Jacob replaced the glass and moved to the breakfast bar, where a short black charger was plugged into the outlet.
Jacob’s phone buzzed with a call from Kendra.
“What’d you find?” he asked her.
“You said Dana Anne Smith, Anne with an e, correct?”
“That’s what the paperwork says,” he told her. “She’s listed as the occupant, but the apartment is leased to an LLC.”
“Okay, get this. The name ‘Dana Smith’ came in over the tip line.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The caller saw the story on the news and recognized the pictures,” Kendra reported. “She says Dana works for her, but she didn’t show up today and hasn’t answered her phone all weekend. This woman lives over in Hyde Park and says Dana’s her nanny.”
“Four sixty-two Mockingbird Cove.”
Silence.
“Kendra?”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“There’s some mail to that address here in the apartment.” Jacob opened the fridge. An array of flavored soda waters filled the top shelf. Underneath was a six-pack of yogurt and a cardboard take-out container from Red Pagoda.
“Okay, so that’s confirmation,” Kendra said.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean? Everything lines up.”
“Something feels off.” He closed the door and zeroed in on a piece of paper stuck to the side of the fridge with a magnet. It was a drawing scribbled with green and pink crayon. Jacob had no idea what it was supposed to be. A tornado? A heart? Maybe the kid she took care of had drawn it for her. The magnet was from a local art museum.
“How do you mean ‘off’?” Kendra asked.
“This apartment’s odd. It’s in a prime location and it’s filled with nice stuff, but Dana Smith’s name isn’t anywhere. I’m not finding any bills, letters, check stubs, prescriptions. No financial paperwork, no receipts. No photographs in the place. No pictures on the walls. The closet’s half-empty, and she only has four pairs of shoes.”
“Five, counting the ones in evidence.”
“Okay, five.” Jacob stepped over to the window and parted the mini blinds. A line of clouds was moving in, and they might be in for some rain again today. “How many do you have?”
“What? Shoes?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Twenty pairs?”
“Right, and you don’t even like clothes. I’ve been in a lot of victims’ homes and this one is strange.”
“Maybe it’s a love nest, and she lives someplace else.”
Jacob had considered that, too. “What’s the employer say about Dana’s social life? She know if she had a boyfriend? There’s no evidence of a man here. No extra toothbrush or men’s clothes or condoms.”
“That was my first question, and no. This woman said she isn’t aware of anyone.”
“Friends?”
“Nope.”
“What about family in town?” Jacob asked.
“I asked about next of kin, but she doesn’t know. Said Dana had only been working there eight months.”
“So, she knows nothing about this woman, yet she trusts her with her kid. What’s this woman do for a living?”
“Her name’s Celeste Camden, and she’s an associate professor over at UT. Teaches cultural anthropology or something.”
“And her husband?”
“She’s a widow.”
There went another potential suspect.
“We need to get her in for an interview,” Jacob said.
“She’s on her way, and I asked her to bring photos. She said she has some of Dana and her daughter.”
Jacob combed his hand through his hair with frustration. He had a tentative ID, finally, but touring the apartment had teed up a whole new list of questions.
He returned to the kitchen and snapped a photo of the phone charger and a close-up of the cord. He wanted to see whether it was a fit with the phone recovered from the woods behind the juice bar.
“Jacob? You there?”
“I need to get back to the station and run some things,” he said. “Then I want to get forensics in here. This could be a secondary crime scene.”
“All right. Find me when you get here.”
Jacob returned to his car with the leasing agent’s key still in his pocket. He wanted to make sure he could get into the apartment again and didn’t want anyone else sweet-talking the agent into granting access.
Rain started to come down as Jacob headed across town. Dana Smith’s apartment felt off, and it wasn’t just the lack of clothes. People’s homes tended to have more personal touches, particularly women’s homes. It looked like Dana had just moved in, but according to the lease, she’d been there eighteen months. He’d have to come back and interview some of the neighbors.
Jacob’s phone dinged in the cup holder as he got a text from Bailey.
WORD IS U HAVE POSSIBLE IDENT?
He eyed the phone. Bailey clearly had some sources within the department. But they couldn’t be very high-ranking, or she wouldn’t keep hitting him up for info. He resolved to call her later when he firmed things up.
As Jacob pulled into the police station parking lot, his phone buzzed. The caller ID read US GOV.
“Shit,” he muttered. He slid into a space and picked up.
“Merritt.”
“Hey, it’s Morgan.”
Of all the government numbers that might have called him, he’d somehow known this would be his ex. He didn’t know whether she was in town or calling from the San Antonio field office.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said. “We need to meet.”
“I can’t do it right now. I’m in the middle of something.”
“It’s about Dana Smith.”
Jacob looked at his phone, startled. “Where did you get that? We haven’t even confirmed her ID yet.”
“You won’t,” Morgan said. “It’s an alias. She’s one of ours.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
THE COFFEE SHOP across from the federal courthouse was crowded, but Jacob spotted Special Agent Morgan Young immediately. At five eleven, she towered over the other people in line. As usual, she had her phone pressed to her ear, but she paused the call to place her order with the barista.
Jacob claimed a stool by the window. He had a view of the courthouse steps where a steady flow of prosecutors, paralegals, and harried-looking assistants streamed back and forth.
“Thanks for meeting me.”
Jacob turned around. Morgan wore a navy skirt and heels, which told him she planned to be in court later. And she was using her business voice, which told him to forget about kissing her hello.
“Hi.” He nodded at the empty stool beside him. She cast a glance at the coffee counter before taking the seat. Morgan had straight dark hair, and she’d chopped it since the last time he’d seen her almost a year ago.
“You plan to order anything?” she asked.
“No. Tell me about Dana Smith.”
She checked her phone before setting it facedown on the wooden counter. Then she glanced around the shop and leaned closer.
“I can’t tell you much,” she said in a low voice.
“Then why’d you call me?”
She tipped her head to the side. “Don’t get pissy. I’m doing you a favor here.”
“Is she an agent or a CI?” Jacob asked.
“Neither.”
A barista called out a skinny latte, and Morgan stood up. “Just a sec.”
He watched her get her coffee, and she used the opportunity to check her phone again before returning to the stool. She took a sip and wiped lipstick off the lid, and Jacob tamped down his impatience.
Morgan eased close again. “She’s WITSE
C.”
Jacob stared at her.
“But you can’t act like you know that,” she said.
“Right.”
“I mean it. I’m not even supposed to know.”
He leaned closer. “You’re telling me my homicide victim is in the federal witness protection program, but I can’t act on that information? Don’t you think this is relevant to my case?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course, but—”
“So, the murder was a hit.”
Her eyes turned fierce. “You absolutely cannot jump to that conclusion. It could have been a mugging gone wrong, like they’ve been saying on the news.”
“Okay, potentially a hit. Either way, it’s an avenue we need to investigate.”
“No, you don’t.”
He laughed.
“I’m serious, Jacob. This isn’t your case anymore.”
He tensed. “How’s that?”
“I heard Mullins is taking over.”
“Like hell.”
“He is.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already contacted your commander.”
Richard Mullins was in charge of the FBI’s satellite office in Austin, which had been expanding recently, along with the city’s population. Jacob had crossed paths with the guy before on a human trafficking case, and he wasn’t a fan.
Morgan glanced around and leaned close again. “The official line is that Dana Smith had a connection to an ongoing federal case, and therefore we’re taking over the investigation.”
“What about my team? We’ve already racked up a ton of hours on this thing, and it’s been all over the news. They expect us to just drop it?”
“That’s exactly what they expect. And that’s what’s going to happen. You guys will release her name, since it’s already out there anyway—”
“You said it was an alias.”
“That’s what I mean. Dana Smith. You guys will release that, and there will be a flurry of reporting, and then we’ll quietly take over from there, and the story will die down.”
“And we never make an arrest.”
“We’ll handle it.”
Jacob shook his head. “Not happening.”
She smiled slightly. “You’re not getting it, Jacob. It isn’t up to you. This has all been decided already. I’m just telling you, in confidence and as a personal favor, because I can’t stand for you to be kept in the dark. I know how invested you are with your cases.”
He watched her. Was that the real reason, or did she have some other agenda?
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing me this personal favor?”
She huffed out a breath. “Because. I respect you, all right? And even though things ended, we had six good months together.”
Jacob watched her, trying to read her eyes. She sounded sincere, but he’d learned she didn’t always tell him the full story, especially when it came to her job. Morgan was a workaholic. So was he. If either one of them hadn’t been, their relationship might have stood a chance.
She flipped her phone over. “I’ve got to get back. I’m supposed to testify in fifteen minutes.”
“Wait. I need more. What’s her real name?”
“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“How’d you guys hear about this?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing when someone ran those fingerprints, it triggered an alert with the Marshals Office.”
“What case was she a witness in?”
“I don’t know that, either. Everything I just told you, I picked up from an agent friend here in Austin, and he’d kill me if he knew we were having this conversation right now.”
“Where was the trial? Do you know that at least?”
She stared at him.
“Come on, Morg. Give me something.”
She checked her phone again and stood up. “I’m going to be late for court.”
“Morgan.”
“This is out of my hands, and it’s out of yours, too. You can’t control everything all the time, Jacob. You need to let it go.”
He held her gaze and waited. He saw the ambivalence in her eyes, and he knew she was well aware he wasn’t dropping anything. He was a detective. This was his case, in his city, and he wasn’t about to shrug his shoulders and let the feds take over and hope maybe one day they came up with an arrest. A woman had been murdered, and someone needed to be held accountable.
Jacob needed to be put on the task force investigating this thing. He’d pitch it to his lieutenant. They were going to need local help in order to move quickly.
Morgan was still watching him, debating whether to tell him more. She sighed.
“I don’t know for sure, but I heard something about Chicago.”
Jacob nodded.
“I could be wrong about that, and I could definitely get in trouble for giving you any of this.”
“Thank you.”
She shot him a warning look as she grabbed her coffee. “Don’t make me sorry I told you.”
* * *
* * *
BAILEY OPENED THE oven to check her dinner, but it still wasn’t ready.
“No hits,” Nico said over the phone.
“Which platform?” she asked.
“All of them.”
Bailey tossed the pizza box into the recycle bin. Her laptop computer was open on the bar, and she tapped the mouse to wake it up.
“What about Instagram?” she asked.
“I looked.”
“Facebook?”
“I looked.”
Thud.
Bailey glanced at the ceiling. Her upstairs neighbors had people over, and they were getting louder by the minute.
“How about Twitter?” she asked.
Nico said something, but she couldn’t hear him over the ear-grating guitar chords.
“What’s that?”
“I said, I checked everything, all platforms, even the ones no one uses anymore. Far as social media goes, it’s like she doesn’t exist.”
Nico was the Herald’s tech reporter. He knew a lot more about social media platforms that Bailey did, and she’d hit him up for help when her original search came up dry. She trusted his expertise but found it hard to believe there was nothing whatsoever about Dana Anne Smith, given that she was a twenty-five-year-old living in a tech-savvy city. Bailey clicked into the file where she’d been keeping notes about the case. Earlier today she’d added a name to the Victim section. Beneath it she typed social media—keep looking.
“Hey, are you having a party?” Nico asked.
“It’s my neighbor.”
“Your neighbor’s a Whitesnake fan?”
“He likes eighties hair bands.”
The music grew louder, and she glared at the ceiling.
“I need to get something,” she said, picking up her computer. She took it into the bedroom and closed the door, then sank onto the bed, where her cat was curled up beside her bathrobe. “Is she an undergrad? A grad student? Is she local? I don’t even know if this woman is from Austin. According to my police source, she doesn’t have a Texas driver’s license.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“Max wants a profile, but so far I’ve got crap here.”
“You sure she doesn’t have a nickname?” Nico asked.
“I’m not sure of anything except what we got at the press conference, and it was totally bare bones. All I have is her name and age. I don’t even have an address that would give me a place to knock on doors.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault, not yours,” she said. “Thanks anyway for trying. I owe you a favor.”
He
snorted. “I’ll add it to the list. See you tomorrow.”
Bailey tossed her phone on the bed and sighed. She scratched Boba Fett’s stomach, and he purred but didn’t open his eyes.
“This is pathetic,” she muttered as she scrolled through her notes. Tomorrow’s article would give the victim’s name and confirm that she’d been stabbed to death on Austin’s most popular hike-and-bike trail. She had a canned “ongoing investigation” quote from the police department spokesperson, plus some local reaction. But in terms of a follow-up profile, she had zilch.
Boba Fett stood up and stretched. Then he rubbed his chin on the corner of her computer screen.
“You smell something burning, Boba? Crap!”
Bailey leaped up and raced into the kitchen. She snatched a dish towel off the counter and jerked open the oven.
“Damn it!”
Her pizza was burned, and a glob of cheese had turned into a smoking cinder on the bottom of the oven. The smoke alarm shrieked as Bailey grabbed a spatula. She scraped the pizza off the rack and dumped it into the sink, then grabbed a flimsy folding chair from the kitchen table. She dragged it under the smoke alarm, taking care not to collapse the damn thing as she climbed up. She poked the button on the alarm, but the shrieking continued. Stomping overhead let her know she was disturbing the neighbors.
Bailey jiggled the alarm but couldn’t get it loose. Finally, she tore it from the ceiling and hopped down from the chair.
Stomp stomp stomp!
“Are you freaking kidding me?” she yelled at the ceiling.
They cranked the volume until her walls rattled.
Bailey stepped to the sink and examined the charred pizza. She hadn’t been to the grocery all week, and her freezer was empty.
“Screw it.” She dropped the smoke alarm onto the counter and strode into the bedroom. She pulled a tank top on over her sports bra and slipped her feet into sandals, then packed up her computer bag and locked the apartment. On the outdoor staircase she passed a college guy with a case of beer in each hand.
It was damp and muggy out, but at least the rain had stopped. Bailey passed a hamburger place with a line out the door and a busy convenience store with neon beer signs that glimmered off the wet sidewalk. The next two blocks were empty—just a long stretch of dark doorways. She held her computer bag close as she cast a wary look around.
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