kim was smaller than Riley had expected—perhaps five-foot-seven, with a slight build and scholarly features.
His black hair was neatly cut, his clothing simple but well-maintained: khaki pants, a light blue button-down shirt, and a navy cardigan.
Nothing about him screamed “killer,” but Riley knew better than most how deceptive appearances could be.
“I’m not armed,” he said immediately, his accent noticeable but his English clear. “Please, I can explain.”
Riley still held her weapon. “Keep your hands where I can see them and step away from the vehicle.”
Kim complied, moving slowly and carefully until he stood on the small patch of lawn between the driveway and the house. His eyes darted between Riley and Ann Marie, fear evident in his expression.
Riley moved forward, reaching for her handcuffs. “David Kim, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”
“Wait.” Ann Marie’s voice cut through the tension, gentle but firm. She had moved to stand slightly between Riley and Kim, her body language conveying none of the threat that Riley’s did. “Riley, I don’t think this is what it looks like.”
Riley paused, her eyes meeting Ann Marie’s. In their months working together, Riley had learned to trust the younger agent’s intuition about people.
“What are you thinking?” Riley asked quietly.
“That we’re missing something,” Ann Marie replied, then turned back to Kim. “Mr. Kim, why don’t we all go inside and talk? I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
The tension in Kim’s shoulders eased slightly at her tone, though his hands remained cautiously raised. “Yes, please. Inside is better.”
Riley hesitated, then nodded, holstering her weapon. “Lead the way, Mr. Kim. But understand—any sudden movements, and I’ll have to put those cuffs on you.”
Kim nodded vigorously, relief washing over his features.
He led them to the front door, fumbling slightly with his keys before pushing it open.
The interior of the bungalow was simple but well maintained—a small living room with unpretentious furnishings, bookshelves lining one wall, a compact dining area visible through an archway.
Riley noticed immediately that while there were origami figures displayed—a crane on the coffee table, what appeared to be a lotus flower on a bookshelf—they were nowhere near as abundant as in the victims’ homes.
“Please, sit,” Kim gestured to a small sofa.
“I prefer to stand,” Riley said, positioning herself where she could observe both Kim and the exits.
Ann Marie, however, took a seat on the sofa’s edge, creating a less confrontational atmosphere. “Mr. Kim, we’re investigating the murders of two women who took your Geometry in Everyday Life course at Federal City Community College—Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall.”
Kim’s face drained of color, his body actually swaying slightly before he caught himself on the edge of a chair. “Murdered? Both of them?” His shock appeared genuine. “When? How?”
Riley watched his reaction carefully. Her instincts told her that his horror was real. This wasn’t the calculated response of someone feigning surprise; it was the unfiltered reaction of a man hearing devastating news for the first time.
“They were killed in their homes,” Riley said, deliberately withholding the details about the origami figures left on their bodies. “Both within the past few days.”
Kim sank into the chair, his hands trembling slightly. “This is... I can’t believe it. They were good students, both of them. Very engaged in the material.”
“Which brings us to an important question,” Ann Marie said gently. “Why did you run when we called? Why are you packing to leave now?”
Kim looked away. “I cannot say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Riley pressed.
“Please understand, it is... complicated.”
Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, her voice softening further. “Mr. Kim, are you afraid of being deported?”
Kim’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yes,” he whispered. “My visa expired three months ago. I applied for an extension, but the process is very slow. When you called—FBI—I panicked. I thought perhaps someone had reported me.”
The pieces clicked into place for Riley. Kim’s fear hadn’t been about the murders; it had been about his immigration status.
“I have an apartment lined up with a friend in Baltimore,” he continued, his words tumbling out now. “Just until my paperwork is processed. I would never have left otherwise.”
While Ann Marie stepped aside to make a call—presumably to check on Kim’s immigration status—Riley turned her attention back to the connections between Kim and the victims.
“Mr. Kim, we were told by Mae Simmons, another student of yours, that you recommended Marcus Berridge’s origami therapy to your class. Is that correct?”
Kim frowned slightly. “That is not exactly what happened. I did not specifically recommend Mr. Berridge. In one class, I was discussing various applications of origami beyond mathematics—art, engineering, even therapy. I mentioned that I had seen online that a local therapist was using origami techniques. I gave the class the website address. That was all.”
“So you don’t know Berridge personally?” Riley asked.
“No, never met him.” Kim shook his head emphatically. “I only know what I saw on his website. It seemed an interesting application of the art form.”
“Were you close with either Rachel Bennett or Brittany Hall outside of class?”
“No,” Kim replied. “They were students only. Good students who seemed to find peace in the folding. I noticed they often stayed after class to practice. But our relationship was strictly professional.”
Riley nodded, believing him. Before she could ask another question, Ann Marie returned, a smile softening her features.
“I have some good news, Mr. Kim,” she said. “I just spoke with an agent I know at USCIS. Your application has been processed and approved. They were planning to notify you within the week.”
Kim’s eyes widened. “Truly? It is approved?”
“Truly,” Ann Marie confirmed. “You don’t need to hide in Baltimore after all.”
Relief washed over Kim’s features, tears actually gathering in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
Riley and Ann Marie left shortly after, leaving Kim to unpack his hastily loaded car.
“He’s not our killer,” Riley said as she pulled the car away from the curb, turning toward downtown DC.
“No,” Ann Marie agreed. “His shock was genuine.”
“Call Brookman,” Riley instructed. “Let’s meet at Metropolitan Police Headquarters to debrief and review what we know.”
As Ann Marie made the call, Riley stared at the road ahead, her mind churning.
They had secured Mae Simmons’s safety with protective officers, but the uncomfortable truth remained—they still had no idea who the killer was.
Only a name—Fawn Waller—that was almost certainly fictitious.
Somewhere in this city, that person was moving through their day, perhaps already selecting their next target, already folding the paper that would become their signature.
Time was running out. They needed to find Fawn Waller before someone else died.