Zoe and Vaughan moved down the center staircase to the kitchen, where one coffee mug sat on the counter. It was an extra large cup and sported the Washington Redskins logo. It was half-full. She touched the cup and then the pot. “Both are ice cold.”

“A man’s mug, unless Hadley liked large cups of coffee.”

“Fingerprints will tell us more.”

Zoe shifted her attention to the wooden knife block on the counter. The set of knives was expensive, the type a chef would envy, and all the slots were filled except one. “This slot is for a boning knife.”

“To cut meat?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any sign of it in the dishwasher?”

She opened the stainless dishwasher door and peered inside to an empty interior. “No.” She searched the drawers but didn’t see it.

“It would have been handy enough for anyone to grab on their way upstairs.”

“Agreed.”

Vaughan peered out over the kitchen window, toward the backyard. “The privacy fence gate is ajar.” He checked the door leading to the patio. It was unlocked.

But the blood trail led to a side door. Again, following what amounted to forensic bread crumbs, they opened the door and stepped into an empty garage big enough for one car.

“Yesterday when we were leaving, there was a black Lexus in the driveway that had not been there when we arrived.”

“Mark’s car,” she said.

“Hadley and Skylar left via this exit,” he said.

“The few cases I’ve worked like this one were always done by an acquaintance. It’s time to talk to Mark Foster. He should be out of surgery soon.”

Vaughan checked his watch. “Now you’re talking. I’ve been ready to talk to Foster since the moment I stepped over the blood in the foyer.”

CHAPTER TEN

Tuesday, August 13, 9:00 a.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Two Hours after the 911 Call

Vaughan drove to the hospital with Spencer tailing behind. His phone rang. “Hughes, what do you have for me?”

“I’ve got the judge’s signature. Now it’s a matter of collecting the Fosters’ financial data,” she said.

With a missing child in the mix, everyone in the system was moving full steam ahead. “Great. The more we know about this family, the better. We need to trace the family’s phones and find their Lexus. It’s black, late model, and I’d bet money it has a GPS locator on it.”

“I’ll check it out.” Someone in the background shouted Hughes’s name, but she told him to wait. The homicide room was always busy, and there was never a recession in their business. Hughes, along with the rest, was juggling multiple cases. “I also heard from the medical examiner. Dr. Baldwin is going to do the autopsy on your Galina Grant.”

“The Jane Doe stabbed in the motel room?”

“Yes. I ran her prints through AFIS, and no surprise, she’d been arrested for prostitution and drug charges multiple times.” Pages flipped in the background, and he imagined her searching the battered red notebook she always carried. “She was nineteen and had been in the area for about six months. It wasn’t her first time at this motel.”

“When is her autopsy scheduled?” Vaughan asked.

“Three this afternoon.”

“I want to be there.” He took a sharp right, knowing Spencer kept pace. “But I’ve got to find Hadley and Skylar first.”

“Understood. I can cover the autopsy, if it comes down to it,” Hughes said.

“Thanks.” Hughes was one of the best, but he already felt like he was shortchanging Galina Grant by handing this critical piece of the investigation off.

“Two stabbing cases in as many days. I hope this one doesn’t come in threes.”

No truer words were spoken. “Thanks, Hughes.”

Spencer followed him down a side street and then to the hospital lot. He parked near the emergency entrance and waited for her. They entered through the automatic doors of the ER.

Inside the ER, the hum of conversations, patients, and staff in the half dozen registration bays mingled with the sound of monitors and a lobby television broadcasting a health-themed talk show. Vaughan made his way to an open registration desk.

The registrar, a woman in her early twenties, had ink-black hair and pale skin. “Can I help you?”

Vaughan removed his badge, holding it steady, and then introduced himself. “I need an update on Mark Foster.”

She checked her computer, frowning as she juggled the restrictions of the HIPAA regulations and a cop’s request. “Let me check with a nurse.”

Vaughan tucked his badge back in his pocket. “Thanks.”

He turned to find Spencer staring at the television with great interest. Curious, he walked toward her and realized she was watching a segment on brain aneurysms.

When she realized he had crossed the room to her, she shrugged and turned from the television. “My husband died from one.”

“I’m sorry.” She was still grieving for her dead husband. He shouldn’t care that he was competing with a ghost, but he did.

She rolled her head from side to side, releasing the tension in her shoulders. “Thanks.”

Double doors pushed open, and a young nurse wearing green scrubs appeared. After spotting Vaughan and Spencer, she strode toward them. “You’re here for Mr. Foster?”

“That’s right. Is he conscious yet?” Vaughan asked.

“We never had to put him under. We were able to stitch him up using only a local,” the nurse said.

“I thought he was badly injured,” Vaughan said.

“He was covered in a great deal of blood, but once we got him up to surgery, we discovered that the three wounds weren’t life threatening.”

“Where was he injured?” Vaughan asked.

“He was stabbed in the upper left arm and on the left side of his abdomen. They were nasty gashes. There was also a gash on his right arm.”

“We’d like to see him now,” Spencer said.

“Follow me.” The nurse swiped her badge, and the three made their way down the wide hallway of the emergency room, past nurses and doctors who were darting in and out of curtained exam rooms. Beeping monitors blended with the sound of rattling wheels on a cart.

“How alert is he?” Spencer asked.

“Very,” the nurse said. “He refused any kind of sedative other than the local. He’s insisting on staying awake until he knows what happened to his wife and child.”

“It’s important that the media not talk to him right now,” Vaughan said.

“This is a lockdown unit,” the nurse said.

“Good,” Vaughan said. “We want to control all the information disseminated to the public until Hadley and Skylar Foster are located.”

“I understand. I will remind hospital security of the extra protocol.”

The nurse walked to the end of the hallway, toward a uniformed police officer who stood outside a cubicle. The officer nodded to Vaughan and Spencer as the nurse pushed back the curtain.

Mark Foster lay in his bed, his eyes closed and his hands at his sides. He was hooked up to an IV and a monitor that beeped steadily. The shades over the window were drawn, and a nurse stood by his bed, checking his vitals.