The Fifth to Die: A gripping, page-turner of a crime thriller

“On Sixty-Ninth, right before the overpass.” He glanced up, his eyes watery. “She was hunched over, walking against the cold. It was snowing kind of heavy, and I didn’t see her until the last second. I don’t know what happened. I thought about stopping, I think my foot even reached for the brakes, but that test came into my mind, and I looked at my clock and I was already five minutes late. That meant I only had about twenty minutes to study — by the time I parked and got upstairs, probably less. Anyway, I saw her at the last second. I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to, and I didn’t have enough time to double back. I figured someone else would give her a ride.”

Clair glanced at Sophie, then back to Leo. “Did you see anyone else stop for her?”

Leo lowered his head. “No. I’m not sure I would have noticed even if the car behind me did. I wasn’t thinking, and with the snow . . . If I would have picked her up, she’d probably be okay right now. This is my fault.”

Sophie asked, “What time was it when you saw her?”

Leo sighed. “Seven thirty.”

“You’re certain?”

He nodded. “I needed an A on that exam, remember? I was counting the seconds all morning.”

“What did you score?”

Leo sighed again. “B minus.”

Clair took down Leo’s contact information and gave him her card. They sent him back to class.

Malcolm Leffingwell had not seen Lili all week.

Noreen Outen poked her head back in. “That the last of them?”

Clair stood up and stretched her back. “Yes, ma’am. Any luck with the attendance records?”

Noreen pushed her heavy glasses back up her nose, then skimmed a small notepad. “We had two students out sick that day, both phoned in by their mothers — Robyn Staats and Rosalee Newhouse. Nobody late to first period, nobody unaccounted for. We have good students here; they wouldn’t get mixed up in any shenanigans.”

Sophie nodded at the notepad. “Do either of those girls know Lili?”

Noreen said, “Well, let me think. Robyn is a freshman, Rosalee is a junior. It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t know for sure.”

“We’ll need to speak to both of them too,” Sophie told her.

Noreen nodded.

Clair fell back into her chair. It felt like they were spinning wheels.

18 (#udea7f158-b983-5a4e-ad3d-8efab2e28c4d)

Porter (#udea7f158-b983-5a4e-ad3d-8efab2e28c4d)

Day 2 • 10:31 a.m. (#udea7f158-b983-5a4e-ad3d-8efab2e28c4d)

“Why does the captain want to meet us at my apartment?” Porter asked.

He had both hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

The red and blue lights flashed in the corner of his eye atop the charger, and the siren wailed behind the throaty engine. He was doing eighty-one on I-94.

Beside him, Nash held the Oh Shit handle above the door with his right hand and gripped the seat with his left. “He wouldn’t say. I tried to get it out of him. His exact words were ‘Get Porter back to his apartment now.’”

Porter pulled the wheel to the left and circled around a gas truck. “Well, did he sound angry? Upset? Worried?”

Nash shrugged. “He sounded like the captain always sounds. I couldn’t get a read on him.”

“Fuck!” Porter slammed his hand into the horn and held as a blue Prius pulled into his lane. “Damn tree-hugger.”

“Is there something at your place I should know about? Why would he want to meet there?”

The Prius’s right blinker came on, and the car pulled lazily into the next lane. The moment it passed, Porter dropped the Charger into fourth and flew past, coming within inches of the car’s protruding mirror.

“Sam?”

“I don’t know.”

Nash groaned. “You don’t know if there’s something at your place I should know about? Come on, Sam. This isn’t first grade. I’m your partner. You can tell me. Does this have something to do with Heather’s death?”

Porter said nothing.

He took the exit for Lake Shore Drive.

Along with the captain’s white Crown Vic, there were three vehicles Porter didn’t recognize parked in front of his building — two black sedans and a van. All bore federal plates. He double-parked, blocking in the van, killed the siren, and left the lights flashing as he bound from the car and up the steps with Nash behind him.

They were in the hallway at his door — Captain Dalton, Special Agent Diener, Agent Poole, and Special Agent in Charge Hurless of the Bureau’s 4MK task force. There were two federal crime-scene techs Porter didn’t recognize.

Dalton saw them push through the door at the stairs and hurried over. “What the fuck were you thinking, Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Nash stood beside Porter. He said nothing.

Dalton clicked through some images on his cell phone and held the small screen up to Porter. “Did you take it because of this? Are you looking for her?”

Porter glanced at the screen. It was the note Bishop had left for him on the bed in his apartment along with the ear of the man who had killed his wife.

Sam,

A little something from me to you . . .

I’m sorry you didn’t get to hear him scream.

How about a return on the favor?

A little tit for tat between friends.

Help me find my mother.