Page 40 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

Doug was pulling up incident reports now. “Let me check something.” His fingers flew across the keyboard. “The greenhouse break-in three weeks ago—Chen was the responding officer.” He paused, frowning at the screen. “But it says CSI was requested for processing.”

Jack leaned forward. “Who processed it?”

“Doesn’t say in the report. Just that evidence was collected.” Doug looked up. “But Chen would remember.”

Jack was already reaching for his phone. “Let me call her.” He dialed and put it on speaker. “Chen? It’s Jack. I’ve got you on speaker with Jaye and Doug.”

“Sheriff.” Chen’s voice filled the office. “What can I do for you?”

“That greenhouse break-in three weeks ago at Evangeline Toscano’s place—you responded to that, right?”

“Yeah, I remember. Weird one. Someone broke in but only took herbs and some dirt. Why?”

“We think those herbs might be connected to our current cases. Do you remember if CSI came out?”

“Oh sure, they processed it. Actually, Potts showed up pretty quick. I remember because she mentioned she’d been in the area finishing up another scene.”

Jack and I exchanged glances. “Did she find anything?” Jack asked.

“Some partial footprints, but she said they were too degraded to be useful. No fingerprints either. She was thorough though—spent over an hour processing everything. Even took samples of the remaining herbs for comparison. Said she wanted to catalog exactly what was taken.”

“That’s helpful, Chen. Thanks.”

“No problem, Sheriff.”

Jack ended the call and tossed his phone on Doug’s desk. “Chen said Potts processed the greenhouse scene. Thorough as always—spent over an hour cataloging everything, even took samples of what wasn’t stolen.”

“Professional,” I said, settling back on the couch with my tea.

Jack nodded, then looked at Doug’s screens. “The courthouse database access you found—six months of research into these families. That takes dedication.”

“And knowledge,” Doug said. “Margot’s been helping me map the search patterns.”

“The individual demonstrates sophisticated understanding of both historical research methodology and database architecture,” Margot said. “They also show emotional investment patterns consistent with personal vendetta rather than academic inquiry.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“The timing and frequency of searches correlate with emotional triggers,” she explained. “Increased activity following news reports about local history, Colonial celebrations, and genealogical discoveries. This is not dispassionate research.”

Doug pulled up more data. “The timeline bothers me too. Greenhouse break-in three weeks ago, voice-modulation software purchased three months ago, but database searches going back six months.”

“Classic escalation pattern,” Margot observed. “Planning phase, tool acquisition, action implementation. Very methodical.”

“Someone with research experience,” I said. “Academic background, maybe. Legal training.”

“Or law enforcement,” Jack added. “We’re trained to dig through records, follow paper trails.”

“I have been analyzing the voice modulation software purchase,” Margot said. “High-end equipment, professional grade. Not consumer level.”

Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “She’s right—this stuff is expensive. Purchased locally with a credit card, King George County billing address.”

“That narrows it significantly,” Margot said. “Cross-referencing with the other parameters you’ve identified.”

Jack leaned forward. “What parameters?”

“Doug has been feeding me data points throughout the investigation,” Margot said. “Professional knowledge of crime-scene processing, access to courthouse databases, local residence, recent electronics purchases, and now genealogical connections to the 1725 events.”

“Margot,” Doug said suddenly, “run a full probability analysis. All county residents and employees, weighted for the factors we discussed.”

“Processing,” Margot said. “This may take a moment.”

We sat in tense silence as data cascaded across the screens. I could almost hear Margot’s electronic brain churning through thousands of variables.

“Analysis complete,” she announced. “Results are…unexpected.”

“Show us the top ten,” Jack said.

The screen filled with names, photos, and probability percentages. My blood ran cold when I saw number three on the list.

Deputy Potts, Beverly A. - 73% probability match.

“That can’t be right,” I said automatically. “Check it again.”

“My calculations are accurate,” Margot said, and there was something almost apologetic in her synthetic tone. “Deputy Potts meets nearly all specified criteria.”

Doug stared at the screen. “Her profile—Massachusetts background, forensic training, database access, recent local purchases including electronics.”

“She has also been present at every crime scene this week,” Margot added. “Often volunteering for assignments outside her scheduled duties.”

Jack had gone very still. “Show me those duty rosters.”

More data appeared on-screen. “Tuesday morning cemetery scene—Lieutenant Daniels assigned her standard CSI team, but Potts requested to be added even though she wasn’t scheduled.

Mills’s scene at the boat launch—again, Potts volunteered for the call when she was supposed to be off duty.

Margaret’s scene at the mill—Potts asked Daniels if she could work overtime to help process the scene. ”

“She wanted to be there,” Jack said quietly.

“At every single scene,” Margot confirmed. “According to department records, Deputy Potts has never before requested additional assignments or overtime for major crime scenes. This behavior pattern began only this week.”

“She’s been controlling the evidence from the start,” I said, the implications making my stomach turn.

I set down my tea, my hands trembling slightly. “Margot, what can you tell us about her background? Family history?”

“Beverly Anne Potts, born Boston, Massachusetts, 1989,” Margot recited. “Genealogical records trace back to Nathaniel Potter, executed for smuggling in Boston, 1748. Colonial court records show he was hanged for operating a large-scale smuggling operation during King George’s War.”

“Potter,” I said, the name registering. “That’s close to Potts.”

“The connection becomes clear through the asset seizure records,” Margot continued.

“When Colonial authorities moved to confiscate Nathaniel Potter’s smuggling profits, the court proceedings required him to document how he’d acquired his wealth.

In his testimony, he revealed his true identity as Jedediah Ashworth.

He explained that he’d fled Virginia in 1725 with his daughter after his wife Bridget was wrongly executed for witchcraft.

He’d first changed their names to Ashford, then later to Potter when he began his smuggling operations. ”

“So the family name was Potter,” Jack said. “But how does that connect to Potts?”

“Cross-referencing birth records,” Margot said.

“Nathaniel’s daughter Mary Potter had a child out of wedlock in 1749, shortly after her father’s execution.

She changed her surname to Potts and claimed to be a widow to avoid social stigma.

The genealogical trail from Mary Potts to Beverly Potts is direct and documented. ”

“She preserved the family story,” I said quietly. “Passed it down through the generations along with the modified name.”

“Statistical probability that this is coincidence: less than 0.3 percent,” Margot concluded. “Deputy Potts is almost certainly a direct descendant of Bridget Ashworth.”

The room fell silent except for the storm outside and the quiet hum of electronic equipment. We stared at the screens showing Potts’s photo and genealogy, the weight of three centuries settling over us like a shroud.

“She’s been planning this since she moved here,” I said quietly. “However long that’s been.”

“Not just since she moved here,” Margot corrected.

“Based on the psychological profile and historical research patterns, she has been planning this her entire life. The Ashworth family story was likely passed down through generations, waiting for someone with the skills and opportunity to seek justice.”

Doug was already pulling up more data, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “If Potts processed the greenhouse scene, she knew exactly what herbs were taken. Belladonna, mandrake—the same compounds that could cause cardiac arrest.”

I remembered Thomas Whitman’s mysterious heart failure. “She would have known exactly what they could be used for.”

Jack moved to the murder board, studying our timeline with clinical precision. “She was at every scene, processed every piece of evidence. The DNA under Victoria’s fingernails—that came back inconclusive.”

“No match in the system,” I said slowly. “But if Potts isn’t in any database…”

“She wouldn’t show up,” Jack finished. “The DNA could be hers and we’d never know it.”

Doug pulled up more purchase records on his screen. ““I found purchases of electronic components that could be assembled into voice modulation equipment,” he said. “Bought separately over several months from different online retailers, paid with prepaid cards. Someone was being very careful.

“She’s been accessing courthouse records, historical databases, even case files,” Doug continued. “All legitimate for a CSI tech, but the pattern goes back months. She was researching these families before Thomas Whitman was killed.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “The precision in Margaret’s mutilation. Someone who’s processed enough crime scenes to know anatomy, how to use a blade.”

“She knew about the symbols at the cemetery,” I added. “Pointed out the stone circle around Rachel Mills’s grave. Said someone must have placed it after our initial processing.”

“But she had access to place it herself,” Jack said.

Jack was quiet for a moment. “Doug, I need you to run a full background check on Potts. Current address, vehicle information, duty schedule. But keep it quiet—I don’t want this flagged in the system yet.”

“On it,” Doug said, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Jack pulled out his phone. “Cole? It’s Jack.

I need you and Martinez mobile now. We’ve identified our suspect—it’s Potts.

” He paused, listening to Cole’s response.

“She’s Bridget Ashworth’s descendant and she’s been playing us from the beginning.

Don’t use radio. She may be monitoring. Doug will send coordinates once we have them. ”

He hung up and turned back to Doug. “What’s her current status?”

Doug pulled up the duty roster. “CSI works regular eight-to-five unless called to scenes. She clocked out at five thirty today, about two hours ago.”

“Vehicle?”

“Drives a personal sedan to work. 2019 Honda Civic, Virginia plates.” Doug pulled up more information. “But she also has access to department vehicles when needed for scene processing.”

Jack’s expression darkened. “Check if she signed out a patrol unit today.”

Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “She didn’t sign out anything officially, but…” He pulled up another screen. “The fleet GPS shows one of our unmarked units moved from the impound lot twenty minutes ago. Unit 47.”

“Can you track it?” Jack asked, his voice tight.

“Already on it.” Doug’s hands moved with lightning precision across multiple keyboards. “Margot, I need you to access the vehicle’s dash cam footage. Pull everything from the last two hours.”

“Accessing vehicle recorder,” Margot replied. “Downloading dash cam files now.”

The seconds stretched like hours. I could feel Jack’s tension radiating across the room, a coiled energy that spoke of a predator sensing danger to his pack. Outside, the storm continued its relentless assault on the windows, each lightning flash illuminating the gravity etched on our faces.

“Got the files,” Doug announced, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Fast-forwarding through the footage now…here, about forty minutes ago. She’s making a traffic stop.”

A window opened on the largest monitor, showing the dash cam’s forward view. Rain streaked across the windshield, and through the downpour we could see another vehicle pulled over on the shoulder ahead. The time stamp showed the footage was from earlier that evening.

“She’s approaching the vehicle,” I said, watching the empty view as whoever was driving the patrol car—presumably Potts—got out to make contact.

Jack leaned forward, every muscle in his body coiled tight. “Doug, can you get the license plate on that car?”

“Working on it.” Doug enhanced the image, zooming in through the rain and darkness. The luxury SUV sat with its hazard lights blinking, brake lights bright red in the storm. “Partial plate visible…running it now…”

The color drained from Jack’s face before Doug even finished typing.

“That’s my parents’ Escalade.”