Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

  A swinging door whooshed behind them and she realized Rachel had left. Now the work could begin.

  “I know you don’t want to remember.”

  “I don’t.”

  “If we can get him on paper, then maybe we can get him out of your brain and nightmares.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. “How’d you know he’s there?”

  “Men like him thrive in the shadows. They feed on our fear and they return over and over again if we don’t find a way to lock them behind bars.”

  She dropped her face to her hands. “Will he really go away?”

  Jenna felt herself moving to this woman’s corner. “We won’t know unless we try.”

  A ragged sigh shuddered from her small body. “Okay.”

  And so the two of them began the process of questions and answers. If Jenna had been back in Baltimore she’d have had access to facial identification catalogues or even a computer. But she only had her sketchpad and charcoal. Not as easy as she’d have liked it but also not impossible.

  At first Belinda sat straight, her hands fisted on the table. But as Jenna began to draw, the woman relaxed and with each swipe of the charcoal she became more drawn into the process.

  By the time they’d finished the sketch, it was nearly midnight and both were exhausted. Jenna’s back ached and a dull headache pounded behind her left eye, but she considered both a small price to pay for the image that now radiated from the page.

  Jenna turned the sketch around so that Belinda could get a clear view. “Is this the guy?”

  She stared at it for long, tense seconds before she finally nodded. “That’s him.”

  He was a man in his late thirties with a long, narrow face and sloping, wide-set eyes. Based on her description he was Caucasian with rough skin pockmarked by old acne scars.

  “I’ll give this to Rachel and see what she can do with it?”

  Her gaze sparked with hope and fear. “Do you think they’ll be able to find him?”

  She pulled a rag from her back pocket and wiped the black charcoal from her fingers. “I don’t know, but having a face will certainly help.”

  Belinda stared at the face. “I hate that face. I dream about it.”

  “Maybe not so much anymore.” Jenna rose. “You did a good job here tonight, Belinda. Try and get some sleep.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jenna moved to the door and pushed it open. Rachel sat at her desk, reading a brief. There was no sign of Deke or Rick.

  “We’re finished.”

  Rachel rose and moved toward the kitchen door. She followed Jenna back to the counter where Belinda sat. “How’d it go?”

  “Well.” Jenna tore the picture from her sketchpad and handed it to Rachel. “You have a face now.”

  Rachel studied the picture. “This image just might get us in the game for a sound defense.”

  Belinda nodded, too tired to smile. “I hope so.”

  “You need to sleep,” Rachel said. “I’ll run you home.”

  Belinda nodded and as she started to follow stopped and turned to Jenna. “Are you going to come back?”

  “Why would I?”

  “So I can tell you about the other man.”

  “What other man?” Rachel asked.

  “The one that stood in the shadows and watched while the other man raped me.”

  Rachel’s narrowing eyes suggested this was all new territory to her. “You never told me about the second man.”

  Frowning, Belinda shook her head. “I only just remembered him when I was talking to Jenna.”

  “Did you see him?” Jenna asked. Drawings could trigger memories.

  “No. Not really. I just heard his voice. He was telling that guy what to do to me.”

  “He was directing the rape?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “But you never saw him?” Jenna asked.

  Belinda seemed to consider the question. “Once very briefly. I got away from the first man and as I ran through the house, the other man was at the front door. He was locking the door and closing the drapes.” She pressed fingertips to her temples as if the memories pounded her brain. “When the rapist grabbed me and took me back to the bedroom, the second man turned and I saw him for a second or two.”

  “I could work with her,” Jenna offered.

  “That would be great.” Rachel glanced at the clock on the wall. “But it’s late. And Belinda, you’re exhausted. We’ll talk in the morning about this other man.”

  Belinda looked relieved and disappointed. “Okay. But Jenna will come back?”

  “Yes. I’ll come back,” Jenna said, offering the young girl a smile. “You did a good job.”

  As Belinda gathered her purse, Rachel studied the sketch. “This is very good, Jenna.”

  “Thanks. Hope it helps. Now if you don’t mind I’m heading home. I’m exhausted.”

  “Sure. You remember where you’re parked?”

  “I can manage.”

  Outside, Jenna glanced up at the clear night sky, savoring the twinkle of so many stars. Clear nights in the summer were rare. Humidity and heat usually wiped a thick haze over the sky, blurring and hiding the stars. But not tonight. Tonight, even with the lights from the city, the stars shone brightly.

  Energy buzzed in her system. She rolled her head from side to side. The Lost Girl had a face. A nameless attacker had a face. She’d made a difference, as she had in Baltimore. And it felt good.

  “So how’d it go?”

  Startled, she turned to see Rick push off a wall and move toward her with a steady, deliberate gait. He’d loosened his tie. A slight breeze caught the folds of his jacket brushing them back enough to offer a glimpse of his revolver. He radiated an energy that drew her. Damn. No. She would not even let her mind go in that direction. Hormones coupled with a crash of emotions had driven her into Mike’s arms weeks ago and that had been a mistake. She was not going to repeat the error.

  She cleared her throat. “It went well. We’ve the face of the first attacker.”

  A dark brow arched. “First?”

  She kept walking, fearing if she stopped she might be tempted to touch him. She really just needed to get some distance and clear her head. Jenna and Rick. Out of the blue, she pictured their names carved on a tree and nearly laughed at the image. “At the very end of the session she said there was a man directing the attack.”

  Rick’s gaze sharpened. “She get a good look at him?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to meet again. Maybe in a day or two when she’s rested. She’s so tired now and it’ll take her time to process what she remembered tonight.”

  He shook his head. “So Rachel really has a case and it’s not a bogus defense attorney move?”

  “Maybe. Belinda strikes me as genuine. I’ve been fooled before, but I don’t think so this time.”

  They moved down the sidewalk and cut down between the buildings, coming out into the lit parking lot where she’d parked her Jeep. He followed her all the way to her car and waited as she unlocked it and put her sketchpad and purse on the front seat.

  “Thanks for the escort, but I could’ve managed,” she said.

  “No extra trouble.”

  She lingered, the hormones tugging at her. “I guess you can get back to the paying work now?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve a portrait I have to finish by Friday. The subject is coming to see the final product. She’s a very high-strung bride who wants to display the portrait at her reception.”

  “Killers to brides. That’s a jump.”

  His deadpan tone made her laugh. “Both dangerous in their own ways.”

  For an instant, the hard lines of his face softened into a very appealing face. Those hormones hopped and jumped. Touch him. Just for tonight. This isn’t for keeps. Like buzzing flies, she swatted away the desire. “Thanks again for all your help, Jenna.”

  “Glad I could be of service.” She offered her hand. “Keep me posted on the ca
se. I’d really like to know what happens.”

  He wrapped a calloused hand around hers, squeezing and then holding her hand an extra beat. “Will do.”

  She pulled her hand free and slid behind the wheel of her car. Firing up the engine, she shifted into reverse and backed out of the space. With a final wave to him, she drove off, glancing once in the rearview mirror to see him standing and staring at her as she drove off.

  She didn’t play for keeps. It was safer that way. Easier. Rick did play for keeps, which put him in a league with the likes of Mike. Dangerous.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, August 17, 7 A.M.

  Rick and Tracker arrived early at work. Tracker was well rested. Rick had barely three hours under his belt and was feeling the fatigue in his stiff muscles. Last night after he’d dropped off Jenna at her car he’d doubled back to the office and read over Jonas Tuttle’s file again. What the hell about this open-and-shut case bugged him? Maybe it was because a guy like Tuttle, with a string of arrests, didn’t have the brains or temperament to pull off such a detailed operation. Had he been working with someone? And then something Jenna had told him about Rachel’s case stuck in his gut. She says another guy watched. He’d texted Rachel the picture, with the words: I will find him. It was after one in the morning but she’d responded almost immediately.

  Her text had read: If you can find him, I’ll buy you dinner.

  He’d studied the face Jenna had drawn of Belinda’s attacker and Tuttle. They weren’t a match but were the same type of petty criminal who turned violent on those weaker. Tuttle’s low-slung brow, the slightly drooping mouth, and the thick jowls hinted at his low intelligence. Was he the type of guy to stalk a woman for months, scout a crime scene, and then lure her to it? Neither man seemed the kind of guy who planned. This breed of assailant reacted on impulse. They didn’t plan.

  One committed the crime and one watched, maybe even planned. It made sense that Tuttle would have had some kind of handler.

  He sent Rachel’s sketch out with a BOLO, a Be On the LookOut, and shut off his desk lamp at two in the morning, no closer to an answer.

  Now, Tracker settled on his bed by the desk and Rick glanced at his desk to find another stack of files. They were cases of more missing kids. These files had come from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. The time span of the twenty-plus files covered the last thirty years.

  Bishop arrived minutes after he did, a cup of coffee in his hand. As he took a liberal sip, his gaze landed with weary resignation on the files. “Where did those come from?”

  “TBI.”

  “Since when do they offer up case files without a request?”

  “Remember that good ol’ boy network you hate so much? My brother Alex is TBI. I’d bet money he sent them.”

  Bishop studied the stack. “Even a bad system works from time to time.”

  Deke might have asked or Alex might have heard about the case. Either way, Rick knew Alex had sent the files. He didn’t want to be grateful. But he was.

  Rick shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Will take time to compare Jenna’s picture to the files. If we don’t get a hit with this batch, then I’ll go to Martinez.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  After arming himself with a strong cup of coffee, Rick cut the stack in two. Half went to Bishop and half to himself. The reading wasn’t easy. Little kids ranging from ages three to ten had vanished without a trace. The detectives of record in at least half the cases reported that the primary suspect had been a non-custodial parent involved in a nasty custody battle. Some of the kids just vanished. No arrests or bodies had been found in any of the cases. The kids had been little innocents who’d seen far too much darkness.

  An hour after reading and comparing file photos to the sketch, Rick had come up with nothing. No matches. Hell, not even a maybe. He reached for his coffee, found only dregs, and rose slowly, wincing as his hip muscles pinched. “You got anything?”

  “Nothing.” Bishop leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not a damn thing.”

  “Time to make a deal with the devil.”

  “Your good buddy, the reporter?”

  “Yeah. Looks like I’ve got to have a chat with Martinez.”

  “She said she’d help, so why the sour face? Boy Scouts don’t frown.”

  “There’s always a price to pay and this price is an exclusive on the Diane Smith murder.”

  “It’s an open-and-shut case. Jonas Tuttle stalked her and killed her.”

  Rick shook his head. “It just doesn’t feel right to me. Guy doesn’t have the wherewithal to hold down a job for more than a few months but he finds it in himself to stalk an intelligent woman, use sophisticated surveillance equipment, and then pull off a crime that leaves no trace evidence.”

  “Insanity can be a great motivator.” Bishop cracked his knuckles. “But I hear you. It’s doesn’t smell exactly right.”

  “The prostitute said he held a gun to her head almost as if he were practicing.”

  “And how quickly did he screw that up? She got away from him in a matter of minutes. He’s lucky she didn’t call the cops.”

  Bishop leaned back in his chair, clicking a pen he’d picked up from his desk. “So what’re you saying?”

  “He could’ve been working with someone. Maybe Jonas couldn’t keep his mouth shut and the other guy decided to clean up a loose end.”

  “Not out of the realm of reality but we’ve talked to her sister and coworkers. The only guy who had a beef with her was that dude in the association. Hacked over a tree. And his story about the Italian restaurant checked out.”

  “It wasn’t him. The tree came down weeks ago. Jonas, or somebody, had been stalking Diane for months.”

  Rick shook his head and turned from the files of lost children. “Maybe it’s easier to raise questions about Jonas than to think about these files.”

  Bishop glanced at the files with a deflated, almost sad look in his eyes. “Fuckin’ eh.”

  Rick grabbed his jacket dangling from the back of his chair. Tracker looked up. “I’m going to see Martinez. Her broadcast will get us some exposure and maybe a hit.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “Is that an offer to help?”

  “No. I just want away from these cases.”

  “Naw, this devil dance is all mine. But I did put out a BOLO last night. See if we’ve got any hits.”

  “What’s the case?”

  He explained the story behind the sketch Jenna had done last night and his theory about two perps working together.

  “That’s one hell of a tall tale, Boy Scout.” Bishop shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Tall tale.”

  “Fine, I’ll check on it later.”

  Bishop held up his hands. “I’ll ask about your BOLO. Do my heart good to bust a rapist.”

  “Cop therapy.”

  Bishop flexed his fingers. “The only kind I subscribe to.”

  The drive to the television station took less than fifteen minutes and he’d intentionally timed his visit so it didn’t conflict with the noonday broadcast. One word to the receptionist and she made a quick call that summoned Martinez from the back of the studio. The doors whisked open and she appeared, dressed in a formfitting royal-blue dress. As always, she looked perfect. Each piece of her jewelry coordinated and he imagined she was the type to plan out every detail of her week in advance, including her clothes.

  After a few pleasantries, she escorted Rick and Tracker to a back conference room. As she closed the door with a soft click, she turned and asked, “So what do you have for me?”

  Rick laid a manila folder on the table and opened it. Inside lay copies of the two sketches Jenna had drawn of the Lost Girl. “This is the likeness of the child I mentioned.”

  Martinez picked up the smiling face and stared at it with an assessing gaze. “Your artist works fast and is very
talented.”

  “We were lucky to find her.”

  Martinez studied the image without a smile and then she placed the two side by side. “Very talented. Someone will recognize this image. It’s a matter of getting it on the air.”

  “I agree. I think we’re going to find that a grandmother or a neighbor remembers that she was there one day and gone the next.”

  Martinez laid her palm on her chest as if easing the beat of her heart. “Such a pretty girl. And the eyes. The artist really brought her to life with the eyes.”

  Jenna had said she’d struggled with the eyes as if she knew nailing them was the key.

  Martinez tapped a manicured finger on a set of small initials scrawled on the bottom-right corner of the picture. JT. “I still want to meet the artist and profile her.”

  Rick tamped down a rush of protective energy. Jenna hadn’t asked for his protection nor did he imagine she needed it but, like it or not, she had it. “Is that necessary?”

  “As I said the last time, the artist will add a living dimension to the story. Some people will look at the face of the child and we might get a hit but if I can profile the artist, then suddenly I have two stories rolled into one. I have a living, breathing person who took time and energy to bring this child to life, so to speak. There aren’t more than thirty artists in the country and I know the few in Tennessee. JT doesn’t match their names.”

  “She’s not with any Tennessee agency. She’s from out of state.”

  Dark eyes sparked with interest. “Is she still in the area?”

  His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

  She sat back and looked at him, relaxed and at ease. He suspected she’d ask the Devil for iced water if she found herself in hell. “Interviewing JT will turn a quick flash of an image into a human interest story. I would like to meet the person behind the face.”

  “I told her you might want an interview. She’s agreed.”

  “When?”

  Rick reached for his cell, not sure why all this bothered him. “I’ll call.” He found her number in his phone and hit CALL. The phone rang once. Twice. A part of him hoped she didn’t answer. Press exposure never led to good things.