by Mary Burton
“He took her?”
She shrugged. “He took her away. I never knew where. He took her away and I never saw her again.” She looked up at him, her gaze pleading for forgiveness he could never give.
“Did he hurt her?” Rick asked.
She glanced up, her gaze wild, bloodshot and watery. “No. He loved her. He just took her away.”
The likes of Danny Briggs trampled children in their wake.
Rick nodded to Bishop, who quickly grabbed hold of Loyola’s handcuffed arms.
But Rick shook his head. Until he had a confession or a solid witness statement, he didn’t want to lose the fragile trust Loyola had given him. “Loyola, we need to go downtown.”
“Why do we need to go anywhere? And I’ll be good without the handcuffs, I promise.” She looked at Bishop and then Rick, pleading.
Rage roiled in Bishop’s gaze and, for a moment, he looked as if he would respond with a harsh comment. But he caught Rick’s warning glare and fell silent. Rick didn’t question his partner. They all had those moments, those cases that struck deep nerves that could paralyze with pain and anger.
“We need to talk more,” Rick said. Until he squeezed every bit of information he could out of Loyola, he’d play nice. Sometimes you have to dance with the devil to solve a case. How many times had he heard his father say that? “Bishop, remove the handcuffs.”
Bishop’s glare darkened, but he fished the keys from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.
Rubbing her wrists, Loyola looked up at him, her gaze bewildered and confused. “I told you what I know.”
Rick shook his head. He wanted to know how a woman could allow a goon like Briggs around her child let alone allow the man to take her away. “My guess is there’re a few more details.”
After Rick and Bishop found drugs on Loyola Briggs, a violation of her parole, they booked her in the jail. The charge wouldn’t hold her long, but at least that had her location nailed down for no less than twenty-four hours.
Danny’s parole officer got a wake-up call at four in the morning. He’d been groggy, his voice deep with sleep, but he’d promised to head into the office and pull Danny’s file.
Two hours later when Rick got a call from the parole officer, he had had a chance to swing by his house for a quick shower and to pick up Tracker. Armed with a last-known address for Briggs from the parole officer, Rick and Tracker swung by the office and picked up Bishop.
Tracker sat alert in the backseat when they parked in front of the one-story clapboard house covered in a blend of old paint and mold.
Bishop glanced at the house and the pile of garbage by the front door. “Delightful.”
Tracker’s gaze looked at the house and he barked again.
“What’s with the dog?” Bishop asked.
Rick and Tracker shared a strong connection and he’d learned long ago if the dog was barking he needed to pay attention. “I don’t know.”
Rick got out and opened Tracker’s door. The dog barked.
Bishop slid out of his seat. “Why you bringing the dog?”
“He’s restless. Don’t worry, he’ll behave.”
Bishop slammed his door.
When Rick and Bishop banged on Briggs’s house door, Tracker sat at the bottom of the stairs, his ears perked and his gaze bright. It was seven in the morning.
No one answered. Rick banged again.
Bishop stood back, flexing his fingers. “I’m looking forward to meeting this guy.”
Rick shook his head slowly. “Let me do the talking. You’re angry and that’s not good.”
“Aren’t you angry?” Bishop asked.
“Yeah. But I’m better at locking the anger away until I’m ready to pull it out.”
Bishop’s jaw tensed. “I’ll be fine.”
Rick met his gaze. “I do the talking.”
“Understood.”
Rick hammered his fist on the door. “Police. Open the door.”
A light clicked on inside and the shuffle of feet moved toward the door seconds before it opened to a woman. In her late thirties, she had light brown hair, bloodshot eyes ringed with day old mascara, and pockmarked skin. “What do you want?”
“We’re looking for Danny Briggs,” Rick said.
She coughed. “He left yesterday. Took off like a bat out of hell.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Cindy Gavin. I’m his girlfriend for lack of a better word.”
“Mind if we search the place?”
She wore a silk robe that gapped slightly at her breasts. Smiling, she opened the door wider and stepped back. “Help yourself. He ain’t here.”
The two officers moved into the small house. It was decorated in a cat theme from the black carpet to the leopard drapes to the striped wallpaper. Pictures of lions and tigers hung on the wall. Mugs on the kitchen counter were striped like a tiger. While Bishop stood in the living room with Cindy, Rick searched the house. There was no sign of Danny Briggs.
Rick emerged from the bedroom. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Nope. Just packed a bag and took off.”
“Why’d he leave?”
She shrugged. “We were watching television, the news came on, and he got real sick-looking.”
“What was on the news?”
“I don’t know. I was reading a magazine. He was waiting for a sports score update and then there was some news story about an artist and he was gone.”
The story about Jenna and the Lost Girl had spooked Danny. “Any idea where he might go?”
“He’s been staying with me since he got out of prison. He’s got a few friends from before he went up. I guess he’s with one of them.”
“You have names?” Rick asked.
“Yeah, sure.” She rattled off several names as she reached in the pocket of her robe and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one. “What’s he done now? Guy’s got a hot head and isn’t afraid to use his fists.”
“He ever mention anything about a kid or a wife?” Rick noticed the faint yellowing of a fading bruise on Cindy’s wrists as if they’d been gripped hard.
“No. You telling me he’s got a wife or a kid looking for him?”
“Not exactly,” Rick pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “We’ll track down his friends, but if you see Danny, call me.”
She flicked the edge of the card as she raised the cigarette to her mouth with the other. “He’s really screwed up this time, hasn’t he?”
“He sure did,” Bishop growled.
Rick smiled, no hint of anger. “Let’s just say we got a few questions for him. And you’d be wise to call if you see him.”
“Yeah, sure. Why not? He’s a pain in the ass and it would be great to get him out of my life.”
The detectives turned and started for the car when Tracker glanced past Rick to the side of the house. The dog began barking loud.
Bishop glared at the dog but Rick immediately reached for his weapon and whirled around. Following Tracker’s gaze toward the side of the house, he instantly saw the flash of a gun muzzle as a tall man stepped out of the shadows.
“Drop your weapon!” Rick shouted.
Bishop reached for his gun just as the man in the shadows raised his gun.
With Tracker barking angry and loud, Rick pointed his weapon. “Drop your gun now!”
Bishop leveled his gun. “Drop it! Now!”
The man hesitated and then, seeing he was outgunned, lowered his gun to the ground. He raised his hands.
Bishop raced toward the man, gun drawn. “On your belly now!”
The man held up his hands over his head and dropped to his knees as Bishop kicked the gun away. Rick reached for his cuffs and secured the man’s hands behind his back. Rick rolled him to his back.
No missing the man’s identity. He matched the picture the parole officer had on file.
“Danny Briggs,” Rick said. “Thought you were out of town.”
He reek
ed with the stench of whiskey and cigarettes. “What the fuck do you want with me?”
“The gun alone is enough to send you back to prison, Danny.” Adrenaline surged in his veins.
“The gun’s just the start,” Bishop said.
“Fuck,” Briggs said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Bishop grabbed the man by the collar and twisted the fabric in his fist. “Then tell me where we can find your daughter Heather.”
The sound of the girl’s name had his gaze narrowing. “I want a lawyer.”
“I bet you do.”
Twenty minutes later Briggs and his girlfriend were in the back of a squad car. As Bishop spoke to a uniformed officer, Rick leaned against the car and looked down at Tracker who now played with his rubber chew toy—his reward for his work.
“Did real good, T. Real good. We still got the moves.”
After Bishop spoke to the uniformed officer, he moved toward Rick and Tracker. He paused, rested his hands on his hips, and studied the dog. He worked his jaw as if chewing on nails. “I owe you two both.”
“Thanks goes to Tracker. He’s the one that sounded the alarm.”
“Yeah.” He met Rick’s gaze, a mixture of relief churning with humility. “And you listened to him. Thanks.”
Rick nodded. “Anytime.”
Rachel Wainwright arrived at the justice center just after seven A.M. She glanced over at Detective Deke Morgan who sat behind the wheel of the SUV. He stared ahead, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“No, but someone has to do it.” She’d gotten a call early this morning from the public defender’s office regarding a case. A woman, believed to be the Lost Girl’s mother, had been arrested. Her name was Loyola Briggs and police believed she’d killed the child or knew who did. Cops had yet to prove a biological connection between Briggs and the child, but mitochondrial DNA, DNA passed from mother to child, would determine if the cops had arrested the right woman. Right now, Loyola Briggs was being held on a parole violation.
“Rick believes she’s guilty.” The scents of soap and aftershave wafted around Deke.
Rachel liked the mornings best when the day was fresh and hope had been renewed. This morning had started off nice but had soured with the public defender’s office. “Test results have yet to confirm a connection to the woman. And Rick told you last night that he and Bishop arrested Danny Briggs.”
“That doesn’t mean Loyola Briggs is innocent.”
“Maybe.”
He turned toward her. “You’re an idealist.”
She shrugged. “It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.”
A smile tweaked the edges of his lips. He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you.”
She touched the side of his face, savoring the strong set of his jaw. “I love you.”
“Try not to piss off too many people today.”
She laughed, feeling stronger knowing he might not like what she did, but could accept it. “Honey, that’s what I do best. See you tonight.”
“Can’t wait to hear about your day.”
Out of the car, Rachel showed her ID and the guard glanced up at her. Defense attorneys, even one dating a homicide cop, didn’t win any popularity contests in this system. “Morning, Lee.”
He arched a brow as he sent her purse through the scanner. “So what fine citizen brings you here today, Ms. Wainwright?”
She could play coy, but there was little point. They’d all know before she left. “Loyola Briggs.”
“The baby killer.”
She cringed, knowing a moniker like that, especially if picked up by the media, would have her client convicted before they got to trial. “She’s not been charged with murder. From what I understand, she’s being held on a minor drug charge and parole violation.”
“That’s temporary.”
She walked through the scanner, and picked up her briefcase and purse. She’d learned not to argue with the guards. No point. When it came time to argue this case, she’d try it in court, not in the hallways or by the water cooler.
She made her way to the visiting room and took a seat at a metal table and bench that were bolted to the floor. This early in the morning, few families visited. This was the time of day for defense attorneys like her to call on a client before court.
She pulled a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase as the deputy opened the door and escorted in a petite, paper-thin brunette with hollow cheeks. Smudges darkened the skin under her eyes and her hands trembled.
Rachel attributed the shakes not to fear but to alcohol or drug withdrawal. She wasn’t so naïve that she thought her client was innocent, but she believed in the right to a valid defense. Everyone deserved her day in court.
The female deputy walked the woman up to the table. “Are you Ms. Briggs’s attorney?”
“I am.”
A dark brow arched. “I see you a lot down here.”
Rachel had slept little last night and her patience had thinned to breaking. “I get around.”
What she didn’t add was that the city had tossed her several tough cases since her very controversial handling of the Jeb Jones case last year. Though DNA had definitively cleared her client of a thirty-year-old murder conviction, many didn’t like the fact that she’d bucked the system and won.
The deputy was too professional to speak her mind, but the hardness in her gaze told Rachel she was in for another uphill battle. “You have thirty minutes.”
Loyola sat, but her gaze remained on her nails, which had been chewed to the quick.
“Loyola Briggs, my name is Rachel Wainwright. I’m your court-appointed attorney.”
“They said they was holding me on a parole violation and drugs. Don’t seem like I need an attorney for that.”
“You’ve been in trouble for drugs before. If you’re convicted this time then it means prison.”
She managed a small shrug. “Okay.”
“You’re willing to go to prison?”
“I can tough out a year. Won’t be much more than that for what the cops found on me.”
“You do understand the cops are trying to link you to the Jane Doe child they found in the park. They believe you’re her mother.”
“Like I told the cops, my baby daddy gave our girl away to a loving family. I didn’t hurt her. They’re gonna figure out that the bag of bones they found ain’t my kid.”
Either the woman was a practiced liar or so deep in denial she’d lost touch with reality. “Loyola, Danny Briggs was arrested an hour ago.”
“Danny?”
“Yes. Danny. He’s been arrested. And it’s a matter of time before he implicates you.”
Loyola looked at her shorn, uneven fingers. “I didn’t kill my baby. I didn’t kill my baby.”
Rachel had dealt with many accomplished liars in the few years she’d been a public defender. Most were guilty but it was the stray innocent who kept her going. As easy as it was to try to convict Loyola in her mind, she’d put her emotions aside and do what she did best—make her case in court. “All right. Let’s see if I can get you out on bond. They’re holding you right now on a minor parole violation. They can’t argue for murder until you’ve been charged and that’s going to take DNA.”
Loyola leaned forward, her dark eyes searching. “You’re going to get me out? I shouldn’t be here because someone found a bag of bones.”
“That bag of bones was someone’s child.”
She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Wasn’t mine.”
If not for her commitment to the law and the justice system, she couldn’t do this work. “For the short term, yes, I’ll get you out.”
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, August 24, 10 A.M.
Jenna woke before the sun, but the fatigue had been overwhelming. She allowed herself the luxury of dozing until ten in the morning. She’d slept little last night, her conversation with Rick Morgan buzzing in her head like a swarm of
bees. The constant replay of words had made little sense until it struck her that last night had been the first time she’d ever talked about her past. Her aunt had always brushed the bad events aside and, without words, taught Jenna to do the same. The only time the past had come up in Baltimore had been at her interview for the academy and she’d done what her aunt had always done . . . she’d brushed it aside. I don’t remember.
But she was remembering now. More and more each day, a new detail slipping through another crack in the wall.
First, it had been Shadow Eyes. Then details of the closet. Her sister angry with her father. Ronnie arguing with someone up until the end. And then . . .
More details danced on the edges of her memory and if they took one small step forward into the light, she could reach out and grab them. But they hovered in the darkness, elusive and out of reach. That’s why she’d gotten up and started to draw.
She sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side and shoved her hands through her hair. Barefooted, she padded into the living room, glanced at the covered portrait she’d begun last night. This image didn’t feature a bride or a smiling face. This was the portrait of Shadow Eyes who had broken into her thoughts three weeks ago, the night she’d found the little girl in the closet. But as she stared at the face, recognition did not flicker. For all she knew, the image might have been an amalgam of suspect faces she’d drawn over the years.
Shaking off a shudder, she moved into the kitchen, needing a cup of coffee to chase away the heaviness of fatigue. Minutes later, coffee gurgled from the machine and she was leaning toward it, counting the seconds until it finished brewing. Finally, it was finished and she took coffee in hand and moved toward the back door, anxious to be in the fresh air.
The morning dew had long burned off the back deck that overlooked the small, green backyard and the ring of woods behind the house. Outside, she was more connected to the world. She could breathe. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there but when she turned, she spotted something in the corner of her eye. Setting her mug down, she moved toward the white bit of plastic resting on the back rail by her house. As she got closer, she realized what was in the bag. A head.