The River Girls

by Melinda Woodhall

  She looked at her watch again and felt her stomach rumble. She was too nervous to eat anything now, but with any luck she’d be able to find the information on Star and decide what to do in time to come back and enjoy dinner with the kids. But the feeling of unease wouldn’t go away.

  She replayed Nathan’s comment in her head.

  You’ve got Hope and Devon to consider. What happens to them if you become the target of some psycho?

  Eden’s heart started to beat faster as anxiety rose in her chest. She had known that sharing the information might put Star’s entire family at risk, which is why she’d been so torn about what to do. But she hadn’t thought about her own risk. By getting involved, was she putting herself in danger, as well? What about Hope and Devon?

  Mercy, if you’re there, please tell me what to do, Eden silently begged. But no answer came as Eden sat and waited in the silent room.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The air conditioning in Vinny’s little silver sedan was no match for high noon in south Florida. Hollywood’s white cotton t-shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, as they drove along the wide, tree-shaded street looking for the address Sig had texted to him yesterday.

  Did Sig really think some rich lady was going to let a runaway druggie like Star stay at her house? Hollywood didn’t think so.

  This is the real world, Sig, and women like that stuck-up busybody don’t like to get their hands dirty.

  “So, this must be how the rich folks live,” Hollywood said, putting on a high-pitched country accent. He watched the luxurious homes roll by, unimpressed with their three-car garages and overly manicured yards.

  Vinny didn’t respond, so Hollywood tried again. “I’d die of fucking boredom if I had to live around here.”

  But Vinny just kept eyes on the road, looking up only to check the house numbers. Hollywood scratched his arm and jiggled his leg, annoyed that he was driving around on one of Sig’s pointless missions when he should still be in bed. He wasn’t used to waking up before one or two in the afternoon, and he hadn’t had time for a hit to keep him going.

  This is a waste of time, Hollywood thought, his irritation rising. And Vinny is a waste of space.

  “There it is,” Vinny said, pointing to a white, two-story house set back from the road. “8156 Briar Rose Lane.”

  Hollywood noted the long, curving driveway that led around to the side of the house. A stone footpath led from the driveway to the front stoop. The house number was prominently displayed over an imposing wooden door.

  “Bitch must be loaded,” Hollywood said, shaking his head at the idea that Star would be hiding out in the exclusive neighborhood, “or at least her daddy is.”

  But Vinny had gone back to staring at the big house, his hand hovering over the gearshift, as if unsure whether he should park on the road or keep driving.

  “Over there,” Hollywood said, pointing toward a luxuriant Oak tree. Several thick branches stretched out over the road, providing a dark patch of shade. “Go to the end of the block, do a U-turn and park under that tree.”

  Vinny nodded and put his foot on the gas. The little car accelerated just as a black Jeep Cherokee approached from the opposite direction and passed them. Hollywood looked back to see the Jeep slow down and turn into the driveway they had been watching.

  “Hurry, up, man,” Hollywood said. “Turn the fuck around so we can see who’s in the damn car.”

  Vinny swung the car around in a wide U-turn and pulled over beneath the tree. Both men watched the Jeep park in the driveway. A boy jumped out of the backseat first, carrying a shopping bag and holding the leash of a golden retriever, who hopped out of the car after him.

  The boy was jumping around in excitement, and soon he was joined by a slim teenage girl with long, light brown hair, wearing faded jeans and a pink t-shirt. She climbed out of the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side, laughing and motioning for the driver to get out.

  “I don’t see Star,” Vinny said, his voice tight. “Just some dumb kids and a dog.”

  Hollywood glanced at him and narrowed his eyes. “You got someplace to be, Vinny? You’d rather be at home jerking off than here, helping me fix the mess you made?”

  Before Vinny could reply, the driver’s side door of the Jeep opened, and a young woman stepped down, then turned to lift out several full shopping bags. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore sunglasses and a Gators baseball cap. Slim, tan legs were topped off by denim shorts and a loose, white t-shirt.

  “Not bad,” Hollywood said, leering at the young woman. Something about her made Hollywood take a longer look as she started walking toward the front door. “She looks familiar.”

  “Yeah, in your dreams,” Vinny said. “That chick wouldn’t give you the time of day. Look where she lives. She doesn’t need to go slumming.”

  “That’s just it, my man. That’s exactly what they do want. All these sluts. They don’t want some prissy, rich guy scared to hold their hand. They want it rough and dirty. They want someone who’ll make ‘em scream.” Hollywood grinned at Vinny. “But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  The girl in the pink shirt opened the front door and hurried the boy and the dog inside. The woman followed them, depositing the shopping bags inside the entryway while the boy darted back to the Jeep. He opened the tailgate and picked up two small cardboard boxes that had been stacked in the rear. The woman stood by the front door, waiting as the boy carried the boxes toward her.

  Hollywood and Vinny could see her remove her cap and sunglasses as she called out to the boy. The boy laughed and disappeared into the house, while the young woman leaned out and pressed the lock button on the car’s remote key, revealing a wide smile in a pretty face.

  "Holy shit...did you just see that?" Hollywood stammered, doubting his own eyes.

  "Yeah, I saw it,” Vinny said, his voice calm and low. “And I think we better call Sig. Now."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nessa watched the four detectives file into the briefing room. She leaned against a whiteboard that spanned the length of one wall, anxious for the men to settle in.

  Detectives Marc Ingram and Ruben Ortiz sat together at a metal table near the front of the room. They arranged their mugs of coffee, laptops, tablets, cell phones and a selection of power supplies around them, before nodding to Detective Reinhardt who had arrived empty-handed. The older detective leaned against the back wall and folded his arms across his chest.

  Detective Jankowski came in last and sat down at a table by himself. He removed his black leather backpack and began unpacking files, a notepad, and a variety of electronic gadgets.

  “I see you guys like to travel light,” Nessa said, taking a sip of coffee from her own big mug. “Can we get started, or does anyone need to use the little boy’s room first?”

  None of the men cracked a smile. Nessa raised her eyebrows and sighed to herself.

  This is going to be a rough crowd, Nessa. Don’t let them get to you.

  “Okay, well thanks everyone for getting over here so quickly,” Nessa said, using her all-business voice.

  “As ya’ll know, Chief Kramer has asked me to head up a task force to investigate the murders of the two girls found in the river this week. Based on the short time span between the two killings, we’re worried the offender won’t waste time picking his next victim.”

  “I’m partnering with Nessa on this one,” Jankowski said in a loud voice as he leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “We appreciate your help.”

  Nessa stared at him for a few seconds, trying to decide if she should waste time on a sarcastic remark about alpha males feeling the need to mark their territory, or if she should just grit her teeth and move on. She turned to the whiteboard where she had taped up two photos and took a deep breath. She had to keep herself calm and detached.

  You’re a professional, she reminded herself, then began to speak without looking
around.

  “The first victim was Jessica Carmichael. A sixteen-year-old white female. She’d been a student at Holy Cross High School up until her mother was incarcerated in March, at which time the victim was displaced, moving between friends and family. She hadn’t been seen by any of her acquaintances for over two weeks but was only officially reported missing on Wednesday. Her body was then found in the Willow River on Thursday.”

  Nessa stopped to take a breath, staring at the photos. Jessica Carmichael’s tenth-grade school picture showed a girl with big, gray eyes and long brown hair parted on the side. High cheek bones and rosebud lips transformed her from plain to pretty. The other photo was a mugshot.

  Jankowski stood and strode to the whiteboard, tapping a long finger on the mugshot.

  “The second victim has just been identified as Brandi Long. She’d been arrested in Tallahassee last year on a drug charge, so her prints were in the FDLE database when the M.E. scanned her during the postmortem. We don’t know too much about her yet. Still trying to find her next of kin for notification.”

  Reinhardt spoke in a quiet voice from the back of the room. “And what about the girl that’s been reported missing? The one you asked me about the other day, Nessa. Is she considered a possible third victim?’

  “She’s definitely a person of interest to this investigation.” Nessa turned toward Ingram and Ortiz.

  “You two haven’t had a chance to look through the files, of course, but you’ll see we’ve received a missing person’s report on a teenage girl that goes by the street name Star. This girl suspected a friend of hers named Jess had been killed. We believe she was referring to Jessica Carmichael.”

  “Yesterday I called Eden Winthrop. She said she’d call me back, but I still haven’t heard anything,” Reinhart said.

  “Eden Winthrop?” Ingram asked, his voice hard. “How’s she involved with this?”

  “She’s the woman who filed the missing person’s report,” Nessa responded, surprised by the hostility in Ingram’s voice. “Is there something you want to say? You got a problem with her?”

  Ingram opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. After a beat he said, “Nah, I don’t have any problem with anyone. But you might want to ask your partner about Ms. Winthrop. Maybe he’d have something to say.”

  Nessa hesitated, then decided to file the comment away for later consideration. She needed to stay focused on the case at hand. She turned back to Reinhart.

  “So, you called her?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t think she’ll be much help,” Reinhart said, his face expressionless, “but I’ll keep trying.”

  “Good. We should keep in contact with Ms. Winthrop in case she gets more information or has further contact with the missing girl.”

  Nessa wondered what it would take to get a rise out of the stone-faced detective. Kirk Reinhardt must be around Pete Barker’s age, she realized.

  Maybe all detectives burn out in the end. Maybe the exposure to death and violence kills whatever passion for the job they once had.

  But doubt swirled as she looked into Reinhardt’s impassive face. She got the feeling that Reinhardt had always been indifferent. That this was just a job to him.

  “I’m sure you know the question Ortiz and I want answered,” Marc Ingram said, his thin face somber, his pale blue eyes intense under a severe blond crew cut.

  “Yeah, we want to know if these new homicides can be linked to Tiffany Clarke’s murder,” Ortiz added, his expression eager. “Could be the lead we’ve been waiting for.”

  Nessa had already decided she liked Ortiz. He was young and handsome, earning the nickname Don Juan based on his dark good looks and ever-changing succession of girlfriends, but she’d found him to be down-to-earth and approachable. He seemed to care more about solving crimes than getting credit or showing off.

  She couldn’t say the same about his partner, Ingram. She didn’t think the high-strung, wiry detective had earned a nickname yet, but if it was up to her, she could think of a few uncharitable names that would fit. He always looked cagey to Nessa, like he was up to something, or wanted to be. He reminded her of a weasel, and she wasn’t sure she could trust him. Not yet.

  “I agree,” Nessa said, glad that they were all thinking along the same lines. “We need to review the Clarke case against these new ones. See if we can establish a connection between the victims or a pattern of behavior that could help us identify any overlapping suspects.”

  “In the meantime, I think we should add both Tiffany and Star to our board, so we can factor them in when assessing the victimology of the girls our killer is choosing,” Nessa said, making the sudden decision. She turned to Ortiz. “You have a photo of Tiffany Clarke we can use?”

  Ortiz opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick file. He rifled through and found a color photo that had been used on all the flyers posted up around town after Tiffany had gone missing.

  “This should do,” Ortiz said, handing the photo to Nessa who taped it on the board.

  She thought for a minute, wishing she’d had Eden Winthrop work with a sketch artist to create a sketch of Star. Another task for her growing list.

  Nessa tore a blank piece of paper off her notepad and, in big letters, she wrote Star - missing white female minor.

  She taped the paper on the white board beside the three photos and noticed with unease that she had instinctively positioned the photos to one side, leaving a blank space for the photos of additional victims to be added.

  A sense of foreboding settled in her chest as she turned to face the four detectives. Before she could speak Jankowski was up again and standing beside her holding what looked like a rolled-up poster.

  “This is a map of Willow Bay and the surrounding area,” Jankowski explained as he unrolled the map and held it over a poster-sized map of Florida that hung on the far wall. The state map had been mounted on a foam core board, and a cup of pushpins sat on the nearby ledge. Jankowski pinned the Willow Bay map to the board and looked back at Nessa, obviously pleased with himself.

  “Why, thank you, Detective Jankowski,” Nessa said, chagrined that she hadn’t thought to bring the Willow Bay map she kept in her cubicle.

  “That’s very helpful. Of course, we’ll want to plot the relevant locations. Unfortunately, except for Tiffany, we know very little about the victims’ whereabouts during the days leading up to the murders. That’ll make it hard.”

  “Well, we can stick a pin in the body disposal sites,” Ingram offered. “At least we know where he dumped them.”

  As Nessa picked up three pins and began positioning them on the sites along the river where the girls had been found, she fumed at the way Ingram talked about bodies and disposal sites. She knew the words were often used by detectives, but she didn’t like his callous tone, or the implication that the victims hadn’t been thinking, feeling people, but were just bodies that had been dumped like garbage.

  “But we don’t know where he picked them up or grabbed them,” Ortiz added.

  Reinhardt spoke up. “We don’t know if he grabbed them at all. Maybe he knew all these girls. But until we know where the victims lived and who they associated with, it’ll be impossible to tell.”

  “We found out yesterday that Jessica Carmichael had been intermittently staying at a local sober house called Clear Horizons, although she hasn’t been seen there for several weeks,” Nessa said, picking up another pin and sticking it into the map along a thin line listed as Baymont Court.

  “We can start by using that as her last known address.”

  They continued placing pins in the areas around town that seemed relevant until they felt they’d covered all the locations they had identified so far in the investigation. It wasn’t much to go on, and the results were no surprise. The one linking factor was the river.

  “Our guy definitely is drawn to the river,” Ortiz said. “All these girls pulled out of the river couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?”

  “The river do
es seem to link them,” Nessa agreed, “but is that because he takes them there, or because he finds them there? I mean, does he find them somewhere near the river? Is there a place by the river where people go to buy drugs or sex?”

  “Sounds like a question for you, Reinhardt,” Jankowski said, not looking back at the detective still leaning against the back wall. “You know of a place by the river where druggies and pros hang out? Or you got any CIs that could help us find out?”

  “I could make some calls, but that’ll take some time,” Reinhardt said without enthusiasm. “And if we’re thinking these girls have been picked up off the street by a stranger, maybe a john or a dealer, then Tiffany Clarke doesn’t fit the pattern.”

  “I know you’re already working several other cases, and that you need to keep your informants’ trust,” Nessa said, turning to Reinhardt, “so how about you make a list of people in the Willow Bay drug scene that might know where the girls are getting their supply? We can assign some uniformed officers to find them and show them the girls’ pictures. Act like it’s a routine canvas of the area. They’ll never know you were involved.”

  Reinhardt stared at Nessa as if she’d slapped him. He shifted his weight against the wall but didn’t stand up. Finally, he said. “I’ll see what I can pull together.”

  “I need the list today…before you leave,” Nessa said, her voice firm. “We don’t have time to waste. We can’t afford you getting pulled into another case once you leave here.”

  She didn’t wait for Reinhardt to respond, but instead faced Ortiz and Ingram.

  “And I need you guys to go through the Tiffany Clarke files again, this time alongside the information we have on the new cases. Try to identify any connections. We already have substantial indications the cases are linked. Similar cause of death, forensic results, and geographic location of the disposal sites. See if you can come up with anything else.”