Page 6 of Her Last Doubt

Novak glanced at her briefly. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just saying."

He smiled, eyes back on the road. It was a small smile, self-contained. That was another thing that had changed — early on, he'd wanted her approval in a way that had occasionally been awkward for both of them. He’d tried to remain stoic and serious, sometimes even at the risk of coming off as off-putting. He didn't need it now, which paradoxically made her more willing to give it.

She'd been resistant to him at first, which she could admit in retrospect was unfair. He wasn't Jack, and she'd spent the first year of their partnership holding that against him in ways she hadn't fully acknowledged at the time. Jack was behind a desk now, and that was a better situation for the Bureau and probably for her marriage, even if she'd never quite stopped missing having him in the passenger seat.

Novak had earned his place. It had taken time, but he'd earned it. And as an agent herself, she was very proud of him. She looked out the window again. Richmond was still forty minutes south. She thought about the Hargrove, built in 1924, with a much desired address.

"Is there a management lawyer attached to the Hargrove?" she said.

"Yes. A firm called Ashworth and Vance. I've got a name, a man called Geller. He left me a voicemail that was extremely polite and extremely clear."

"Clear about what?"

"That the Hargrove has been a pillar of the Richmond community for a century and that any suggestion of negligence or wrongdoing would be taken very seriously." Novak's voice was neutral throughout this, though he seemed annoyed. "And yes…he did actually use the word pillar. Twice."

Rachel allowed herself a small laugh. Outside, a sign indicated Richmond was thirty-eight miles ahead. She opened the folder again and looked at Margaret Osley's license photo, then at the crime scene image of the tidy bedroom, the blankets pulled up.

Whoever had done this had likely not been in a hurry; the mostly-made bed with the body inside of it said as much. There was no sign of struggle, no disturbance, nothing to suggest Margaret Osley had seen it coming in time to fight back. Someone had come into that room and done what they came to do and left it looking almost peaceful.

She looked over the ME’s notes, taking it all in as Novak checked his mirror and moved into the left lane to pass a slower truck. The ME noted that there had been a bruising pattern around Osley's nose and mouth consistent with suffocation by a soft object. A pillow, most likely.

Rachel thought about this for a moment, hoping the notes from the other crime scenes might help to paint a better picture. And if it did, she just hoped it was clear enough to lead them in the right direction because she did not like the pattern that was starting to present itself at the Hargrove.

CHAPTER FOUR

They found parking on a side street half a block east of Monument Avenue and walked to the building. The Hargrove announced itself before they reached the corner. It was a broad, ten-story brick building with limestone trim along its window frames. Its setback entrance was framed by a low stone balustrade. It was plain to see that it was the oldest building on the block. The facade had been cleaned at some point recently, which gave the brick a faintly scrubbed quality that made it look less its age without entirely disguising it. A canopy in dark green stretched over the entrance, its brass fittings polished and its fringe hanging perfectly still in the cold morning air.

Rachel took it all in as they approached. There were flower boxes on several of the upper floor windows, empty now in late October. A black iron lamp post stood at the edge of the walkway. The lobby, visible through the glass doors, had the warm amber tones of a place that had spent a century looking comfortable and refined.

Novak pulled the door open and held it for her. Inside, the lobby ran deep and smelled of old wood and something faintly floral. The floors were dark marble, the ceiling high and coffered, and an elevator with a brass accordion gate stood against the far wall. Two upholstered chairs near the front window were positioned toward the windows, though they had likely never been used for actual sitting. The building had the contained, deliberate stillness of somewhere that prided itself on running quietly. Rachel thought local design and travel magazines might describe it as “a hidden gem” or something similar.

A man came out of a door to the left of the elevator before they'd taken more than a few steps. He was in his late fifties, with a full head of silver hair and a face that looked chiseled despite the apparent age lines. He wore a dark blazer over a collared shirt and moved with the bearing of a man who had greeted many people in this lobby and never got tired of it. She assumed, though, that he approached it with much more enthusiasm when those visitors weren’t federal agents.

"Agents." He said it flatly, confirming Rachel’s suspicions, and extended his hand. "Conrad Hale. I’m the building manager."

They showed credentials after they were greeted by handshakes. Hale looked at both IDs with more attention than was strictly necessary before he met their eyes again.

"We appreciate you making time," Rachel said.

"I wasn't given much of a choice, if you want the truth." He said this without heat, almost conversationally. He then turned toward the office he'd come from and waved them along. "Come in."

The office was small and orderly, with a desk that faced the door and a single window looking out onto the side alley. Framed photos of the building's exterior at various points in its history lined one wall. Hale went behind the desk but didn't sit, which kept things from feeling like a meeting. Rachel rather appreciated the move.

"I've already spoken with Detective Purcell twice this week," he said. "I've cooperated fully with her office. I want that on record."

"Noted," Novak said. “And that is also listed in the case notes. So I hope that level of cooperation continues here, today.”

"I also want it understood that this building has been in continuous operation since 1924,” Hale said, completely ignoring Novak’s comment. “We have forty-two units and a waiting list that currently runs to two years. Our residents choose this building because it offers a certain standard. Three deaths in six weeks, regardless of their nature, is something I'd rather not have associated with the Hargrove's name."

"We understand," Rachel said. "And we'll be as discreet as we can."

"I would hope so.” Hale looked at her for a moment. Something in his assessment shifted, though not enough to call it a change of mood. "What do you need?"

"Access to your staff. Anyone who works in the building, maintenance, front desk, cleaning. And we may need to speak to residents, depending on how the line of investigation goes."

"The residents here are private people. Some of them have been in this building for twenty years. They're not going to take kindly to being questioned."