The Little Grave: A completely heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Amanda Steele Book 1)

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Happy for me?” She was obviously missing something.

  “Logan Hunter.”

  She already didn’t like the direction of this conversation. “What about him?”

  “He sounds like a nice guy. And the way he tells it, you two hit it off on Sunday night and spent a lovely evening together. Not sure why it took so long to nail down your alibi. Were you embarrassed to tell me you have a love life?”

  Love life? She could choke on that.

  “You don’t have to be, you know,” he went on. “I wouldn’t expect a woman your age to be sitting at home all alone.”

  Wow, he actually went there…

  He had stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. She had to think quickly. “I just didn’t want you to make more of it than it is. It’s really nothing.”

  “Not the way he tells it. Guess you guys are going out again. He told me he plans on taking you out for a nice dinner.”

  “Did he now?” She smirked. Logan Hunter must have been sure to plant that in there to remind her of her promise.

  “Uh-huh.” Malone’s face fell more serious. “There’s something else I’d like to talk with you about though. Let’s just slip into my office for a minute.”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall and discovered it was after one now. Time was getting away from her, and with every second those girls were suffering. “I really need to get to work.”

  “One minute.” His earlier comment had been more directive than an invitation.

  Behind his closed door, he sat at his desk, and she in his visitor chair.

  “You never did tell me what happened to you,” he said.

  “What—”

  He flicked a finger toward her face.

  “It’s nothing.” There was no way she’d be coming forward about Rick Jensen’s visit. She just needed to get back to work.

  He dipped his head and leveled his gaze at her. “This is me you’re talking to. I know that something—”

  “Trent told you.”

  “No. If he had, would I be asking?”

  “Maybe just to verify what you heard,” she volleyed back.

  “He told me nothing, but now I’m wondering if he should have.”

  “It’s nothing—don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. That’s not what I need to talk to you about anyway. I didn’t want to bring it up earlier, but I need to. Can you tell me why Courtney Barrett threatened to sue the department for harassment because, left to my imagination, it sounds like you spoke to her on your own? She obviously knew exactly who you were.”

  “Not that she let on to me that she did, but I suppose everyone in this frickin’ town knows too much—or at least thinks they do.”

  “Did you speak to her alone?”

  “No.”

  Malone made eye contact with her. “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you let Trent take the lead with the interview?”

  She wrung her hands.

  “You were to be Trent’s shadow. What am I supposed to tell Hill?”

  “Just tell her I was there with Trent. That’s not a lie.”

  Malone worried his bottom lip. “Might work. I wish I could say you weren’t in the room.”

  Her sergeant didn’t need to say as much, but it was clear he regretted ever letting her near the Palmer case. But she didn’t have time to sit around talking. She glanced at the clock again. She’d lost another fifteen minutes.

  “Are you in a hurry, Detective?”

  “Matter of fact, yes.”

  “I know you said you’d back off the cold cases if what you uncover is a direct tie to Palmer’s murderer. I want to see your eyes when you tell me that.”

  “I promise. I’ll back off if it becomes necessary.” She wondered how many more times she’d have to assure him before he believed her.

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Guess that’s the best I’m gonna get. If you were anyone else—”

  “I know. You’d have kept me off the case from the start. I appreciate that you trust me enough.”

  Malone mumbled something incoherent, then, “Do you think the sex trafficking thing is going to lead to Palmer’s killer?”

  “I’d need to be clairvoyant like Trent’s sister.”

  “Clair— Never mind, and don’t get smart with me.”

  She smiled. Malone couldn’t be any further from new-age ideology than a Catholic priest. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be. But I don’t have any reason to believe that’s the case yet. Obviously, the bracelet with the girls on it was the one on Palmer at the time of his booking and release, but I really don’t think he knew what was on it.”

  She proceeded to fill him in on CSI Blair’s call and Casey-Anne Ritter’s connection to the bracelet and the pawnshop where she would have crossed paths with Palmer. She empathized that was all: crossed paths. She almost told him what Courtney and the others associated with Palmer had to say about the bracelet, but she shouldn’t know any of that.

  “Palmer must have liked the bracelet, tried it on, and that’s where it stayed,” she added. “I believe that whoever killed Palmer was a different person than who took out Ritter and Webb based on the murder method.”

  “Hmm.” Malone rubbed his jaw.

  “Sarge?” she prompted.

  “Okay, go. Get to work.”

  She hopped up.

  “Oh, Detective, be careful not to step on any toes either. I know you’re rather focused on the girl’s murder, but Detective Bishop worked the Jackson Webb case. So if you’re going to him, just play nice.”

  His warning might have come a little late as Cud hadn’t taken too kindly to her asking about the Webb case the other day.

  “You bet.”

  She left Malone’s office and hurried to her desk, not wanting to pass another second chit-chatting. It was time to get some real work done.

  Thirty-Eight

  Amanda had just sat down when her cell phone rang. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She answered without consulting ID.

  “Detective Steele?” An unfamiliar voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Detective Patricia Glover from Sex Crimes. Most people just call me Patty.”

  “Oh, I tried reaching you, but I didn’t leave a message. I intended to try you again.”

  “No worries. Life can get a little overwhelming, but I just wanted to touch base.”

  “Do you think those girls are still out there to find or the players involved?” Amanda found herself spewing her greatest concern.

  “It’s hard to say. The records date back seventeen years, but—

  “Seventeen?” Amanda gasped.

  “Yep, and I’d bet whoever’s behind this ring is still active. These types keep doing what they do until they’re stopped.”

  “Guess we better stop them then.”

  “I like your optimism.” Patty’s smile traveled the line.

  “Did you hear about the history of the files—how they were in a bracelet that’s now been connected to a cold case in Georgia?” Amanda thought it best to make sure that Patty was just as informed as she was.

  “Yeah, I heard. Also, it’s linked to a murder in Woodbridge a few days later.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I really believe that Casey-Anne Ritter had been a victim of the ring and that she escaped.” Amanda laid out her reasons: the assumed name and living off the grid.

  “Makes sense to me. If I were her and got free, I’d run as far away as I could. It’s sad that it would seem her past caught up to her.”

  Sadder still that Ritter had nothing to bargain for her life with as the bracelet her killer was probably after was in possession of the county while Palmer was behind bars. “I’m going to say whoever killed Ritter and Webb were mixed up in the ring.”

  “Could be. Not sure how much you know—or if you’ve had a chance to look at the files yet—but there were records of
bank transfers on the data chip.”

  “Yes, Jacob—Detective Briggs—told me.”

  “Okay, good. Well, I’ve started on obtaining subpoenas, so I have the right to track those to the banking institutions. I can see if the accounts are still active and from there see what I can get. Hoping to get some names.”

  “I haven’t accessed the files yet, but I take it there are no names mentioned?”

  “Nicknames are assigned to everyone, but that’s normal—even when the files are encrypted and hidden on a chip in a bracelet clasp.”

  “They have a lot to lose,” Amanda lamented, sadly considering that included innocent children. “As I said, keep me posted. I’m going to start with trying to see if I can track down more information on Casey-Anne Ritter, whoever she was.”

  “Makes sense. Let me know if you need any help.”

  “I should be fine on that front.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  Amanda bristled a bit at the micro-managing. “Jacob said there are pictures. I was considering scrolling through them to see if any resemble Ritter.”

  “Just a warning: it’s not easy to look at those type of pictures.” Patty’s voice turned grave. “I’ve been at this for five years now, the longest in this unit actually. It’s definitively not a unit where most officers pitch their tent. Most transfer out after a year.”

  “So what keeps you around?”

  “The days I actually get to take these creeps down make it worth it. The wins, as you could say.” A lightness was back in her tone.

  “I get that.” Amanda was ready to get on with things, but there was something a bit clingy about Patty. She professed to like her job, but she didn’t seem eager to return to work.

  “I better get going,” Amanda said. “Lots to do. There are hundreds of pictures from what I understand.”

  “Yes, there are. Again, call if you need anything. You have my number from the other day still?”

  “I do.”

  With that, Amanda ended the call and set her phone on her desk. She hadn’t laid out her entire plan to Patty, but she was going to look at the photos and files and cross-reference what she found with local news. She’d also try Missing Persons and see if she had more luck than the detective in Georgia had with his search. But he said he’d limited his search to Atlanta.

  She took a few deep breaths and accessed the mainframe. There were three files right where Jacob had told her they’d be, and she clicked on the first one. It opened a spreadsheet listing contacts in one column, with their preferences and bids in columns to the right. As Patty had noted, the contacts were codenames, and to Amanda appeared to reference characters in literature and movies. It churned her stomach to see the list contained two hundred perverts, all with a lust for young women, a few with a desire for six-year-olds.

  She opened the next file, which was pages long of scanned bank transfers.

  The third file was a database—or catalogue—of girls. The girls were assigned nicknames too, and their profiles included age, ethnicity, hair, eye color, with photos attached.

  She clicked on the picture attached to the first girl, and when it popped up, she shut the window down as fast as she could. The profile noted she was only ten years old and the photo depicted her— Bile rose in her throat. No wonder people transferred out of Sex Crimes. Once you saw an image like that, there was no going back, and the one Amanda had just seen would be burned on her brain for life.

  Thirty-Nine

  Amanda would let Patty Glover scour the files and do her thing, while Amanda would do all she could to work around the disgusting files. She brought up the missing persons database for Prince William County and searched for girls aged between six and nineteen but didn’t set any limitations as to when the reports were filed. She added cherry birthmark under identifying markers. Sadly, there were far more than Amanda would have imagined or than she had time to investigate.

  Maybe she was going at this from the wrong angle. If Casey-Anne Ritter had gone missing as a young girl, it would have been big news. If she had been taken within Prince William County, she would have likely heard buzz about it firsthand through her father and the community, even if Amanda had been a young woman herself. But she didn’t remember any of that happening. So it might be prudent that she extend the search geographically. And maybe instead of looking in a missing persons database, she’d consult the worldwide web.

  She keyed in missing girl state of Virginia age six to nineteen and watched as the screen filled with news articles.

  She started the search and sat back, sipping on another cup of coffee—she’d lost track of the number now. She’d been at this for hours and a glance at the clock told her it was now after three in the afternoon. Her ass was numb, and her head throbbed from staring at the screen so hard, wishing for it to provide answers.

  Trent entered her cubicle with a grease-stained paper bag. “I’d put it on your desk, but…”

  “What is— Oh, you didn’t need to—”

  “I know I didn’t.” He looked at her desk and seemed to be trying to figure where he could set the bag down.

  “Here.” She took it from him with a smile. The smell of bacon, cheese, and onion wafted up and had her stomach rumbling. After seeing the picture she had, and contemplating the horrible evils in the world, she was surprised she had an appetite.

  “You are a prince.”

  She opened the bag and dug out the bacon cheeseburger, then cleared a spot on her desk and set it down. Grease marks—who cared. She unwrapped it and took a bite. A glorious, heavenly, devilish bite.

  “Oh… my… God,” she said between chomping. Grease dripped from the corners of her mouth, and she snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed it away. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re very welcome. I figured if I’ve gotten to know you at all in the last couple of days, you’d probably be slaving away with no regard to your body’s needs.”

  “How did you know you’d find me at my desk though?”

  “I didn’t. Figured if you weren’t here, I’d just have it later. Hence the onions. Hopefully, you like—”

  “Love.” She tore off another chunk of cow and gluten.

  “Good.” Trent chuckled and sat at his desk.

  She desperately wanted to press him for updates, but with all the ears around and Malone down the hall, she thought better of it. She held her burger in her left hand, scrolled down the headlines with her right. On page three, an article from fifteen and a half years ago caught her eye.

  Had her gamble actually paid off?

  She swallowed the last bit of food in her mouth, set down the burger, and clicked on the article. It told the story of eight-year-old Phoebe Baldwin from Williamsburg, Virginia, who’d gone missing. There was something vaguely familiar about the name, but Amanda paused to do the quick math. Phoebe, if she was Casey-Anne, would have been eighteen—the age Detective Banks said she looked to be when she was murdered.

  She returned to the article and gleaned takeaways. Phoebe’s parents were Wes and Tanya Baldwin, married at the time of the report, and wealthy as God. Wes was a thoracic surgeon and his wife was an aristocrat and hailed from old money. Phoebe had gone missing from a playground in the city while under a babysitter’s care. The babysitter was noted as a Rhonda Osborne, age twenty-five. That would presently put her around forty.

  Amanda opened the missing persons database again and keyed in Phoebe’s name. The report quickly filled her screen. There were pictures. She hovered the mouse over the photos attached to the file. The first picture showed a bright-eyed young girl sitting on a concrete step in overalls and a T-shirt, a doll on her lap and an ice cream cone melting in her hand.

  But it was the doll that tore Amanda’s heart and had tears pooling in her eyes. Lindsey used to have a doll just like that one. Maybe there were worse fates than death. But no matter how quickly and briefly that thought had passed through her mind, she felt a jab of remorse so deep, it
might as well have been a stab wound. She hadn’t been able to save Lindsey, just as she wouldn’t be able to save Casey-Anne, but maybe she could save some of the other girls.

  She didn’t want to return to the database on the mainframe, but it could be one way of confirming if Phoebe was Casey-Anne. She opened the catalogue of girls and found a search option and looked for eight-year-olds. Several came back, but the nickname of the third one down had her attention. The name was Colonial. As in Colonial Williamsburg? And she was marked as “Sold.”

  Amanda took a jagged breath and clicked on the picture. She gasped but forced herself to focus only on the face, not the lurid act the cameraman had her performing on herself. She closed the image, having seen all she needed—and more than she wanted. Colonial was Phoebe Baldwin, a.k.a. Casey-Anne Ritter.

  She returned to the internet browser, opened another window, and typed in Phoebe Baldwin, Rhonda Osborne, Williamsburg, Virginia. Suspicion always fell first on the person who had last been with the child or tasked with their care. In this case, the babysitter.

  Pages of results returned. Phoebe’s disappearance had made nationwide headlines. The most recent article was one that had been written on the tenth anniversary of the date she went missing. That put it just a few months before Casey-Anne Ritter’s death.

  Amanda clicked the article and before she could read a thing, she was arrested by the photo of a young Phoebe with an artist’s rendering of what she’d look like present day. That being about six years ago.

  She changed windows and brought up the image of Casey-Anne Ritter as photographed in the morgue. Even in death, it was plain to see Phoebe Baldwin and Casey-Anne Ritter were one and the same.

  Her eyes fell to her half-masticated burger and the smells that had originally enticed her now tossed her stomach. She wrapped it back up, tossed it in the bag, and put it in her garbage can. The pile of grease left on her desk would require soap and water.

  She got up to get what was necessary to clean it and dried off the area quickly. She didn’t have time to procrastinate. It might have been too late to save Phoebe Baldwin, but she could bring her justice and her parents closure.