Hidden

by Laura Griffin

“I know.”

  “You have time to meet up?”

  She started to laugh. But then she remembered how annoyed she was with him.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Outside the building.”

  Bailey stopped on the landing and peered out the window. The Herald parking lot was nearly empty—only a dozen or so cars, mostly belonging to production people.

  “I’ll meet you at the bench by the newsstand,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  Bailey tucked her phone away. She combed a hand through her hair and dug a lipstick out of her bag. But then she changed her mind. She didn’t date cops. Even just flirting with a cop was a slippery slope.

  She took her time descending the stairs and crossing the lobby, giving the security guard a wave on her way out.

  She stepped into the sultry night air and spotted Jacob standing beside the bench. His gaze homed in on her, making her stomach do a little dance. As she approached, she saw that he wore the same scarred leather jacket he’d been wearing last night and had that same penetrating look in his dark eyes.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  Was it really? Maybe he’d pinged her phone to look up her location. She knew detectives could do that under certain circumstances. But she was probably being paranoid.

  He smiled slightly. “You told me you had the weekend shift, remember?”

  Bailey glanced around and spied his black truck parked at a meter along the street. “So, what’s up?” she asked.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the case.”

  “You’re aware that my deadline has come and gone, right?”

  “I figured.”

  She’d left him three messages, and he’d ignored every one. She didn’t like being blown off.

  But at least he was here. Better late than never.

  “So, how’d it go today?” she asked, referring to the autopsy. Judging from his grim expression, he knew that was what she meant.

  “Not like we wanted.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “What happened?”

  “Still no ID. But I’m guessing you heard that.”

  “I did, yeah.”

  He looked out over the parking lot. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She started walking, purposely not filling the silence with conversation. She wanted him to do the talking.

  “I assume you’ve got a story running tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “What’s your angle?”

  “Who says I have an angle?”

  “You always have an angle.”

  She looked at him. Was he saying he read her work? More likely, he was generalizing. Then again, she’d been covering the crime beat for almost a year, so maybe he’d caught a few articles.

  “We went with trail safety,” she told him. “I interviewed a bunch of regulars on the lake. Some of them talked about the emergency phones and the running buddy program. There’s speculation that this could be related to the string of muggings last month. Maybe the murder was a robbery gone wrong.” She looked at him. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “It’s possible.”

  “But not likely.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Bailey stopped beside her car. “You know, I really could have used your input this afternoon. Or this evening. I got stuck using a quote from your PR flack again.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you made it work.”

  “Why are you being friendly all of a sudden?”

  “All of a sudden?” He smiled again. “I bought you a Coke last night.”

  “Yeah, and then you ignored three messages.”

  His smile faded. “I need a favor. We have to get an ID on this victim. We’ve had some leads, but nothing’s panned out, and meanwhile the trail’s going cold.” He paused. “Don’t quote me on that.”

  “What is it you need?”

  “We’ve decided to release a photo, hoping the public can help us.”

  “A photo of the victim?”

  “No, her personal effects.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, brought up a picture, and handed it to Bailey. The phone was warm from his body heat, and holding it in her hand felt strangely intimate.

  The photograph showed a woman’s shirt, shorts, and running shoes laid out on a nondescript background—maybe a bedsheet or a piece of white butcher paper. Bailey’s stomach knotted. She owned a pair of sneakers just like the victim’s.

  “These aren’t actually her clothes.” Bailey glanced up at him.

  “These are duplicates of the clothes she was wearing. Same brand, same style, same everything. We’re hoping to jog someone’s memory.” He took the phone and swiped to a new picture. This one showed a drawing of a pair of earrings. “She was wearing these silver, leaf-shaped earrings, too.”

  “Those are lotus flowers.”

  “We’re hoping someone recognizes the jewelry, along with her clothes and shoes. Maybe they’ll give us a call.” His gaze locked with hers. “Will you ask your editor to run this?”

  “He’s gone for the night. But text me the pictures and I’ll call him at home. I’m sure we can at least get it in the online edition by tomorrow.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” He looked relieved as he tucked his phone into his pocket.

  “You guys must really be up against a wall.”

  “ID is critical. It’s hard to move forward without it.”

  Jacob ran a hand through his hair, and Bailey thought he looked tired. He’d worked late last night, too, and—unlike her—he probably wasn’t getting a comp day tomorrow to make up for losing his weekend.

  “So, you headed home now?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  So how about having a drink with me? Or dinner?

  But he didn’t say either of those things. He just gazed down at her with those serious brown eyes.

  “Thanks, Bailey.”

  “Sure.”

  “I owe you one.”

  She opened her car door and tossed her bag inside. “Don’t think I won’t remind you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  JACOB SLID BEHIND the wheel and watched in his rearview mirror as Bailey’s white Toyota pulled out of the parking lot.

  Guilt needled him. It was shitty to ignore her all day and then hit her up for a favor, but he couldn’t worry about that now. His top priority was identifying his victim so the case could move forward.

  Jacob started up his truck and pulled into traffic. After finding that keycard, he and Kendra had had it fingerprinted and then spent the better part of the day combing parking garages and apartment buildings near the lake, hoping to get a hit. The keycard didn’t have a logo on it, so Jacob doubted it came from a hotel. But after striking out all afternoon with every apartment building and garage within half a mile of the hike-and-bike trail, he’d decided they were wrong to rule out hotels.

  It was also possible the victim didn’t live near the lake at all. Maybe she’d taken an Uber to the trail or had a friend drop her off, and the keycard went to some building on the other side of town.

  Jacob cruised through traffic, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. He was hungry, tired, and more than a little frustrated after spending his day chasing down dead-end leads. Releasing a photo to the press was pretty much a Hail Mary, but he’d managed to convince his lieutenant that a tip from the public was their best chance of getting an ID sooner rather than later. Most female homicide victims were killed by someone they knew, often a domestic partner, so ID was critical. And even if this was a case where the victim didn’t know her attacker, Jacob needed to no
tify next of kin and learn everything he could about the victim’s routine so he could piece together what happened to her. The case was growing colder by the hour, and he didn’t even have a name.

  Jacob’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he pulled up to a stoplight. He recognized the number for the tech lab.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I’m working on that cell phone,” Luis said.

  Jacob heard music in the background and pictured Luis alone in the lab, surrounded by all his gadgets and listening to a concert on YouTube.

  “You get it to work?” Jacob asked.

  “Not yet. It’s a cheap-as-shit phone. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “No contract on this thing. It’s prepaid, so even if I get it working, which I probably can, you may not be able to get much off it. It doesn’t get email or anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “But here’s the good news. We lifted a print.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me and Marisa. I took the phone to her right after you brought it in here, and she dusted it and came up with a thumbprint.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “I know, right? I mean, with the water and all, I thought printing it was a formality, but Marisa got this off the inside.”

  “The inside?”

  “Yeah, the battery. And get this, the print matches your DOA. We just confirmed it with the ME’s office.”

  “So, you’re saying—”

  “Your victim’s print is on this phone. That’s what I’m saying. Looks like she lost it right before she died.”

  * * *

  * * *

  TABITHA DARTED ACROSS the busy street, ignoring an angry shout from a cabdriver. She stepped onto the sidewalk and passed another pub, sidestepping a pair of weaving tourists who’d just stumbled out. One of them called after her, but she pretended not to hear as she moved briskly toward the intersection. She hung a left at the corner and walked two more blocks, then checked over her shoulder for anyone following before ducking between two buildings. The dim alley smelled of urine. It was a gross shortcut, but she used it anyway because it spit her out near the bed-and-breakfast.

  She passed under a streetlamp. The rest of the road was dark, with giant oak trees blocking out the moonlight. She passed the tall white Victorian, where a porchlight illuminated hanging ferns and an empty swing. She passed three small bungalows—pink, yellow, blue—lined up like Easter eggs, with matching flower boxes and glowing lights above the doors. Another glance over her shoulder before she turned up the driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. No lights on in the windows, so Frank wasn’t home.

  Tabitha approached the carriage house, passing a messy old oak tree dripping with Spanish moss. No pastels here or cheerful blooms—just peeling white paint and a creaky staircase leading to her one-room apartment.

  The light above the door was out still, big surprise. She’d mentioned it to Frank, but he’d ignored her, of course.

  “Freaking cheapskate,” she muttered, digging through her backpack in the dark. She found her key, and it took her two fumbling tries before she got it in and unlocked the door. A slip of paper fluttered to her feet, and she grabbed it before the breeze could snatch it away. It was a message from Frank, no doubt, and she cursed him again for tromping all the way up here without bothering to bring a lightbulb. She tucked the message into her jeans pocket for later and stepped inside.

  Her apartment was an oven. She flipped on the light and the ceiling fan and eyed the silent AC unit that had sputtered its last breath during her first month here. Under any sane lease agreement, the landlord would have been required to repair the damn thing by now, given the triple-digit heat enveloping the city. But Tabitha didn’t have a lease agreement, only a spoken promise of discounted rent in exchange for work.

  Tabitha closed the door and flipped the latch. She sniffed the air for any hint of tobacco that would indicate Frank had been in her place while she was out, but it smelled only of mildew. With a sigh, she kicked off her sandals and dropped her backpack on the futon. The back of her tank top was damp with sweat, and she stripped down to her bra as she crossed the room to open the window. The pane stuck, but she jerked it up a few inches and used the can of tomato soup on the windowsill to prop it open. A faint whisper of air drifted through the screen.

  She returned to her backpack and retrieved the roll of cash from the inner pocket. Eighteen dollars. Pathetic. She opened the narrow closet and shoved the hangers aside to access the green peacoat she hadn’t worn in well over a year. Carefully, she pulled open the Velcro seam in the lining and slipped her hand inside the hidden pocket to pull out a thin stack of bills held together with a binder clip. She counted the money, added her tips, and replaced the stash.

  Tabitha flopped onto the futon and stared at the ceiling. The fan turned listlessly, barely stirring the air. For a minute she just lay there, listening to the cicadas outside as a bead of sweat slid down her temple and into her ear.

  She tugged the folded paper from her pocket. As suspected, it was a page from one of the freebie notepads in each of the bungalows. Sunset Oaks Bed & Breakfast was printed in formal script above Frank’s jerky scrawl: #201 202 203 #101 LATE checkout!!

  “Shit,” she hissed.

  Four units. And 101 included the garden, which entailed sweeping the patio and picking cigarette butts out of the planters. Late checkout meant she’d be doing everything after noon in the suffocating heat, too. She felt sticky just thinking about it. And she had to be at the restaurant by four.

  Eighteen dollars tonight. It was pitiful for a five-hour shift. Between both jobs, she’d put in sixty hours this week.

  Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, sixty hours had seemed like a tough workweek. But that was a lifetime ago. That was back before she had any real appreciation for her salaried job or her 401(k) plan or her air-conditioned office, which she’d once lamented not having a window, for crying out loud. Her routine back then had included venti lattes and sushi lunches and occasional happy hours with fruity drinks served in delicate martini glasses.

  Tabitha’s chest tightened. She closed her eyes against the hot burn of tears. She couldn’t give in to nostalgia. Or despair. She had to be practical.

  Never look back. Never, never, never.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in six hours. She dug into her backpack again for the brown to-go box. The hamburger and fries were cold, and she got up and popped the box into the microwave of her apartment’s tiny kitchen. Then she opened the mini fridge. The only contents were a blueberry yogurt and a half-finished bottle of chardonnay that had been left in 102 last week. She didn’t even like chardonnay, but she pulled out the bottle and poured a few glugs into a plastic cup.

  She took a sip and cringed. The sour taste lingered in her mouth as she tried to think. As of tonight, she had one hundred twenty-six dollars to her name. And it was time to leave. She’d meant to take off weeks ago, but the no-questions-asked waitressing gig combined with the daily perk of groceries left behind for the maid had made this place difficult to leave. So she’d given herself an extra week, then two, then three, even though she hated the heat and the never-ending bed linens and the drunken tourists with grabby hands.

  The microwave dinged. She opened it and noticed a thin line of sugar ants crawling across the counter. She picked up a dish towel and followed the trail from a box of cereal to the electrical outlet near the microwave. She had a charger plugged in there, and her cheap black cell phone sat ready to go at a moment’s notice. She hadn’t touched the thing in months.

  A little red light on the top of the phone was blinking.

  Tabitha stared at it. Her pulse quickened as she unplugged the phone and looked at the keypad. Her mind drew a complete blank, but her thumb seemed to remember the passco
de. Tabitha’s stomach clenched as the screen brightened with the words 1 NEW MESSAGE.

  She tapped the button and lifted the phone to her ear, holding her breath and watching the line of ants for what seemed like an eternity. She heard a faint rustle. Then panting.

  And the words she heard next turned her blood to ice.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  BAILEY’S MUSCLES BURNED as she cut through the water. She leaned forward and pulled with all her might, huffing out a breath as she dug hard with the oars. Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted the red buoy marking the dock. She leaned forward and completed another stroke, and another, and another, determined to finish strong as she blocked out everything—the boats, the paddleboards, the green blur of trees. Closing in on the red buoy, she gave a last powerful pull and let the boat glide.

  She tipped her head back and sighed. The morning sky was gray with clouds, and sweat seeped into her eyes as she stared up at it. Her heart thrummed. This was her favorite part, the part that made her get out of bed instead of hitting the snooze button. She liked the sky this time of morning. She liked the lake cool and peaceful, before the heat and the crowds and the traffic set in. She liked the feeling of being immersed in nature. This was her time. These few minutes on the water, feeling sweaty and spent, would power her through whatever challenges came her way throughout the day.

  Bailey looked over her shoulder. Past the pedestrian bridge was a row of cypress trees, and she tried to pinpoint the spot where the victim had been pulled from the water just hours ago. Had this place been her refuge, too? Had she come out here to relax and recharge? To push her body to the limit?

  What had she been thinking about in the minutes before she died?

  Maybe she’d been distracted, thinking about work or sex or overdue bills. Maybe she hadn’t been paying attention, and her killer had spotted her alone and vulnerable. Bailey liked it out here when there was no one around, and maybe the victim had, too. People always said never jog at night or in the dark, and especially not alone. But Bailey understood the allure.

  Sure, blame the victim. It’s her fault she came out here and got murdered.