“This was personal,” Lucy said. “Whoever killed her waited to ensure she didn’t get out of the pool. The water hastened blood loss, loss of consciousness, and subsequent death by drowning. But theoretically, Victoria could have pulled herself out of the pool, so the killer would want to make sure she was dead. It wouldn’t take long. Five, ten minutes tops.”
She closed the folders and put them back on the desk. “The killer was face-to-face, inches away. He stabbed her in the stomach twice. She didn’t see it coming. There were no defensive wounds on her hands or arms, and the only other injury was a cut on her ankle from when her foot hit the edge of the pool as she was pushed in. She trusted whoever killed her, or didn’t see him as a threat.”
“She expected to meet someone there,” Max said.
“Yes, or when he showed up she wasn’t surprised or he had a good reason for being there. Which can point to Grant or Monroe or her ex-husband or her brother. It isn’t a random act of violence. Not a break-in, and I can’t see at this angle of wound, and the depth, that it was someone she didn’t know. If you encounter a stranger and they get close enough to stab you, you’re going to back up. If they’re running at you or attacking you, they’re going to stab overhanded, using their strength and momentum to penetrate. But underhanded, you get close, and the victim may not even notice you have a knife. It was dark, they were outside, Victoria knew the killer, was likely having a conversation with him. She didn’t run away when he got closer. Nothing was disturbed—at least from the pictures you have, I couldn’t see that there was overturned furniture or anything broken. But the killer would have had blood on him—his hand, his clothes. You can’t stab someone that close and not get blood on you.”
“Two months have passed,” Max said. “Wouldn’t all that evidence be gone?”
“Most likely,” Lucy said. “The knife would be a key bit of evidence, and the chances that the killer wore gloves are slim to none. Not in early September. I’d think Victoria would have noticed.” SAPD would have completely printed the house, the yard, anything the killer might have touched. Any fingerprints would be gone two months later. But the reports Max had didn’t show the house, only Victoria’s body and immediate area. There had to be a blood trail. The killer had left the property. Touched a door or a gate. Wouldn’t the police have checked?
She shook her head. She couldn’t second-guess SAPD—they were a competent department that had investigated thousands more homicides than she had. She didn’t know Detective Reed, but she was a senior detective and would have done due diligence. And Max didn’t have everything here, only a small part of the investigatory detail.
Grant confessed … What happened after his confession? What other inquiries had they started prior to the confession that stopped because they thought they had the killer in custody? Time … time was not a friend of evidence. Evidence disappeared. Disintegrated. Became corrupted.
She could talk to Ash Dominguez. They were friends, he would let her look at the evidence on the QT. Though she didn’t want to go that way. She wanted Reed’s cooperation.
“You’re thinking about something,” Sean said.
“I need to handle the bank tomorrow, then I’ll talk to Reed and the crime scene investigators.” Not necessarily in that order. “They don’t have to share anything with me, but I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Don’t mention my name,” Max said. “I may have irritated the detective with my questions.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Lucy said with a smile.
Chapter Twenty-three
THURSDAY MORNING
Lucy was surprised when Laura’s direct supervisor, senior agent Adam O’Neal, joined them to serve the warrant on Pollero’s bank. Leo Proctor, the head of FBI SWAT, was there as backup with another agent, though not in SWAT capacity.
“We have certain protocols we follow,” Adam explained. “Because this is a single-branch situation, I spoke with the bank president this morning to alert him as to our intentions and our target. He is cooperating fully. And no,” he continued when he saw the look on Lucy’s face, “he isn’t going to call Pollero and warn him. He’s on his way, however, and it’ll be much easier if he helps us process the warrant.”
Lucy wasn’t as familiar with White Collar Crimes as Violent Crimes, so deferred to those who knew better.
Laura pulled her aside. “It’s SOP, and we already know from corporate headquarters that Pollero called in sick—before Adam spoke to the president.”
“It seems to give an opportunity for a suspect to get away.”
“My unit takes months, sometimes a year or more, to build cases against white collar criminals. Lots of paperwork, records, interviews, tracking money, the whole nine yards. It takes time. We work very closely with banks and have a terrific relationship with all the VPs in our area. In fact, we usually have a dedicated contact in every corporate office. Getting a warrant like this in less than twenty-four hours—pretty amazing. We’re a totally different animal than Violent Crimes.”
“If we took a year, more people would die,” Lucy said.
Serving the warrant went smoothly, and Lucy recognized the advantage of having the bank president on-site.
She and Laura searched Pollero’s office.
“He planned on leaving,” Lucy said.
“Excuse me?” Laura asked.
Lucy hadn’t realized she’d spoke out loud. “Pollero.” She pointed to his desk.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Yesterday there was a photo on his desk of his daughter at her wedding. It’s missing. I need to talk to the staff—whoever works closest with Pollero.”
Laura talked to Adam, who talked to the president, and in five minutes Laura brought in Stephanie Robertson, the head teller who worked the same schedule as Pollero. The bank president, Mr. Shreve, was there with her. “I hope you don’t mind, Agent Kincaid. As my employee, Ms. Robertson has rights.”
“Of course not. I have some questions about Mr. Pollero’s demeanor yesterday.”
“Anything I can do to help,” she said, nervous. She was in her fifties, trim, and dressed in a black skirt and white blouse.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Nineteen years.”
“And Mr. Pollero has been the manager for the last fifteen.” Lucy knew that from her notes.
“Yes. He had been the assistant manager at the branch in Austin, then was promoted here,” Shreve said.
“Ms. Robertson, do you remember when my partner and I came in yesterday to talk to Mr. Pollero? It was yesterday morning.”
“Of course. One of the young tellers was enamored with your partner. She had hoped he would be coming back, wanted to give him her number. He’s very attractive, in that bad-boy kind of way.” She glanced at Shreve, then quickly looked down, a deep blush spreading from her cheeks to her chest.
Lucy hadn’t thought about Nate being attractive—she thought of him like a brother because he was so much like her brother Jack.
“After we left, how did Mr. Pollero act?”