Chapter 48 The Net Tightens (Detective Hayes POV)
My phone rings at seven AM, jerking me out of the first decent sleep I've had in weeks. I grab it from the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
Vanessa Cross.
I almost don't answer. The reporter's been a pain in my ass since this case started, ambushing Don at press conferences, writing inflammatory articles. But something makes me swipe to accept.
"Hayes."
"Detective. We need to talk."
"About?"
"Not over the phone." Her voice is clipped, businesslike. "Meet me at Harriet's Diner on Fifth Street. One hour."
"I don't take orders from reporters."
"You'll want to hear this. It's about Donald Eric's girlfriend."
My stomach drops. "What about her?"
"One hour, Detective."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone in hand, a sense of foreboding settling over me like a shroud. Vanessa Cross doesn't call unless she has something. And if it's about Dora—
Shit.
Harriet's Diner is a greasy spoon on the edge of downtown, the kind of place that serves coffee strong enough to strip paint. I arrive ten minutes early, claiming a booth in the back corner. The morning crowd is sparse—a few truckers, an elderly couple sharing pancakes, a businessman hunched over his laptop.
Vanessa walks in exactly on time, scanning the room before spotting me. She's dressed professionally—dark blazer, slacks, leather bag slung over her shoulder. She slides into the booth across from me without preamble.
"Thanks for coming."
"Let's skip the pleasantries. What do you have?"
A waitress appears—middle-aged, tired-looking, name tag reading "Betty." "Coffee?"
"Please," Vanessa says.
"Same," I add.
Betty pours two cups and disappears. Vanessa opens her bag, pulling out a manila folder. She sets it on the table between us.
"Two weeks ago, I hired a private investigator to look into Donald Eric's personal life. Routine background for a follow-up piece."
"That's invasive as hell."
"It's journalism." She taps the folder. "The PI dug into everyone close to Eric. His ex-wife, his partner, his family. And his girlfriend—Dora."
My jaw tightens. "And?"
"And she doesn't exist." Vanessa opens the folder, pulling out documents. "No immigration records showing entry to the US from London. No work visa, no employment history with any firm. The address she listed on her rental application? It's registered to a shell company."
She slides a page across the table. I scan it—rental agreement for an apartment on Maple Street, signed by "Dora Vale." But the employment verification is blank, the references dubious at best.
"That doesn't prove anything," I say. "Some people value privacy."
"Privacy is one thing. This is something else." She pulls out another document. "Her phone? Prepaid, purchased with cash three months ago. No credit cards, no bank accounts in her name. No social media presence. No digital footprint at all before she appeared in Millbrook."
I stare at the documents, unease coiling in my gut. I've seen this pattern before. People running from something—abusive exes, witness protection, criminal pasts.
Or people hiding something.
"She's using an alias," Vanessa says flatly. "Question is why."
"You don't know it's an alias."
"Don't I?" She leans forward. "Detective, I've been doing this for fifteen years. I know what it looks like when someone's hiding their past. And Dora—or whatever her real name is—is hiding hers."
I take a sip of coffee, buying time. My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
"Why bring this to me?" I ask. "Why not publish it?"
"Because if I publish it and I'm wrong, I destroy an innocent woman's life. But if I'm right—if she's connected to these murders somehow—then this is bigger than a story. This is evidence."
"You think she's involved."
"I think the timing is too convenient. Woman appears out of nowhere, starts dating the detective whose family is being systematically murdered, has no verifiable past." She taps the folder. "That's not coincidence. That's suspicious as hell."
I can't argue with her logic. Every instinct I've honed over twenty years in law enforcement is screaming that something's off.
But this is Don's girlfriend. The woman he's been leaning on through the worst crisis of his life.
If I'm wrong, I ruin his one source of stability. If I'm right—
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Investigate her properly. Run her fingerprints, check federal databases, dig deeper than my PI could." Vanessa's eyes are hard, uncompromising. "If she's clean, I drop it. If she's not—"
"If she's not, it goes through proper channels. Not the newspaper."
"Agreed. But Hayes?" She leans back. "If you don't investigate her, I will. And I won't be as careful about protecting your partner's feelings."
The threat is clear. Investigate Dora, or Vanessa publishes what she's found, consequences be damned.
"Give me forty-eight hours," I say.
"Twenty-four."
"This isn't a negotiation."
"Neither is this." She stands, grabbing her bag. "Twenty-four hours, Detective. After that, I'm running the story."
She drops cash on the table for the coffee and walks out, leaving me with the folder and a decision that could destroy my partner.
I sit there for another twenty minutes, staring at the documents. The rental agreement. The prepaid phone records. The PI's notes detailing dead ends and missing information.
She's right. This isn't normal. This is someone actively hiding their identity.
But why?
Abusive ex? Possible. I've seen women reinvent themselves to escape domestic violence. But then why get involved with a cop? Why risk the exposure?
Witness protection? Also possible. But WITSEC participants don't typically date law enforcement. Too much scrutiny.
Or she's hiding something criminal. Something that connects to the murders.
My phone buzzes. Text from Don: Coffee later? Need to talk.
I stare at the message, guilt gnawing at me. He trusts me. Relies on me. And I'm sitting here investigating his girlfriend like she's a suspect.
But what if she is?
I gather the documents, sliding them back into the folder. Stand, leaving more cash for Betty even though Vanessa already paid.
Outside, the morning is cold and gray. I sit in my car, engine running, heater blasting, trying to decide my next move.
Option one: Take this to Rivera immediately. Let Internal Affairs handle it. They'll dig deeper, probably bring in the FBI. Thorough but brutal. And it'll destroy Don when he finds out I went behind his back.
Option two: Confront Dora directly. Give her a chance to explain. But if she is involved, I'm tipping her off, giving her time to run or destroy evidence.
Option three: Investigate quietly on my own first. Run her fingerprints through the system, check immigration databases. Get confirmation before involving anyone else.
Option three feels like a betrayal but also like due diligence. I owe Don that much—verifying the threat before I blow up his life.
I pull out of the lot, heading toward the precinct. Murphy's at the desk when I arrive, nursing his usual terrible coffee.
"Morning, Detective."
"Murphy. Don in yet?"
"Called in sick. First time in five years."
Not surprising. Linda's funeral was yesterday. He's probably still at Dora's, grieving.
"Thanks."
I head upstairs, avoiding the bullpen, going straight to my desk. The folder sits in my bag like incriminating evidence.
I pull it out, opening it again. Study the documents with fresh eyes, looking for anything I missed.
The rental application lists her employer as "Independent Financial Consultant." Vague enough to be untraceable. The landlord—I recognize the name. He owns half the rental properties in town, notorious for not asking questions if you pay cash.
The PI's notes mention attempts to verify her employment history in London. Every firm contacted either had no record of her or couldn't confirm due to "data protection regulations."
It's too clean. Too carefully orchestrated.
Someone with resources helped her disappear. Or helped her create this identity.
My phone rings. Agent Johnson.
"Hayes. Got a minute?"
"Yeah. What's up?"
"FBI lab came back with results on that note found at Robert Eric's scene. The 'Payment Due' one."
I straighten. "And?"
"Paper's generic, available at any office supply store. Ink from a standard ballpoint pen. No prints, no DNA. But—" He pauses. "The handwriting analysis came back. It's deliberately disguised, but the analyst noted the letter formation suggests the writer has European penmanship training."
"European?"
"Specifically British. The way the 'a's are formed, the slant of certain letters. It's subtle, but consistent with someone educated in the UK."
My blood runs cold. "You sure?"
"As sure as handwriting analysis gets. Why?"
"Just—send me the full report. Thanks."
I hang up, staring at the folder.
British penmanship. Dora lived in London for over a decade.
Coincidence?
I don't believe in coincidences.
I pull out my phone, pulling up Dora's number. The one Don gave me months ago "in case of emergency."
I should call Rivera. Should hand this over to someone with authority to make the hard calls.
But if I'm wrong—if this is all circumstantial bullshit that ruins an innocent woman and destroys my partner—I'll never forgive myself.
I need to confront her first. Look her in the eye, ask the questions. See how she responds.
If she's guilty, I'll know. Twenty years on the job taught me how to read people.
And if she's innocent, I'll apologize and bury this folder where it'll never see light again.
I stand, grabbing my jacket. Check my weapon—Glock 19, holstered at my hip. Not that I expect trouble. But I'm not taking chances.
I text Don: Something came up. Rain check on coffee?
His response comes immediately: No problem. Everything ok?
Yeah. Just work stuff. Talk later.
Another lie. They're piling up, and I hate it.
But I'm doing this for him. To protect him from a threat he can't see because he's too close.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I drive toward Maple Street, the folder on my passenger seat, Vanessa's ultimatum ticking down in my head.
Twenty-four hours.
The net is tightening. And Dora seems right in the center.