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She turned to her computer while Martinez looked over her shoulder, saw the new e-mail, and clicked on it, opening the first of two attachments. The same picture of the hotel window appeared, only this time it was sharper, the shadowy image clearer. Definitely a person, just behind the veil of the curtains. “So someone was with her.”
“Yup.”
The second picture was from a slightly different angle, but sure enough, the image was there.
“This one came in yesterday,” Martinez said.
“There’s no way you could recognize anyone in this shot.”
“Agreed. But that sure looks like a Mariners baseball cap . . .”
“Bingo,” she said, the espresso forgotten as she tried to zoom in on the last person who saw Karen Upgarde alive. That little buzz tickled the back of her neck again, the thrill of uncovering the truth and potentially nailing a killer.
He added, “The lab’s comparing this image to the video of the guy in the elevator who is unaccounted for, the one who ran into the janitor that night and hopped off the car on another floor.”
“Let’s have the lab give us a clip of that, send it to the news stations, and see if anyone recognizes our person of interest. They’ve been calling me nonstop since this all started.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” he said.
“Aren’t you always,” she threw back at him and was rewarded with a wide grin. She took another drink from the festive paper cup and enjoyed a moment’s satisfaction; she felt as if, at least now, they were making some progress. She couldn’t help but think that, if they identified the person in these photos, they would find a link to the murderer of Trudie Crenshaw, aka Maryanne Osgoode, and possibly, just possibly, a clue to what had happened to the missing Didi Storm and her reported infants. Settler had checked with Clark County and the state of Nevada, hoping for records of the twins’ birth, but so far hadn’t gotten a response. According to Remmi Storm and the book, Didi and the attending midwife had only recorded the birth of a son, but Didi had borne both a son and a daughter. Records showed the live birth of Adam Brett Storm. Nothing for a girl born on the same day or at any time. No Ariel Storm.
She stared at the information a second and wondered about the babies’ names. Ariel and Adam, both A’s. A twin thing. Did the girl have a middle name? And why Adam Brett . . . A. B. Storm.
She spent the morning again talking to people who had known Upgarde, and everything Ugali had sent her was confirmed. The ex-husband, coworkers, a couple of “friends”—everyone agreed that Karen was troubled but had given no signs of intending to kill herself. The same went for her social media pages, which were rarely used or viewed and were mainly dominated by her musical interests, new albums from her favorite artists, a few fad diets, and some funny cat videos, though she owned no pets. She was a member of the Facebook page for the Didi Storm fan club, and as Settler scrolled through the posts, there was some mention of her imitating Didi during the leap. The posted comments ran the gamut from sad and kind to downright mean:
RIP. Heart emoticon. Thirty-two likes.
What a great tribute to dress as Didi for your last act. Bless you. Kiss-blowing emoticon. Fifty-six likes. Four dislikes.
Who do you think you are, impersonating her? No emoticon but fifteen likes.
Shame on you for trying to eclipse Didi and Marilyn. You were a loser in life, and you’re a loser in death. No emoticon. Twenty-seven likes.
You’re ugly. You didn’t even look like her! Thumbs-down emoticon.
And so on. Settler would have someone check out the people who made the comments, but it looked like the regular kind of stuff followers wrote.
* * *
Remmi slept fitfully, images of Ned and Trudie on the blood-soaked grass invading her waking thoughts and dominating her dreams. She’d fallen asleep after 3:00, and now, as she glanced at the clock, she groaned. Nine-thirty, well after her usual time to rise. With an effort, she rolled out of bed, walked into the living room wearing only her night shirt, and discovered Noah sitting on one end of the couch, laptop open on the coffee table, Romeo curled at his side.
“Traitor,” she said around a yawn, but the sleeping cat didn’t so much as open an eye.
“Mornin’, sunshine.” Noah glanced up and smiled, making her aware of her uncombed hair and state of undress.
“Not so sunny,” she said, stretching and wondering why she wasn’t irritated to find him already up and at ’em “You’re up early.”
“Years of training. Military,” he said, flashing her a smile.
His hair was still damp. And his beard shadow was gone. He was even in what appeared to be clean jeans and a T-shirt covered with an unbuttoned flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Had he really showered, shaved, and dressed and she’d slept right through it?
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he said.
“So, make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“I have.” He grinned.
“I see that. Great.”
