Thread of Fear, page 17
part #1 of The Glass Sisters Series
“It’s a rough job. Maybe you should stick to painting.”
She scoffed.
“What?”
“It’s pretty interesting to hear you say that after all the lengths you went to convincing me to work on your case.”
They neared the lake now, and Jack gazed out over the water. It was just as gray as the sky above it. “I’ve been re-thinking that. I’m starting to feel sorry I got you involved.”
They walked for a while, and she absorbed what he’d said. He was sorry he’d gotten her involved. Her work had led to two major breaks in the case, yet he regretted hiring her. Did he regret getting to know her, too? Did he regret their budding relationship, or whatever this was?
What was this?
They didn’t live in the same town. They didn’t have similar backgrounds. They had almost nothing in common except their work and a professional acquaintance—one who could single-handedly ruin Fiona’s reputation with APD if he ever got wind she was sleeping with a detective on a case.
Jack stopped beside a spindly sycamore. He shoved his fists in his pockets and looked at the ground. Then he looked at her.
“I won’t be asking for any more of your help on this,” he said. “I apologize for twisting your arm in the first place, ’specially after what happened with Hoyt.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. But I’m sorry anyway. He’s facing charges right now. Don’t know if they’ll stick, but I’ll do whatever I can to see that they do.”
She didn’t get this. Was this about guilt? Or maybe fear? Was he starting to feel some unwelcome attachment to her?
Was this about Lucy?
A jealous lump rose in her throat. She cleared it away. “Are you still seeing Lucy?”
His eyebrows arched. “Huh?”
“Are you still involved with her?”
“What does she have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“What did Ginny tell you, anyway?”
She huffed out a breath. “Nothing.”
“I told you, she stretches the truth.” He looked at the lake. “Anyway, there’s nothing there. Not anymore.”
Fiona’s hands balled into fists inside her pockets. He was lying again. It was so obvious. Why couldn’t he give her a straight answer about this woman?
Maybe because he was still in love with her.
“I need to get back,” she said, and started retracing their steps.
He quickly caught up to her. “Hold up a minute. Why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
“Bullshit.”
She shot him a hostile look.
“Look, I don’t know where you’re getting all this about Lucy, but I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here to tell you you’re done with my case. And to ask you to give police work a rest.”
“Oh, I see.” Her stride lengthened as her anger grew. “You think you can give me career advice now?”
“No.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“I’m asking you as a friend. To give yourself a break from cases. I don’t think it’s good for you. You look tired.”
She halted and whirled around. “Let’s get something straight, Jack. You’re not my friend. My career is none of your business, and just because you hired me on some case doesn’t mean I want your advice.”
He stood there, looking down at her, and she could see his jaw clenching and unclenching. He wanted to say something, but he probably knew she was about two seconds away from telling him to go screw himself.
She took a deep breath, and tried to summon some tact. “Why don’t you take yourself, and all your advice, and go back to Graingerville?”
Jack stared at the bulletin board in his office, and knew he was missing something. He could feel it. He gazed at all the evidence spread out across the wall and knew he’d failed to register some key bit of information that would bring the fuzzy picture into focus.
These crimes were connected, he felt certain. And after hearing all about the case, Nathan had agreed. The detective had ten years’ experience working homicide, and Jack trusted his opinion. Unfortunately, though, all that experience hadn’t generated any new insights. The best Jack had gotten out of his trip to Austin had been a reminder to keep hammering away at motive. What had prompted the killer to choose these particular girls? Who and where was he likely to strike next?
Jack gazed at the bulletin board, cataloguing the similarities among the crimes. The victimology was alike, the MO. Even the damn weather was the same from case to case. But it was the proximity of the crime scenes that bothered him. He stared at his map again, zeroing in on the section where Mesquite Creek cut through the southwest corner of Grainger County. Lucy had been picked up by her abductor not half a mile from the creek. The body of Natalie Fuentes had been found off Highway 44, less than a mile from the same location. And Veronica Morales was last seen at Three Forks Barbecue, a restaurant about five miles north of where the creek intersected Highway 44.
The killer was local. Had to be. Why else would someone fixate on such a concentrated area? Whoever Jack was dealing with had some connection, some tie to Grainger County.
But if so, why didn’t anyone recognize him?
It couldn’t be Fiona’s drawing that was the problem. Both Lucy and Brady agreed it was practically a photographic likeness of the man they’d seen.
But the only other explanation Jack could think of—and just thinking of it depressed him—was that the killer wasn’t targeting Grainger County. Maybe he was going around all over the place, picking up girls and torturing them, and for whatever reason, the crimes weren’t getting reported.
“Got that tire tread for you, Chief.”
Jack tore his attention away from the map and saw Lowell standing in his office doorway. Jack caught the disapproval in the officer’s face as he took in his boss’s appearance.
Okay, so he looked like shit. He had a black eye still. He hadn’t been home to sleep or change clothes since yesterday morning, and his jeans and rumpled flannel weren’t exactly regulation attire.
“What’d you find, Lowell?”
He handed Jack a Polaroid of a tire. “Took that crime scene photo over to the guy I was telling you about at NTB. He’s a whiz with tire treads. It’s really something.”
Jack stared down at the photograph of the brand-new BFGoodrich tire. The shot looked to have been taken right inside the tire shop, and someone had jotted down all the specs beneath the picture. The state crime lab probably used a more scientific method to identify tread marks, but Jack wasn’t willing to wait three decades for someone to get around to his case.
“He thinks this is it?”
“Swears it,” Lowell said. “It’s an all-terrain tire. Standard on at least a dozen SUVs and pickups starting about two years ago. Then of course, you got people who put the new tires on older models, so it doesn’t really tell us anything for sure about the vehicle.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, but this is for what? A seventeen-or eighteen-inch wheel? Too big for your standard car.”
“That’s what my buddy said, too. We’re looking for a light truck, a Jeep, or an SUV. Not a sedan or a coupe, unless it’s some kinda tricked-out ride.” Lowell paused for a minute, as if he expected Jack to say something.
“Good work.”
“So if that’s all for tonight, you mind if I…?”
Jack glanced at the clock. Damn, it was after nine already. The entire weekend had gone by in a blur.
“Yeah, you get on home. Hey, and thanks for running down that lead with the tattoo artist.”
Lowell scoffed. “That guy Viper’s a freak show, but he doesn’t look like the drawing. Said he couldn’t remember anyone who does, and I think he was telling the truth.”
Lowell had a fairly good bullshit meter, which was why Jack had sent him out there when he got sidetracked with the Morales family.
“I hate body art,” Lowell continued. “You couldn’t pay me enough to let some nut job near me with a needle.”
“I hear you,” Jack said. He didn’t mind tattoos on other people, but he’d never once been tempted to get one. “Anyway, thanks for the help.”
After Lowell left, he ducked into the break room and fed some quarters into the Coke machine. He had mountains of paperwork to catch up on, but he’d most likely spend the night poring over the Natalie Fuentes file.
The victim had been driving a Hyundai Elantra at the time of her disappearance, and Jack had put a BOLO out on the car as soon as he’d gotten the details about it from her mother. He’d also compared the standard Elantra tires to the imprint found at the scene where her body was dumped, but the two didn’t match. It sounded like the killer was in a truck or SUV with large tires, which, in rural Texas, didn’t narrow things down much. Maybe he’d stopped using the gray sedan—not surprising, given that Lucy’s attack had occurred eleven years ago. Most people didn’t keep cars that long.
Jack wished they had more on the current vehicle. He wondered if Brady could be of any more help here. The boy had told Fiona he’d heard a “loud” engine, but that he didn’t really get a look.
Of course, he’d also told Fiona he didn’t get a good look at the perp. That was right before he gave her an extremely detailed description of him. Fiona had a way with witnesses, but Jack would be damned if he asked for her help again.
The front door burst open. Jack poked his head out of the break room and saw Sharon standing in the foyer shaking rain off her sleeves.
“You still on?”
“Yeah.” She wiped her muddy boots on the mat by the door. “I was on my way back from that domestic and I saw some activity out toward White Tail Road.”
Jack had heard it come over the radio. One of the sheriff’s deputies was out there checking on a disabled vehicle. “Any injuries?”
“Car looks fine, except for a flat tire. I think you’ll want to come take a look, though.”
“That’s a good mile out of town. We don’t have jurisdiction.”
“You’re going to want jurisdiction,” Sharon said. “The disabled vehicle’s registered to Marissa Pico.”
Jack’s stomach tightened. “The senator’s daughter?”
“That’s the one.” Sharon finger-combed her wet hair. “Her purse and cell phone are still sitting in the front seat, but there’s no sign of Marissa, and there’s blood inside the car.”
CHAPTER 13
Fiona’s nerves started jumping the second she pointed her car south toward Graingerville.
Jack hadn’t called her. Her assistance on the Natalie Fuentes case had been requested. Immediately. But instead of Jack Bowman showing up at her door to ply her with his unique brand of persuasion, Special Agent Ray Santos of the FBI had made the invitation by phone.
And Fiona had accepted.
She’d stepped out of her afternoon art class, taken a three-minute phone call from Santos, and jumped right in her Honda.
And now she barreled down the interstate thinking of Jack. He’d put his heart into this case, and whether he realized it or not, it had just been ripped away from him.
She suspected he knew. And she suspected he was pissed. Royally. The Grainger County Sheriff’s Office, in conjunction with the FBI, was now leading the investigation. According to Santos, federal and local investigators were looking into the murder of Natalie Fuentes, as well as two suspicious disappearances in Grainger County, on the theory that the incidents were connected. What had started out as a determined effort on the part of one small-town police chief had just turned into one of the biggest joint law enforcement efforts in the state, because whether by plan or happenstance, the man Jack was hunting had finally made headlines.
Grainger County’s latest missing woman was twenty-five-year-old Marissa Pico, the youngest daughter of Ben Pico, prominent south Texas rancher and longtime member of the Texas Senate.
Fiona took the Highway 44 exit, passing the now-familiar truck stop where she’d bought coffee a few days before. She wondered if she’d be pulling in again tonight for a shot of caffeine before making the drive home, or whether she’d end up staying the night.
With Jack.
Given their last conversation, she highly doubted it. Which was better, anyway, because she needed to get things back on a professional footing with him. She’d gotten too emotional yesterday—probably due to a lack of sleep—and she regretted it now. She wouldn’t let it happen again. She was here to work, not worry about her personal life.
She smoothed her lapels and checked her face in the mirror. Her hair was back, her makeup minimal. It was just the look she preferred when she dealt with law enforcement types, but it was all wrong for a meeting with Brady Cox. And the suitcase she normally kept in her trunk was parked inside her apartment, awaiting laundry day. She’d have to improvise.
The highway cut a path through the fields, through the never-ending rows of shriveled plants. Fiona gazed out, wondering what sort of plants they were and if there was any chance at all they’d survived the freeze. She knew nothing about agriculture, and as the endless acres raced by, she felt the full force of her ignorance.
She was an outsider here.
Unlike Jack—who seemed just as at home in a sushi bar as he did behind the wheel of his super-macho pickup truck—Fiona wasn’t adaptable. She needed the city. She needed congestion. She needed masses of people where she could lose herself and simply exist, anonymously, without the constant scrutiny of others. Courtney called it a defense mechanism, and maybe it was, but sometimes Fiona didn’t want roots or relationships. Sometimes all she wanted was her own company and the tantalizing option of remaining nameless. welcome to graingerville. please drive friendly.
She passed the road sign, remembering her talk with Ginny just a few days ago. She’d said Jack was a hardheaded man, just like his father, and that his family were the salt of the earth.
It was a quaint description, but Fiona had no trouble believing it. She wondered how such a man would stand up to the onslaught of federal investigators, politicians, and reporters who would be chomping at his heels by the end of today.
Fiona drove through downtown, past the police station, and the library, and the familiar Texaco station where she’d stopped for gas during her first visit. She turned into the parking lot of the Grainger County Administrative Building and spotted a row of news vans already lined up in the spaces nearest the entrance. Their antennae towered over the parking lot, transmitting images of Graingerville to satellites hovering high above the earth.
Fiona took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and braced herself for the circus.
Randy Rudd was in his element. Surrounded by microphones and cameras, he seemed bigger, taller, swollen to nearly twice his usual size by all the attention.
Of course, it could be the lifts. Jack watched from the side of the meeting hall, arms crossed, as the Grainger County sheriff took the stage. He wore his extra-special ostrich-skin boots plus his usual ten-gallon hat. The overall effect was that the five-eight lawman appeared six feet tall. He straightened the microphone unnecessarily, made eye contact with key television reporters, and aimed a somber look at his audience. Everyone sat anxiously awaiting news from the Man in Charge.
This was such bullshit. Both Randy and the mayor had done a complete 180. The Natalie Fuentes case had gone from being a pesky annoyance for Jack to deal with to priority number one in the flash of a camera bulb.
Jack scanned the room, trying not to grind his teeth to nubs as Randy spouted sound bites. Jack told himself it didn’t matter. So the mayor had sidelined him, so what? So the bastard had threatened to have his badge if he so much as sneezed in front of a camera? Evidently, the black eye wasn’t good for PR. Ditto for Jack’s surly attitude. He didn’t give a shit, really, as long as he still had access to the case. Randy and the mayor could have the publicity; Jack simply wanted an arrest. And if Randy needed to be the guy slapping the cuffs on him, so be it. If Randy needed to pose with a bunch of FBI hotshots, virtually guaranteeing his reelection next November on a tough-on-crime platform, that was fine with Jack, too. But what Jack wouldn’t tolerate—not for one minute—was some pencil-dick sheriff stepping in and messing with the actual police work. Randy was a politician to the core. He was skilled in front of a camera, but what he knew about homicide investigation couldn’t fill a thimble.
Sharon sidled up next to Jack and gave a barely audible whistle. “Who’s that?” she asked.
He followed her gaze to the line of agents and sheriff’s deputies standing off to the side, behind Randy.
“Who?”
“The suit,” she said.
Randy’s admin, who stood on Jack’s other side, leaned forward. “He’s FBI,” Myrna said. “Special Agent Santos.”
The two women exchanged a look Jack had seen before, usually when his sisters discussed Colin Firth or Brad Pitt.
“I wonder what he’s packing,” Sharon muttered, and Myrna snickered.
Jack shot Sharon his stern chief-of-police look, and she promptly shut up. Then he turned his attention to the fed. Ray Santos, of the San Antonio VCMO unit, stood silently behind the sheriff, watching the room with an eagle eye. This was the guy whose brilliant idea it was to get Fiona back down here to reinterview Brady Cox. Jack had checked out his background. Santos had a PhD in psychology, but instead of analyzing case files from some basement at Quantico, he had spent the past five years on the Violent Crimes and Major Offenders squad in San Antonio, which told Jack two things: Santos had some real, down-and-dirty police work under his belt, but there was a strong chance he spoke psychobabble.
Fucking feds. Jack welcomed their resources on this case, but he didn’t want to waste time sitting around a conference table talking about how their perp was probably a bed wetter at age ten. They needed to catch the son of a bitch, not profile him to death.
