Page 32 of Her Last Secret

She ended the call and looked at Jack, who was standing by the elevators. She thought she saw the glimmer of tears in the corners of his eyes.

“She gets you,” Jack said. “I think she understands your need to work this job more than you think.”

“I think so, too. And I’m starting to think she’s infinitely smarter than I am.”

Jack wrapped his arm around her shoulders and smiled. “Oh, I have no doubt about that.”

Rachel playfully nudged him in the ribs as they stepped onto the elevator. And with the night waiting for them outside, Rachel felt that every passing minute was vital now; somewhere out in that darkness, the killer was working just as hard as they were.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The air was bitter, with the phantom smell of someone burning leaves earlier in the day—one of the telltale scents of autumn as you started to wander a bit further outside of the city. As for Vincent Hale, his apartment building in Brandermill was rather forgettable and generic. Red bricks, weathered and chipped, formed a stark contrast against the dark sky.

Rachel's gaze lingered on the peeling paint of the apartment door as Jack's knuckles rapped against the wood. Faint music could be heard inside, an ‘80s rock ballad. After a few moments, the door swung open wide. The man who greeted them was smiling widely, though his eyes looked curious and confused over his unknown visitors. Rachel guessed him to be in his late thirties. His disheveled appearance made it hard to tell for certain. His long hair was in a weird jumble on his head and his glasses made his blue eyes shine almost like marbles.

“Uh…hey. What’s up? Who’re you?”

When he spoke, Rachel could pick up on the smell of alcohol on his breath. His gaze flitted between Rachel and Jack, a hint of panic flickering behind his bloodshot eyes.

Jack, perhaps sensing some unpredictable behavior from the clearly inebriated man, stepped forward and showed his badge and ID.

“Agents Rivers and Gift, with the FBI,” he said. “Are you Vincent Hale?”

“Yup. That’s me. And…FBI? What for?” he slurred, attempting to steady himself against the doorframe. His posture was skewed, tilted as if bracing for an impact that only he could anticipate.

"Mr. Hale, we need to talk," Rachel said, her tone measured but cutting through the haze that seemed to envelop Hale. “Could we please come inside?”

"Of course," he murmured, stepping back to let them enter. As they passed through the doorway, Rachel couldn't help but notice the disarray of the apartment—magazines strewn across the coffee table, a half-empty whiskey bottle its centerpiece, a discarded bag of chips on the couch.

"What do you uh…what can I do for you?" Hale asked. He frowned, sighed, and then plopped down on his couch. "Sorry. I…I, uh, I've had a bit to drink."

His voice was raised so he could be heard over the music. Rachel now recognized the song as a Journey tune. “Do you mind turning the music down?”

“Oh, yeah…hold on.” He used his phone to turn down the wireless speaker that was hidden somewhere. “There we go. Sorry.”

Rachel studied him for a moment and thought he seemed slightly nervous. His being drunk made it difficult to get a read on him, though.

"We’re investigating the murder of two women," Jack stated bluntly, his voice echoing slightly in the cluttered space. “They were both actresses.”

"Yeah, Emily and Sarah, right?” He swiped at his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had started to bead along his hairline.

“That’s right,” Rachel said. “Were you close to them?”

“Nah. I mean, I knew who they were and I think might have spoken to Sarah once or twice.”

“Did they ever perform at your theater?”

“Oh, I’m confident they did. But I can’t very well get to know every actor that comes through those doors, now can I?”

“Do you recall the last time you saw either of them?”

He thought about this for a moment, looking at the liquor bottle on the coffee table with longing. "I guess it would have been about three months ago when I last saw Sarah. As for Emily, I honestly have no idea. Maybe as much as a year."

"Can you tell us what you were doing on the nights of their murders?" Rachel asked, her sharp gaze fixed on Hale. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees as she studied his reaction. “That would be this past Wednesday and the Saturday before that.”

The question seemed to confuse him at first but as it sank in, his eyes widened and he straightened up. "Wait, you think I—no, I wouldn't." His words stumbled over each other, his denial as weak as his current state. He then sneered and sighed, sitting back in his seat.

“Something wrong?” Jack asked.

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