A Tracers Trilogy

by Laura Griffin

  “I figure you have a record of it floating around somewhere? Maybe an invoice?” Ric nodded at the back office, where the TV blared and where someone in this outfit presumably kept a file cabinet.

  “All of our records are electronic now.” Pam smiled. “Ever since we went paperless.”

  “Maybe a purchase order?” Ric persisted. “A receipt of some sort?”

  “Like I say, all that’s on computer. Which is down. I could look on the schedule, though, if all you need’s an address.”

  “That would be helpful, thanks.”

  She reached under the counter and pulled out a thick black binder. “I write those up myself, post them on the board each week. You said New Year’s Day?”

  “I think you said that. I believe you remembered the job because it was a holiday?”

  “That’s right.” She flipped open the book. “We had to do a surcharge.” She glanced up. “I would have let it go. It’s not like we were busy or anything, but the owner’s kind of a stickler, you know? So I went ahead and tacked on the twenty percent.” She found the page she wanted. “Here it is. Two-twenty-six Lake View Road. January first. Our first job of the year, as a matter of fact.”

  Jonah inched closer and glanced at the page. The square for January first had a big X over it and an address written at the top.

  The address belonged to Jeff Lane’s lake house.

  “That was your only job that day?” Ric asked, very low-key. The stress maniac from the drive up here was long gone, replaced by this chatty police officer with an easy smile.

  “Yep,” she said. “We did the whole ground floor. Berber carpet, wall to wall.”

  “What do the H and D mean at the bottom there?”

  “Oh, that just means our haul-away service. They wanted that, too. Most people, when they replace their carpet, they can’t use the old stuff. We take it off their hands and send it to our recycling partners.”

  “What happens to it then?”

  “It gets steam-cleaned, deodorized, the whole bit. There’s a market for secondhand carpet. A lot of people don’t know that, but there is. Long as it’s in good condition. Not too many stains or anything.”

  “And what if it’s stained?” Ric asked. “Say, something hard to get out, like maybe ink or blood or red wine?”

  “Well, you’d be surprised what we can do about wine nowadays. Our installer can usually tell just by looking whether it’s an H and R or an H and D.”

  “What’s an H and D?”

  She tapped her finger on January first, just days before Ashley Meyer was discovered facedown in a park with carpet fibers clinging to her hair.

  “That’s ‘haul and dispose,’” Pam said. “Means we threw it away. For whatever reason, that carpet wasn’t fit for recycling.”

  Mia passed Darrell on her way downstairs for lunch.

  “Hey, glad I caught you,” he said, making a U-turn back toward the elevator. “I was coming by to pass along those search results.”

  “What search results?”

  “From the profile Mark sent over.” He must have noticed her eyeing his paper bag, because he offered it to her. “Muffin? I’ve got extras.”

  “No, thanks. Tell me about your results.”

  He stepped onto the elevator and waited for the doors to close before telling her. Darrell handled sensitive information all day long and understood the importance of discretion.

  “I ran the DNA profile lifted from that evidence that came down from Fort Worth,” he said, pressing the button for G-3, where Mia was going, too.

  “We’re talking about the blood drop on the shoe?”

  “Yeah, the one you tested. Or Mark, I should say, since you’re suddenly taking a backseat on this investigation for some reason.”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Hey, I’m not asking. Just pointing out that your mysterious behavior hasn’t gone unnoticed.” He gave her a worried look. “Are you okay, by the way? Ever since your carjacking, you’ve been acting a little freaky.”

  “Freaky?”

  “Maybe anxious is a better word.” He paused. “I’ve been worried.”

  She’d been the victim of two shooting attempts, her love life was in shambles, and she had a team of investigators camped out on her street. Anxious was her middle name right now. “I’m fine.” She smiled, totally faking it. “What did you find?”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t get a hit.”

  Mia bit her lip. Laura’s killer—assuming that was who dripped blood on her shoe—did not already have a DNA profile in the database. So much for an easy ID.

  “I checked the Offender Index and the Forensic Index,” he said. “No match with either.”

  Mia sighed. “I think I’ll take a muffin now.”

  He handed one over. “Good, because you’re probably not going to like my other news, either. That profile also did not match the one lifted from the contact lens Mark tested. Or did you already know that part?”

  “I didn’t, no.”

  A lump of disappointment clogged her throat. Ric’s prime suspect, the owner of that contact, did not match the blood found on Laura’s shoe. Which meant that the search warrant Ric so desperately wanted was even further out of his reach now. Should she break the news, or should she leave it to Mark?

  She dumped the idea almost as soon as she came up with it. She’d tell Ric herself, but she definitely wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.

  Mia stepped out on G-3, and Darrell followed.

  “Coming with me to the Cave?” he asked.

  Mia glanced nervously down the corridor and heard the sound of muffled gunshots. “Actually, ballistics.”

  “A little lunchtime firing lesson, huh? I knew you were a secret Lara Croft.”

  Darrell was joking, but he’d hit it on the head. Scott had talked her into a lesson with the logic that it was pointless to lend her a handgun if she didn’t even know how to hold it properly. And so, after decades as a committed gun-phobe, she was going to learn to how to shoot. Or at least, how not to shoot herself in the foot.

  Darrell was staring down at her now, obviously concerned by her silence.

  She summoned a smile. “Nothing that exciting, don’t worry. Just down here having lunch with an old friend.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Mia sat in the front seat, nerves jangling, as Rey drove up the winding driveway toward the white plantation-style lake house. He slid into a gap between several other government sedans.

  “Wait here a minute. I’ll let him know I brought you.”

  She turned to look at him, wide-eyed. “You mean he doesn’t know?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But I thought you said he wanted my help.” Her anxiety mounted. She had enough reservations about being here without throwing Ric’s displeasure into the mix.

  “We need your help,” Rey said firmly. “The task force. Ric says you’re very good at what you do, that you have a knack for seeing things other people miss.”

  He waited for her to confirm or deny this. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder. Through the tinted back window, she surveyed the lakefront palace that made her bungalow look like a shack.

  “We can’t sign you in,” Rey told her, “but he can come talk to you out here. Gimme a minute.”

  “But—”

  He shoved open the door, and Mia’s words were cut off by a gust of cold air.

  Sighing, she wrapped her lab coat closer and pressed her knees together for warmth. She didn’t even have her jacket or her purse with her, as this little field trip had been entirely unexpected. She’d been in the middle of the afternoon’s second rape kit when she’d been summoned down to the lobby and literally swept away on urgent FBI business by Ric’s very determined brother. Rey had hardly talked the entire drive, and all of Mia’s questions had been met with evasive, one-word replies that left her exasperated.

  Really, the Santos brothers could have been twins.

  She rubbed h
er bare hands together and blew against them as she waited. And waited. After a good ten minutes, Ric emerged from the front door, talking with someone in a white Tyvek suit. One of the FBI’s crime-scene techs, she guessed. Ric wore black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he had his familiar pistol and detective’s shield plastered to his hip. He seemed oblivious to the cold as he spoke and pointed at the front door with sharp, jerky movements. Then he turned and stalked toward the car where Mia sat.

  He yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  She laughed with disbelief. “The FBI brought me! You think I asked to have my work day interrupted to get dragged off to some crime scene?”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do here, besides get in the way. You can’t be admitted to the house. You know that, right?”

  Mia swallowed the outraged comments on the tip of her tongue. She was there in a professional capacity. At the FBI’s request. This was not the time for petty arguing. When she thought she could talk calmly, she turned to face Ric, whose eyes were blazing at her.

  “Someone on this task force evidently thinks I might be able to help with something. They asked me to come, so I came. I have no intention of getting in the way.” She paused, and he seemed to calm down a fraction. At least, he was letting her talk. “I understand there’s been some trouble executing this search warrant?” It was almost the entire extent of what Rey had told her.

  Ric looked forward and rested his big hand on the steering wheel. She saw the muscles in his jaw clench.

  “It’s been a disaster,” he said tightly. “We’ve been here three hours, and we’ve got nothing. Time’s ticking. I put my head on the block to get this search warrant, and the blade’s about to fall.”

  Mia hated his analogy, but she shoved it aside to focus on practical matters. “Why is there a time crunch? Can’t you guys take as long as you need?”

  “The … suspect”—he cut a glance at her—“and his lawyer are on a private plane right now coming back from Mexico City. They land in half an hour. As soon as they do, this is going to get very ugly, very fast.”

  “I know the suspect is Jeff Lane,” Mia said.

  He looked at her sharply.

  “I saw his name on that box of contact lenses back at the lab,” she added.

  “Then you know how sensitive this thing is. He’s got friends in high places. Even the FBI’s afraid of him. We got a judge to sign off on this warrant, but so far, it’s produced jack shit.” Ric rubbed his forehead, looking miserable. “You got any ideas?”

  Mia reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small aspirin bottle. She tapped two into her palm and held them out. “Why don’t you start by tackling your headache?”

  His expression softened. He reached over, took the pills, and tossed them back without even a sip of water. “Thanks,” he muttered, and she knew they were making progress.

  “Okay, brief me from the top. What were you hoping to find here?”

  He took a deep breath. “Blood. Lots of it.”

  “From Ashley Meyer?”

  “Her, and also maybe the Jane Doe whose bones were recovered right down the road from here. And she’s not a Jane Doe anymore. Did Kelsey tell you?”

  “No.”

  “They got an ID. Natasha Sukovic. Last seen two years ago getting off work at a strip club in Austin. She had just started working for Night Angels when she went missing.”

  “Night Angels is the club?”

  “It’s an escort service. They’re online, and they have girls all over the state, some even in Louisiana. Ashley Meyer worked for them, and so did Laura Thorne.”

  Mia listened to every word, amazed that he was letting her in on so much detail after weeks of dodging her questions. Did he finally trust her, or was he simply too tired to care?

  “It gets worse,” Ric said. “We might have another victim. Makayla Tomlin. You heard of her case?”

  “No.”

  “She was dumped in a lake in Burnet County sometime earlier this month. She had defensive cuts on her hands, died of blunt-force trauma.”

  “Did she work for Night Angels, too?”

  “Cocktail waitress. Worked at a bar off I-35. She left work one night, apparently drove herself home. Woman who shares the apartment reported her missing two days later.”

  Mia bit her lip. “He’s getting bolder.”

  “If it’s connected.”

  “All right, let’s go with what we know. You have reason to believe that at least two victims might have been killed here,” she said. “Why? Why not Jeff Lane’s primary residence? Or maybe his car, for that matter?”

  “His house in Austin has round-the-clock security, surveillance cams everywhere. We’re not talking some city councilman here. This guy’s second in command of the entire state. Some people think he has a shot at the White House one day, if his stars line up. Anyway, his wife lives there, and it doesn’t make sense as a place to take a hooker. We ruled out a car, because Ashley’s autopsy report showed carpet fiber stuck to her hair and her abrasions—residential carpet, high-end stuff. We’re looking for an indoor crime scene. I got a break this morning when a local company confirmed tearing out and replacing the carpet on the entire first floor of this house on New Year’s Day.”

  “That would be just after Ashley’s death,” Mia said.

  “I know.”

  She took a deep breath. Here was where she could help.

  “I assume the CSIs peeled back the new carpet?”

  “They’ve been over everything with luminol, alternative light sources, the works.”

  “Nothing on the carpet pad? The concrete beneath?”

  “We got zip.” He met her gaze, and his eyes looked a little desperate. He must really have his butt on the line here.

  “Baseboards? What about wood floors? The grain typically holds blood years and years after the fact.”

  “Tile or carpet throughout the house. Like I said, we’ve been over all of it. The place is immaculate. And just to help us out, he’s got a maid who comes in every Monday, whether the place has been used or not. It’s a goddamn museum in there.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “We’re trying that, but the few we’ve got will probably come back to the maid, to Lane, his wife, his son, maybe even his friends or his kid’s friends.”

  “How old is the kid?”

  “Twenty-four,” Ric said. “He’s a grad student out in California.”

  “What about knives?” Mia tried. “Kelsey said the bones she examined showed signs of trauma consistent with a small serrated knife, like maybe a steak knife.”

  “We looked,” Ric said. “Nothing. Just your typical silverware set, twenty-four place settings.”

  “They do dinners for twenty-four but don’t have steak knives? That’s pretty unusual.”

  “No kidding. This guy’s got a four-thousand-square-foot lake house, only one sharp knife in the place, and it’s an eight-inch butcher knife in the kitchen drawer, smooth blade.”

  “Did you—”

  “We collected it anyway. Lot of good it’ll do us.”

  “Well, just the absence of knives seems suspicious.”

  “I can’t collar this guy for something he doesn’t have in his possession. Any other ideas?”

  Mia glanced over her shoulder at the house, wishing for a bolt of inspiration. She probably couldn’t add to the expertise of the CSIs already combing the place, but Ric needed her help, and she wanted to give it.

  “What about a boat?”

  “Two small boats, stored down by the water. A Sunfish and a kayak. We checked.”

  “Clothing? Shoes?”

  “Three pairs of duck boots, downstairs hall closet. His, hers, and the kid’s, judging by the sizes. Crime-scene tech went over them already, couldn’t find anything.”

  Mia shook her head. “What doesn’t make sense to me is the carpet. These killings would h
ave involved a lot of blood. It’s almost impossible to hide that completely. Even if you wash everything down with bleach, it would still show up with luminol. And the bleach itself is usually a telltale sign that someone’s trying to hide something. Did you try sink drains? Bathtubs? Shower tile grout?”

  “Check, check, and check. Nothing.” Ric rubbed the bridge of his nose. “As much as I hate to say it, I don’t think we’ve found our crime scene. Maybe the carpet thing was a coincidence.”

  “Big coincidence.”

  He glanced at his watch and cursed.

  “Bring us the butcher knife,” Mia said. “Our tool expert is a genius. He’ll take it apart, maybe find something in the crevice between the handle and the blade.”

  Ric looked deflated, and Mia ached for him. She hated to bring up the next point, but there was no getting around it.

  “Mark got the DNA results back,” she said.

  “Profile lifted from the shoe isn’t in the database,” Ric recited.

  Mia waited for him to add the rest. “Did he tell you about the contact lens?”

  “No.” Hope flared in his eyes, then instantly faded when he read her expression.

  “The DNA from the contact lens doesn’t match the blood drop,” she said. “So, assuming that the blood came from Laura Thorne’s killer, it’s not a match with Jeff Lane.”

  Ric squeezed his eyes shut and looked pained. “I am so fucking out of a job. How did I get so off track on this thing?”

  She didn’t say anything. She’d seen cases where a mountain of circumstantial evidence pointed to one person, and then DNA proved something different. The DNA won almost every time.

  Unable to hold back anymore, she reached out and touched his arm. It was just a friendly touch. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” she said. “I’ll keep thinking about it and call you if I get any ideas.”

  Ric stared glumly out the window, oblivious to her hand on his arm and everything else, it seemed.

  Mia cleared her throat. “I know now’s not a great time to ask, but how’s it coming on the other front? The shooter?”

  He looked at her, and his expression clouded. “We’re working on it. I thought we’d have an arrest today, be able to put the squeeze on Lane for a name. Hell, I was ready to waterboard him.” Ric shook his head. “That’s not happening, obviously. But we’re working some other leads.”