Riggs climbed in a cab and gave an address. The car sped off. He ran a hand through his hair. He was glad to get that one under his belt. He and LuAnn were a long way from being home free, but it felt good to know he still had it, at least in small doses. As the cab stopped at a red light, Riggs opened the newspaper he had purchased at the store.
Staring back at him from the front page were two photos. One person he knew, the other was a stranger to him. He quickly read the story and then looked at the pictures again. With a press badge dangling around his neck and a small notepad and pen peeking out from his shirt pocket, a sleepy-eyed Thomas Donovan looked like he had just climbed off a plane from covering some major news event on the other side of the world.
The woman in the photo next to his could not have struck a greater contrast to the reporter’s disheveled image. The dress was elegant, the hair and makeup obviously professionally done and thus impeccable, the background almost surreal in its abundant luxury: a charity event where the rich and famous caucused to raise money for the less fortunate. Roberta Reynolds had been a longtime participant in such events and the story said her brutal murder had robbed the Washington area’s charitable community of a great benefactor. Only one line of the story recounted the source of Reynold’s wealth: a sixty-five-million-dollar lottery win ten years earlier. She was apparently worth far more than that now. Or, at least, now her estate was.
She had been murdered—allegedly, the story reported, by one Thomas Donovan. He had been seen around the woman’s home. A message from Donovan requesting an interview was on the dead woman’s answering machine. Donovan’s prints had been found on a carafe of water and a glass in Reynolds’s home, which indicated the two had indeed met. And, finally, the pistol apparently used to slaughter Roberta Reynolds had been found in a wooded area about a mile from her home, along with her Mercedes, with Donovan’s prints all over both of them. The murdered woman had been discovered lying on her bed. Evidence indicated she had been bound and held for some period of time, so that the crime was obviously premeditated, the paper said. There was an APB out on Donovan and the police were confident they would soon apprehend him.
Riggs finished reading the story and slowly folded up the newspaper. He knew the police were completely wrong. Donovan hadn’t killed Reynolds. And it was highly likely that Donovan was dead as well. Riggs took a deep breath and thought about how he would break the news to LuAnn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The burly man looked around at the other pricey homes in the Georgetown neighborhood. Fiftyish with pale skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, the man hitched up his pants, tucked his shirt in, and rang the bell next to the front door.
Alicia Crane opened the door, looking anxious and tired.
“Yes?”
“Alicia Crane?”
“Yes.”
The man flashed his identification. “Hank Rollins, homicide detective, Fairfax County, Virginia.”
Alicia stared at the man’s photo and the badge affixed to it. “I’m not sure—”
“Are you an acquaintance of Thomas Donovan?”
Alicia closed her eyes and bit her lip on the inside. When she reopened her eyes she said, “Yes.”
Rollins rubbed his hands together. “Ma’am, I’ve got some questions to ask you. We can either do it down at the station or you can ask me in before I freeze to death, it’s your call.”
Alicia immediately opened the door. “Of course, I’m sorry.” She led him down the hallway to the living room. After settling him down on the sofa she asked him if he wanted coffee.
“That’d be great, yes, ma’am.”
As soon as she left the room, Rollins lurched to his feet and looked around the room. One item commanded his immediate attention. The photo of Donovan, his arm around Alicia Crane. It looked to be of recent vintage. They both looked extremely happy.
Rollins was holding the photo in his hands when Alicia walked back in carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and some creamer and two blue packets of Equal.