The 4th Man

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  Novels

  The Perfect Husband

  The Other Daughter

  The Third Victim

  The Next Accident

  The Survivors Club

  The Killing Hour

  Alone

  Gone

  Hide

  Say Goodbye

  The Neighbor

  Live to Tell

  Love You More

  Catch Me

  Touch & Go

  Fear Nothing

  Crash & Burn

  Find Her

  Short Works

  The 7th Month

  3 Truths and a Lie

  The 4th Man

  An FBI Profiler/Detective D. D. Warren Story

  Lisa Gardner

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  DUTTON is a registered trademark and the D colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9781101986325

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The 4th Man

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Right Behind You

  About the Author

  “They’re all here?”

  “Three out of four,” Boston homicide detective D. D. Warren said. “Still think this will work?”

  “Ten years later, it’s the best chance we have.” The independent police consultant eyed the four interrogation rooms. Two on each side of the hall. Three doors closed. One door open.

  “This is what I’ve got.” Sergeant Detective Warren held up a file. The inside was filled with glossy black-and-white crime scene photos, per profiling expert Pierce Quincy’s request. On the outside, the detective had attached her personal notes.

  “I inherited the cold case a month ago,” D.D. informed Quincy and his partner/wife, Rainie Connor, both of whom had flown in from Oregon. “Since then, myself and any detective with a moment’s free time have been running down the names of each person present that night to reconfirm alibis. As we discussed by phone, the university’s library had decent security protocols: a guard on duty for the evening, plus one for the graveyard shift; an electronic access system that required students to swipe their IDs to gain entrance to the library, while keeping vagrants and non-students out. This system also generated a log of everyone who was in the library that night, so from the very beginning, police have had a full list of potential witnesses and suspects.”

  “More than you can say for most crime scenes,” Quincy murmured.

  “Exactly. Now, here’s the wild card: Students could bring guests with them. These non-students would be manually logged in by a guard, under the umbrella of the student’s ID. They were checked out by the original investigators, but the list of names was lost sometime in the past decade. Meaning, we didn’t have the names of the guests, just the host students, so to speak. Given that the original investigators dropped some balls ten years ago, I wanted to follow up on every angle.”

  “More legwork,” Rainie said.

  “Good thing homicide’s been a little slow lately. Any detective with downtime has been picking a name from the guest log, contacting the former student, and asking him or her to recall exactly who they were with one night ten years ago. . . .”

  “‘I don’t remember,’” Quincy supplied in perfect monotone.

  “Very good. Though my personal favorite is ‘Ten years ago?’ As if even a decade has suddenly become higher math.”

  “But clearly you’ve made progress.” Quincy gestured down the hall to the three closed doors, one open.

  “We started with a list of sixty names. Sixty possible murder suspects, who’ve had ten years to run, hide, or, hell, become gainfully employed taxpayers in the great state of Massachusetts. Of those, we’ve tracked down fifty-seven. Not perfect, but pretty good.”

  “Good enough to bring us to this moment,” Rainie said.

  D.D. nodded. “I’ve never seen a murder quite like this one. No physical evidence, barely even signs of violence. We’re talking someone who’s either very clever or very cold. Either way, he’s made our job a tough one.”

  She turned her attention to Quincy. “As I told you by phone, it’s going to take a confession to nail this killer. Which normally I wouldn’t consider to be an issue. Except I don’t just have a suspect. I have suspects.”

  D.D. handed over the case folder. “I’ve assembled for you our top three persons of interest from the night in question. Attached to the top of this file, you’ll also find my personal notes: basically, for each of these suspects, I’ve listed the lie I know they told ten years ago that slipped by the original investigators. All of these men look good for murder. What I need from you, however, the experts in deviant minds, is which one really did it. Or . . .”

  D.D. glanced down the hall. To the fourth room. The open door.

  “A new variable had entered Jaylin Banks’s life in the weeks leading up to her murder,” D.D. said softly. “Whispered conversations. Phone calls she wouldn’t explain. Canceled meetings with family and friends. It could mean nothing at all. Or maybe . . . it isn’t a matter of what had changed in Jaylin’s life ten years ago, but who.”

  “A fourth man,” Quincy said.

  D.D. nodded.

  Being a former Fed, looking for an UNSUB—unknown subject—was right up Quincy’s alley. He could already feel his blood thrumming in anticipation.

  He hefted the case file in his hand. Smiled at his wife.

  “All right. Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Suspect number one: James Duchovny. Ten years ago, the boyfriend of the vic. At the time, Duchovny was known for his binge drinking and violence toward women. His rap sheet had grown since then, though few of the charges seemed to stick. Once a bully, always a bully, Quincy thought. Given the suspect’s high regard for women, Quincy and Rainie had agreed Rainie’d be the one running the interview. All the better for agitating their man.

  Now, as Sergeant Warren took up position in the hall, Quincy opened the door of the tiny interrogation room and held it for Rainie as she entered. Duchovny sat on the opposite side of the metal table, crammed up against the wall, facing the door and viewing window. It was obvious from the sneer on his face that it wasn’t his first time in a police interrogation room. He had his arms crossed over his chest in a way designed to beef up his chest while highlighting the tattoos on his biceps.

  Rainie barely gave the man a glance. Quincy pulled out Rainie’s chair. She took a seat, placing the case file neatly on the table in front of her. Quincy then made himself comfortable, turning his head toward his partner and remaining completely deferential.

  Policing, Quincy knew from his FBI-profiler days, was seventy percent d
eductive reasoning, thirty percent drama. Because what was the point in figuring out the ins and outs of your prime suspects, without the fun of pushing their buttons first?

  Rainie’s job right now was to push buttons. Quincy knew from personal experience that his wife and partner was very good at it.

  Duchovny had been twenty-two when his girlfriend had been murdered at a major Boston university. He’d been an aspiring hoodlum back then. Now, ten years later, his face was harder, his dark hair buzzed short to better show off his beady eyes, the jagged scar across his left eyebrow, the harsh planes of his cheeks. At nine in the morning, he reeked of cologne, testosterone, and cheap beer. He’d probably just been crawling in from a night’s misadventures when the uniformed officers had roused him from his apartment. Wearing a thin black T-shirt and broken-in jeans, he was doing his best to appear confrontational as he scowled at the investigators sitting across from him.

  Quincy kept his attention on Rainie, who was looking particularly lovely this morning in a form-fitting light-purple button-down shirt, with a dove-gray jacket and matching slacks. He flashed her another smile. No acting, but genuine appreciation. Sitting beside him in the tight quarters, she winked back.

  Across from them, their suspect shifted restlessly, scowled harder.

  “What the fuck is this?” Duchovny growled. “Come on. Been sitting here for a fucking hour! Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Now let me get back to bed.”

  In response, Rainie opened the folder and started setting out photos. Large, glossy eight-by-tens. The images were not graphic nor particularly violent. At first glance, the woman in them, young, pretty, wearing a short denim skirt and an off-the-shoulder white sweater, looked like she’d lain down on a flight of steps. It wasn’t till you looked closer, at the way her wide eyes peered sightlessly into the distance, that you understood she was dead. And it wasn’t till you looked closer still and caught the line of bruises ringing her throat that you understood she’d been murdered.

  Ten years ago now. And not a single break in the case since then. Till Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had inherited it along with a whole box of other cold cases and thought to bring in outside experts for assistance.

  “Jaylin Banks,” Rainie murmured. She spread out the photos, covered the table in them. “Beautiful girl.”

  “Not this shit again,” Duchovny muttered. He kept his arms over his chest, thumbs splayed above his armpits.

  “You’d been going out how long again? Eight months?” Rainie asked him. Quincy kept quiet, letting his partner do the talking. For his part, he noted Duchovny’s body language, looking for changes in breathing or posture that might alert them that they were on to something.

  “Six months,” Duchovny grumbled. He kept his gaze away from the pictures. Signs of remorse in a tough guy for what he’d done in one moment of jealous rage? Or proof that all these years later, he still cared for the sweet, quiet English major, known for her infectious laugh?

  “You were with her in the library.”

  Duchovny shrugged. “She asked me to meet her there. We were supposed to go out. Afterward. Bar around the corner had a band we both liked. But come eleven, her stupid paper wasn’t done. No point in both of us sitting around. I bounced.”

  For the first time, Quincy spoke. “You left your twenty-year-old girlfriend alone in a library after eleven at night?”

  “Not alone. University paid for security guards. One was posted right in the lobby. I told the dude she was still up on the second floor. He should keep an eye out for her.” Duchovny suddenly uncrossed his arms, leaning forward heavily. “He’s the one who did this, didn’t he?” Duchovny tapped the first photo, still not looking. “Ten years later, you finally got proof the loser rent-a-cop killed my girlfriend?”

  Rainie simply stared the boulder in the eyes. “More like ten years later, we finally have proof you killed your girlfriend. What, she really did want to finish her paper that night? Whereas you were hoping to get lucky? Have a little ‘public display of affection’ in the library stairwell? But Jaylin wasn’t quite that adventuresome, was she? I mean, maybe she had been enjoying her walk on the wild side with the local bad boy, but an honor student, a girl that smart . . . You were never going to keep her. And you knew it.”

  Duchovny stared at her. “No sexual assault. No DNA. Police admitted as much at the time. Meaning, Jaylin and I never got it on that night. Evidence backs me on this one, and we both know it.”

  “Is that why you strangled her?” Rainie asked evenly. “A man with your . . . attributes.” She gazed pointedly at his inked-up muscles. “You can’t be used to being told no that often.”

  “Jaylin didn’t tell me no. She told me later. And a man with my attributes”—Duchovny suddenly dropped one hand, very obviously grabbed his crotch beneath the table—“I can appreciate the difference.”

  “You’re used to women doing what you say.”

  “Never been a problem.”

  “Except for Jaylin.”

  “Jaylin was an excellent listener. Said she needed an extra hour. Would meet me in the bar after that.”

  “Your previous girlfriend Felicia mentioned you weren’t a guy who liked to wait. And she had photos of her black eye to prove it.”

  “I don’t see any black eyes,” Duchovny said, tapping the photo again, his gaze still averted.

  Rainie leaned forward. So close her eyes had to be watering from the stench of the man’s cologne. But nothing showed on her face as she whispered, a mere inch from his lips, “That’s your defense? Your dead girlfriend wasn’t beaten badly enough for it to have been you?”

  “Whatever works, baby. You bored with the stiff suit? ’Cause I never mind an older woman’s expertise. . . .”

  “You left the bar,” Quincy spoke up. He didn’t sound sharp, nor angry, not even as the thug’s gaze lingered on his wife’s upturned face. Quincy knew Rainie. All Duchovny had to do was move one more inch and he’d be singing soprano for the rest of his life.

  “What?” Duchovny was still staring at Rainie, who merely shrugged.

  Quincy’s finger rested on the notes Sergeant Warren had attached to the file. Her list of lies, including the one told by Duchovny on the night in question.

  “We talked to the bouncer,” Quincy continued. “You didn’t think anyone would check up on your alibi, that even if they did, who would remember in such a crowded bar? But the bouncer remembers you—model citizen that you are—exiting the bar at eleven forty, just thirty minutes after arriving. So much for the killer band.”

  Duchovny leaned back, appeared for the first time less certain. “Just wanted fresh air.”

  “Outside the library? Because we have a witness who puts you there.” They didn’t, but there was nothing wrong with lying to a suspect during an interrogation.

  The big guy didn’t answer right away.

  Rainie did the honors. “You suspected, didn’t you? You suspected your girlfriend was seeing someone else. Hence the real reason she couldn’t go out with you that night.”

  Duchovny didn’t speak. His gaze dashed around the tiny room. He looked at anything but the photos.

  “You loved her, didn’t you.” Rainie pushed. “First time in your life. Why not? She was beautiful, smart, kind. Way too good for you.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Of course it couldn’t last forever. A girl that great . . . Who was it, James? You returned to the library that night and who did you see with your girlfriend? Tell us.”

  “I didn’t go back.”

  “Liar. You left the bar. You were already suspicious—”

  “Of course! Dammit!” Duchovny rocked back in his chair, slamming the top of his head against the wall. He still couldn’t seem to get far enough away from the table, covered in black-and-white images of his girlfriend. His young, beautiful, murdered girlfriend.

  �
�Suddenly Jaylin was busy all the time. Phone calls she wouldn’t talk about. Meetings with friends, except she’d never tell me their names . . . Yeah, I suspected.”

  Their fourth man, Quincy thought, eyeing Duchovny with renewed interest.

  “But I didn’t return to the library that night. I, uh . . . I met up with someone else. A girl I once dated. Because you know, if Jaylin was moving on . . .” Massive shoulder shrug. Duchovny pursed his lips. “Whatever.”

  Quincy was sure, then, of what he’d only suspected before. James Duchovny, neighborhood thug, truly had loved Jaylin Banks. And certainly, people had killed for less.

  “What did you do that night?” Quincy asked softly.

  “Nothing! Selena Madrill. I was with her from midnight on. You don’t believe me, you can ask her. You were right. I left the bar shortly before midnight. Which is why I didn’t realize Jaylin never showed. Why I never . . .” His voice broke slightly. “Why I never reported her missing.”

  Quincy and Rainie didn’t speak. They eyed the man wordlessly, waiting. But Duchovny didn’t offer anything more. He finally thumped his front chair legs back to the floor.

  Then stared at the photos. Long and hard, as if a man forcing himself to face his pain.

  “’Sides,” he said at last, tone more tired than confrontational. “If I’d really been the one who did this, then how the hell do you explain her missing shoes? I mean really, what would I want with my cheating girlfriend’s dirty Keds?”

  * * *

  Ten years ago, Jaylin Banks had been found murdered in her university library’s stairwell. Manual strangulation. No signs of struggle, no evidence of sexual assault. For that matter, not a single print, hair, thread, speck of dirt, or swab of DNA to be recovered. Which was one of the reasons the case had languished. As Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had said, Jaylin’s killer had been either that clever, or that cold.

  The only detail out of place: she’d been missing her shoes. A pair of dirty white Keds, which, according to her family, she’d purchased the year before for fewer than twenty bucks and wore for ease and comfort. Both Jaylin’s roommate and Duchovny remembered her slipping on her Keds that night before heading out to the library. And yet they’d never been recovered from the crime scene.