by T. R. Ragan
Adelind stood. “Jerry’s my manager. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
Jessie watched her take brisk steps back into the air-conditioned bank. About to get up and go, Jessie had a weird feeling she was being watched. She examined the cars parked at the curb: A Jeep with fancy hubcaps. Silver Acura with a dent in the driver’s door. Beat-up Nissan truck without a bumper or a license plate. And so on and so on. Every vehicle was empty. Her gaze drifted to the luxury apartments. Eight stories high. Some of the windows were covered with blinds or curtains. Some open and some closed. Her gaze roamed over the apartments until she spotted a shadowy figure. Her skin prickled. Someone was standing at the window in the center apartment on the sixth floor. If she’d had her backpack with her, she would have pulled out her binoculars to get a better look.
But this wasn’t her day. She didn’t have her backpack, camera, or anything else of any use, so she stood and walked away without so much as a backward glance.
TEN
“Not now. I’m busy,” Ian Savage said without looking up.
Ben Morrison ignored his boss and took a seat in front of Ian’s rough wood desk, which he’d made from a fallen oak tree. Tall and reed thin, the man was nearing seventy. In a crowd, or anywhere for that matter, you couldn’t miss his abundance of silver hair. Old woodsy cologne came off him in waves, which always made Ben think the old man had more than one gargantuan bottle of the stuff hidden away at home.
“This will only take a minute,” Ben told him.
Ian continued to search through files and papers stacked in front of him, ignoring Ben completely. He was always misplacing something, always grumpy and seemingly discombobulated.
“I want to do a serial story. Just enough words every week to keep readers wanting more.”
Ian’s reply came out sounding like a grunt, which motivated Ben to continue. “I want to investigate the disappearance of a young woman who went missing ten years ago,” Ben said. “But first some backstory. Two sisters are abandoned by their mother. Father takes to drinking. Teenage daughter gets pregnant. After one DUI too many, Dad goes to jail. Older sister drops out of school to try to help her younger sister with baby. Younger sister goes out one night and never returns. Ten years later, she’s still missing.”
“Just like more than half a million other missing people in the United States,” Ian muttered as he placed all the papers and files back into one tall stack and started his search again.
“No,” Ben said. “This is different.”
“How?”
“We’re the number two rated paper in Sacramento.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“CSI and Cold Case TV are two of the most popular shows right now,” Ben continued. “The Cole sisters were born and raised right here in Sacramento. Sophie Cole disappeared and was never heard from again. Her older sister, Jessie Cole, never returned to school to get her degree. Do you want to know why?”
“No.”
“Because she never stopped looking for her sister. For the first two years, she worked closely with the police. Then she became a private investigator. Ten years after her sister disappeared, she’s still a PI. She works out of an office not too far from here.”
Ben knew Ian well enough to know he was interested because he kept glancing his way before pretending to examine the same piece of paper. He was curious but determined as always to play hardball.
“Yesterday,” Ben told him, “Jessie Cole was following Parker Koontz through Capitol Park. Koontz fired off two shots, and Cole fired back. Koontz is in critical condition.”
Ian looked up. “That’s the woman you’re talking about, huh?”
Ben nodded. “Koontz is a criminal defense attorney. From what I’ve read about him, he’s well respected in the community.”
“So, what exactly are you selling here?”
“This would be Cold Case TV on paper and all over social media. This will be a story about a family, two sisters born and raised right here in Sacramento. One’s missing. The other won’t stop looking.”
“How are you going to find the time for this project?” Ian asked. “Maybe you could help Gavin out with the Heartless Killer case.”
Ben raised his hands, palms up. “The last thing we need around here is another dead-in-the-water story about a serial killer who’s been given the wrong nickname.”
“What’s wrong with the Heartless Killer?” Ian wanted to know. “One of his victims was stabbed in the heart, wrapped in Christmas lights, and left under the tree for her family to find. Another victim, also stabbed in the heart, with a screwdriver I might add, was placed in the middle of a pumpkin patch, right where all the little kindergarteners could find the body. And the most recent victim they found had her heart ripped out of her chest. I would call that heartless.”
Ben grunted. “Human nature demands that everything be given a label. The Heartless Killer has been around for seven years—”
“Six,” Ian cut in.
“Okay, six. His original victims had bite marks; another had her eyelids removed. What about the guy with dead insects stuffed inside his nostrils, and—” Pain sliced through Ben’s skull, like a lightning bolt striking his brain. He grabbed both sides of his head and squeezed his eyes shut. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman’s naked body stretched out in a field of tall green grass. If not for the thin red line across her throat and her bloodless face, he would have thought she was alive.
“Hey,” Ian said, worried, “are you okay?”
Ben opened his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “Damn migraine.” He shook off the image. “The point is the killer could have been given any random nickname, so why bother? How about the Phantom, since some say he doesn’t exist at all? Four years ago the woman who escaped before he could drag her into the woods told detectives the man sang ‘Hound Dog,’ so why didn’t they call him Elvis?”
Ian nodded. “See? You could help put another spin on this whole thing.”
“The public is tired of the same old thing. They want to be entertained.”
Before Ian could say another word, Ben swiped a hand through the air as if to erase all this nonsensical talk before continuing on with his original reason for entering Ian’s office. “Back to the Sophie Cole case. My focus will be on the missing sister and my own investigation into finding out what happened to her. The media attention surrounding the shooting in the park will merely be icing on the cake, pulling readers in, making them eager to know more.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “People will get to know Jessie Cole through your eyes.” He waggled a crooked finger at Ben. “If you do this right, everyone will want to know what happened to Jessie Cole’s sister.”
“That’s right.” Ben shrugged. “What do we have to lose?”
Ian smiled. Not something he did often. “You should take a look in the mirror right now, because you look a lot like the Ben Morrison I interviewed twenty years ago.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Determined, passionate . . . two of the reasons why I hired you on the spot.”
Ben used to wonder a lot about that Ben Morrison, the man he used to be but could no longer remember. He pushed himself to his feet and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” Ian asked.
“You’re busy, and I need to get started if I’m going to have the first thousand words on your desk by Monday.”
“Did you hear me say yes? Did those words ever come out of my mouth?”
“I didn’t hear you say no,” Ben said as he made his exit.
ELEVEN
Fatigue was setting in by the time Jessie arrived at the building on Nineteenth Street where she rented a two-hundred-square-foot space for $400 a month. It was the smallest office in the building, but the only one that had a window facing the street. The best part was that it was only a block and a half away from where she lived.
She blew at a light coating of dust on the stainless steel sign on the do
or that read: JESSIE COLE DETECTIVE AGENCY. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing she’d done after finding the place was paint the walls light gray and install white crown molding, making it look up-to-date and professional. Her desk, a sturdy piece of wood with four steel legs, faced the door. The window overlooking the street was to her right and provided a lot of natural light. A row of filing cabinets against the wall took up most of the space. The nicest piece of furniture was her client chair. She’d found it on a street corner with a sign that said, TAKE ME. So she had. It was a polyester blend fabric with no stains and only one small tear underneath the seat cover that nobody could see unless they turned the chair upside down.
She had a vent in her office but no thermostat to control the airflow. Although it was hotter than hell outside, it was freezing inside. She grabbed a sweater from the hook behind the door, then settled into her mesh swivel chair behind her desk, pulled out her cell phone, and went through her messages.
Before the unfortunate event in the park, business had been picking up. Although her clients varied, including the occasional husbands or wives who paid her to keep a close eye on their spouses, she preferred to focus on cold cases and missing persons. Jessie had started her PI business serving subpoenas and doing subcontracting work for companies that wanted proof that an employee wasn’t injured and shouldn’t be collecting workman’s compensation. Ever since she’d located fifteen-year-old Tonya Grimm, though, a girl who had been missing for two weeks, hiding out at a friend’s house to avoid her parents’ constant bickering, the public tended to think finding people was her expertise.
The first message on her phone was from an angry woman who called Jessie a killer. Her stomach tightened. She thought of the man lying in the hospital and wondered if she deserved this woman’s ire. She’d done everything by the book. She’d pulled out her weapon to defend herself and others. She had a license to carry, and she never worked a case thinking she’d have to do anyone harm. She hit “Delete.” The second message was also from a woman, but she’d called to congratulate Jessie for taking down one more douchebag in the world. Jessie sighed. The last three callers were interested in hiring her to do investigative work.
By the time she’d returned calls, answered new ones, paid bills, and sent out invoices for services rendered, she had a couple of potential new clients. She looked at the clock, surprised that it was already four. She wanted to talk to Parker Koontz’s partner, David Roche, but she decided to put that off until tomorrow. As she readied to leave, her cell rang. She picked up the call as she headed out the door.
“Is this Jessie Cole?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Ben Morrison, crime reporter with the Sacramento Tribune. I was hoping you had some time to talk.”
She’d known the press would call sooner or later. Parker Koontz was well known, an established lawyer in the area. If she ignored the press, they usually became more determined. Better to deal with it now and get it over with. “I have a few minutes right now.”
“I’d prefer to meet in person. Would tomorrow work?”
Jessie sighed. “Does this have to do with Parker Koontz?”
“I’m calling about your sister, Sophie.”
He had her attention. She walked back into her office and took a seat.
“I happened to watch an old episode of Cold Case TV the other night when they aired your story,” he told her. “At the end of the show, they mentioned that there have been few leads and that Sophie has yet to be found.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m calling because I’m interested in doing a story about you and your family. I would also like to conduct my own investigation on your sister’s disappearance.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Well, you were born and raised here in Sacramento. Our readers enjoy hearing about locals. And the public is also fascinated with cold cases.”
“I see.”
She was about to turn down his offer when he said, “There’s also a possibility that I knew your sister.”
A chill raced up her spine.
If he’d known Sophie, his name would have come up at some point in the past decade, wouldn’t it? After her sister had disappeared, she’d done everything possible to get the media involved, but there was always something more interesting going on in the world, and the police received hardly any tips. Since Jessie had been taking care of Olivia during the day and working nights, she didn’t know who Sophie hung out with other than a woman named Juliette. And Juliette had told her that Sophie was a loner and had few friends.
She still didn’t know the identity of Olivia’s father. There were only two men Jessie had talked to in the past ten years who admitted to having spent time with Sophie. One of those men told Jessie outright that her sister liked sex, plain and simple. He said she would hang out at one bar or another, looking for someone to show her a good time. And it never took her long to find what she was looking for. The other guy she’d talked to hinted at the same thing. Both fellows agreed to take a lie-detector test and have blood drawn. Neither ended up being Olivia’s father, and both were telling the truth about not having seen Sophie in the weeks leading up to her disappearance.
“Are you there?” Ben asked.
His voice gave her a jolt. “I’m here.” Her mind swirled with speculation. “Can you tell me where you met my sister?”
“It’s complicated.”
If he knew anything at all about Sophie, then she needed to meet with him.
Jessie looked at her calendar. “How about tomorrow at ten o’clock in my office?” She gave him the address.
“I’ll see you then.”
She hung up the phone and turned on her computer. She typed his name into the search bar and hit “Return.” The name Ben Morrison popped up in a long list of search items.
She clicked on the first link.
Just like he’d told her, he worked for the Sacramento Tribune. His bio talked about him being a family man who’d been married for nine and a half years. He and his wife had two children—a boy and a girl. Apparently he’d been in a horrific car accident near Blue Canyon, past Colfax.
Wow, Jessie thought. Six months after his accident, he married the nurse he’d met at the hospital where he’d been recovering. Interesting.
She read on. He’d escaped the burning vehicle but suffered severe head trauma along with third-degree burns on more than half of his body. He was eventually diagnosed with retrograde amnesia, which prevented him from accessing memories prior to the crash. But he’d said he might have known Sophie. Did that mean his memories were returning?
She clicked on images of Ben Morrison.
He was a big man, broad-shouldered and tall, at least three inches over the six-foot mark. He had a square jaw and hooded eyes. He would be hard to miss in a crowd and easy to recognize tomorrow when he came to visit. Something about him, though, gave her goose bumps. Maybe it was the hawkish stare or the fact that he wasn’t smiling in any of the pictures. Whatever it was, she told herself she would have to be cautious.
Did she really want a stranger’s help?
Yes, she wanted answers. Yes, she wanted to know where her sister was. But the idea of having her family’s story dragged through the mud and left wide-open for public scrutiny when Olivia was starting high school didn’t sit well with her.
Damn. She never should have agreed to meet with the man.
She thought about calling him back, then changed her mind. If Ben Morrison knew anything about her sister’s disappearance—anything at all—then she needed to know what it was. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder whether her sister was dead or alive.
TWELVE
Colin stood on the side of a frontage road that ran parallel to Highway 80. This morning’s briefing concerning the Heartless Killer case had been short. A career criminal apprehension team (CCAT) would continue to work surveillance and talk to witnesses from past cri
me scenes connected to the killer in hopes of coming across a new lead.
Unlike mass murderers, whose rage often erupted in one catastrophic act of vengeance, serial killers did whatever they could to escape detection. Even with the advancement of investigative techniques, there was only so much forensics could accomplish. Unless the killer was betrayed by an accomplice, identified by a relative, or grew overly confident and, in turn, increasingly careless, he could go on killing for years to come. It had been documented that about 20 percent of all serial killers were never brought to justice for their crimes.
It was times like this that Colin felt for every detective who’d worked the case and would never get back time missed with loved ones.
Six years. Thirteen victims—that they knew of—and one frustrating dead end after another. He’d known what he was getting into when he’d become a police officer and then an investigator. He knew about the potential dangers, the long and irregular hours, and the stress that came with such a position. But chasing after a killer who’d been plucking victims from the street for years on end made him feel powerless.
Shortly after the briefing, Colin had gotten word of a missing girl from Elk Grove, a city in Sacramento County south of the state capital. As he stood there now, he watched the tow truck drive off with Erin Hayes’s Subaru attached to the flatbed. The girl had been missing for forty-eight hours. Her car would be taken to the lab, where they would check for fingerprints, traces of blood, and hair and fibers.
There wasn’t much traffic in the area. No witnesses so far. Footprints outside the driver’s door appeared to belong to Erin. They would know more later.
Levi Hooper with the forensics unit finished talking to the photographer, then headed Colin’s way. “No trace evidence as far as I can see with the naked eye.”
“If those are Erin’s footprints,” Colin said, following the path with a pointed finger, “which is likely, she never walked to the back of the car to check out the flat tire, and she didn’t walk along the side of the road, either.” He pointed at the distinct prints in the dirt. “The shoe prints disappear onto pavement, which tells me someone showed up and gave her a ride immediately after she got the flat.”