Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  Amy shook her head, looking flat-out scared now.

  M.J. flipped shut her notebook. “Well, thanks for your time. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ve just been stuck here nursing this cold and watching the news.”

  M.J. glanced at the TV screen, where the footage had shifted to a live report. She read the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen, and her heart skipped a beat.

  TARA COMBED THROUGH Liam’s files, getting more and more bleary-eyed with each passing minute. Her head throbbed, and it wasn’t just the computer work. It was the anxiety, the steadily mounting pressure.

  The autopsy.

  She closed her eyes and tried to shake it off. She couldn’t think about it right now or it would paralyze her. She took a deep breath and refocused her attention on the information before her, looking for that crucial clue. More than three hundred men had been through Liam’s training camps. Tara had culled through almost half of them but still had a long way to go. And she still hadn’t found the psych evaluations. Did he keep them on a different system, or had someone deleted them? Tara had put in a call to their tech expert earlier, but he hadn’t yet finished with the thumb drives.

  She glanced at her phone. It was after four. What was Liam up to all day that he’d been so evasive about? And why hadn’t he called? She looked at her phone again and felt a wave of apprehension. Followed by a wave of disgust.

  Would this be the new normal if they started up a relationship?

  He seemed to think they were already in one. She thought of the amused look on his face this morning and felt a fresh onslaught of nerves. Thoroughly annoyed with herself now, she slid her phone under a file and focused back on the screen.

  Brannon walked in and dropped a fast-food bag on the table. “Hungry?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He sank into a chair. “I finished with the ViCAP search,” he said, pulling out a sandwich. “You know how I told you I had hundreds of results for strangulation homicides? I’ve narrowed it down to two. In both cases the bodies were dumped near military bases.”

  Tara leaned back in her chair. “Sounds interesting.”

  “One is a ligature strangulation and the body was recovered just outside Camp Pendleton in California.”

  “That’s a Marine base,” she said. A lot of Liam’s men had been through there. “What’s the year?”

  “Oh-two.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Second case is more recent.” He picked up his drink and took a slurp. “Two thousand seven. Manual, no ligature. Victim was a stripper, found in a wooded park not far from Fort Benning.”

  “That’s Army. You used to be stationed there, didn’t you?”

  “The place is huge. Practically everyone in the Army’s been through there at some point. But what really caught my eye is the killer used a knife. She had defensive wounds on one of her hands.”

  “Any particular details—”

  “Not on the weapon. And no DNA recovered, from the looks of it. But I’ve got a call in to the lead detective in Georgia. This case has been on ice for a while, but I’m hoping he has a list of suspects somewhere.”

  “That’s a good lead.”

  “I know.” He chomped into his sandwich and glanced around. “Where’s M.J.?”

  “Out on an interview.”

  “What about Jason?”

  “He’s supposed to be picking up surveillance tapes.”

  As for Ingram, Tara didn’t know. He’d been conspicuously absent from Crystal Marshall’s autopsy. It was possible he hadn’t wanted to observe because he knew the victim, but he should have at least sent a deputy.

  Tara returned her attention to her computer. She still had a hundred names to go.

  “That looks fun,” Brannon said around a mouthful of food. “You need a hand?”

  “I got it.”

  “That the spreadsheet from before? You’re obsessed with that.”

  She looked at him. “Lot of potential leads here.”

  “If you buy into the profile.”

  “You don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I prefer physical evidence.”

  “Same with me,” she said. “Such as the murder weapon, which happens to be a Full Black knife with a seven-inch blade. Wolfe Security took a shipment of those two years ago. And a shard of glass recovered from Catalina Reyes matches the optical glass from some of the rifle scopes Wolfe Security uses. How’s that for physical evidence?”

  “Okay, fine. I hear you.” He slid his chair closer. “Sure you don’t want a hand?”

  She started to refuse him but then remembered Mark.

  You need all the help you can get from anywhere you can get it, so lose the pride.

  Tara had never been good at delegating, but she needed to learn. There was more to leadership than bringing people doughnuts.

  “Here.” She scooted her chair aside to make room for Brannon’s. “This is a database of trainees. They all went through one or more of the boot camps at Liam Wolfe’s ranch, and many later applied to work for him. Right now I’m going through the names and anything about their background that jumps out. If something flags my attention I click on the name and it links to the biographical info and a photo. That’s where you can get date of birth, physical stats, detailed employment history.”

  “Lot of info for a bunch of trainees,” he said.

  “I know. The camps are sort of a proving ground for job applicants. They get a hundred applicants for every spot so they use this as a way to pare things down.”

  “Separate the men from the boys, I get it,” Brannon said. “Is there any way to look up military service, see if anyone was at Fort Benning that year I mentioned?”

  “Not a bad idea.” She clicked on the cell for military experience. “It lists branch of service. You could at least narrow it down to Army.”

  “Here, let me try.”

  Tara’s phone chimed, and she grabbed it, letting Brannon take over at the computer.

  “Are you watching this?” M.J. asked, and Tara caught the urgency in her voice.

  “Watching what?”

  “Turn on a TV.”

  “I don’t have one. I’m in the basement.” Tara glanced around. “Why?”

  “Pull up a local news Web site. Anything. Everyone’s running it.”

  Tara’s pulse picked up as she moved to her laptop and entered one of the Houston TV stations. Beneath the station’s logo was a shot of Sheriff Ingram standing behind a podium.

  “God damn it.” Tara clicked the video. “Where is he?”

  “Silver Springs, I think. He called a joint news conference with the police chief.”

  “. . . investigation is ongoing,” Ingram was telling reporters.

  “Sheriff, has he been charged with a crime?” came a voice from the audience.

  “Has who been charged?” Tara asked, dismayed.

  “He’s being held for questioning,” Ingram said.

  “Sheriff, has Mr. Wolfe confessed to the murders?”

  Tara’s blood ran cold as she stared at the screen.

  “No comment,” Ingram stated. “Like I said, this is an ongoing investigation.”

  “He arrested Liam? When the hell did this happen?”

  “I’m trying to find out,” M.J. said. “I think the arrest was this morning.”

  “On what charges?” She glanced at Brannon, but he seemed as confused as she was.

  “Criminal trespass,” M.J. said. “At least, that’s what Jason told me. I haven’t confirmed it yet.”

  “That’s a misdemeanor! He’s making it sound like they’re charging him with murder.”

  “I know,” M.J. said.

  “This is a disaster.” Tara stood up and looked around helplessly. Her gaze settled on the grisly crime-scene photos taped to the case board. She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Does Ingram even realize what he’s doing? He’s trashing a man’s reputation just to have an excuse to
stand in front of a camera.”

  “I know, it’s bad,” M.J. said.

  Bad didn’t even begin to describe it. Tara felt like her head was going to explode. “Where are you?” she asked M.J.

  “In my car. I’m following up on that anonymous phone call. The dispatcher tells me it came from Corrine Timber’s field office, so I’m headed over there to interview the property manager, Oscar Valero.”

  Tara looked at Brannon, who was now on his phone. He glanced at her and took the call into the hallway.

  “Need me to come in?” M.J. asked. “I could help with damage control.”

  “No, I’ll handle it.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you if I get anything.”

  Tara clicked off and stared at the phone in her hand. She felt sick to her stomach. She had to get control of this. She couldn’t have a rogue sheriff out there calling press conferences. And she couldn’t have the time and resources of his entire department being wasted on publicity stunts.

  And what about Liam? The professional reputation he’d spent years building was being dragged through the mud. Even if they released him without charges, the damage was done.

  Tara’s gaze landed on the computer where Brannon had been scrolling through files.

  The picture on the screen made her breath catch.

  The man in the photo stood beside a tree, holding a rifle. He wore an Army-green T-shirt that stretched over bulging muscles, and his face was covered in green greasepaint right up to his hairline. He looked like the Incredible Hulk, and Tara remembered Corey Bower in his pajamas playing with his action figures.

  I saw the Hulk down by the creek once . . .

  An unfiltered observation from a little boy. And Tara had dismissed it.

  She sank into the chair, her heart pounding as she studied the man’s face, his build, his military haircut.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed.

  Even with the greasepaint, she recognized his eyes.

  M.J. PULLED UP the driveway searching for the white Toyota pickup registered to Oscar Valero, fifty-six, of Dunn’s Landing. As she rolled through the gate, she spotted the vehicle parked beside the double-wide trailer that Corrine Timber used as a field office.

  She parked and got out, glancing around. The woods were quiet, no whine of a chain saw or grumble of a truck engine or even the faint tap of a woodpecker to break the silence. She picked her way across the muddy parking area and mounted the wooden steps to knock on the door.

  No answer.

  She looked through the window. A fluorescent light glowed over a work station in back. She tried the door, but it was locked. Again she knocked.

  “Mr. Valero?”

  Nothing.

  M.J. checked her watch and blew out a sigh as she scanned the area. The sound of distant voices made her turn around. Across the firebreak she spotted a shed.

  “Mr. Valero?”

  She went down the steps and crossed the muddy road. The shed was prefab aluminum, like the trailer, but forest green instead of white. A sign beside the door warned away trespassers: CYPRESS COUNTY FIRE DEPT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  The noise came again, definitely voices. M.J. knocked on the door, then looked through a grimy windowpane. It was a two-room storage building crammed with equipment—chain saws, axes, a four-wheel ATV with a missing back tire. A loud squawk drew her attention to a table in the corner where someone had left a handheld radio.

  She knocked again. “Señor Valero?”

  She tried the door, but it was locked. She cupped her hand against the dirty glass again and peered inside. In the back room were coiled fire hoses, a chair, a cot stacked with boxes. She glanced at the chattering radio again. Beside it was something blue and rectangular. She shifted against the glass for a better angle. It was a phone case.

  A queasy feeling settled in her stomach. It was Tara’s lost phone case, right there on the table. It had been missing since the night someone shot at her.

  M.J.’s pulse started to thrum. She scanned the room again, picking up details she hadn’t noticed at first glance—the fast-food wrappers, the muddy footprints, the chunky plastic ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Someone had been here recently, and for an extended period of time.

  The sound of an engine had her whirling around. As the noise grew louder, she glanced across the road, suddenly panicked for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint.

  Yes, she could.

  She’d stumbled across someone’s hideout, and she was about to get caught.

  She darted a look at her car, but it was by the trailer on the other side of the firebreak, at least thirty yards away. The engine noise was close now as she ducked around the side of the building and pulled out her Glock. She clutched it in her hand.

  It could be nothing, maybe Oscar Valero back from an errand down the logging road.

  She listened, heart pounding, thinking of the phone case and the radio and the muddy footprints. Valero didn’t fit the profile. He wasn’t their UNSUB.

  A black pickup rolled to a halt just beside the shed. Flat black paint, no hubcaps. M.J. couldn’t see the cab.

  She held her breath. The door squeaked open, slammed shut. Heavy footsteps across the grass. She gripped her gun. Sweat beaded at her temples as she tried to decide what to do. Fight or flight, a simple decision. But it wasn’t simple at all. She didn’t know whether he was armed or even whether he was alone.

  The lock rattled. M.J. stood there, pulse racing, as he rummaged around the shed. A low curse. Something clattered to the ground.

  Then silence.

  She waited, holding her breath. Had he spotted her car? But it was tucked behind the trailer. Had she left footprints by the door or a smudge on the window?

  More rummaging. The door opened again, closed. A metallic click as he secured the padlock. Then a high-pitched squeak as the truck door opened and shut.

  M.J. flattened herself back against the building, gun ready. The engine grumbled to life again. She watched the truck bed as the vehicle pulled away. She stood still until the engine noise faded into the woods and all that remained was an eerie silence.

  She let out a breath. Slowly, cautiously, she eased to the edge of the building and looked around the corner.

  Gone.

  M.J. dashed across the firebreak and back to her car. She slipped on a patch of mud and caught herself on the bumper just before she could take a header into the muck. She jerked the door open and reached for her phone charging in the cup holder. With a trembling hand, she dialed Tara’s number.

  A blinding burst of pain as something smashed into her temple. She dropped to her knees and screamed, but the sound was cut off as a giant arm yanked back against her windpipe and hauled her to her feet. Another stifled scream as her arm was twisted violently behind her and her gun was ripped from her grasp.

  “Fucking bitch.” The voice in her ear was a low growl. “You think you’re fucking smarter than me?”

  Pain bolted up her arm, her shoulder, her neck. She gasped for air. Something hard dug into her back as she tried to breathe, to yell, to see past the spots dancing before her eyes.

  “Fucking whore—”

  She kicked back, a frantic jab at his kneecap. A sharp howl. His grip loosened. M.J. dropped to her knees and lunged away from him, landing on her face in the mud. She scrambled to her feet and ran.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jeremy rolled to a stop in the alley behind the courthouse just long enough for Liam to get in.

  “Your phone’s in the console,” Jeremy said. “And there’s a mob of reporters out front, so you might want to duck.”

  “They can fuck off,” Liam said, retrieving his phone. He’d missed half a dozen calls.

  Jeremy turned onto Main Street and handed him a printed list. “Second one from the bottom,” he said.

  Liam skimmed the list to the second-to-last name. “Shit.” He looked up. “Did you call Tara?”

  “No answer.”

  Liam’s th
umb was on her number when his phone buzzed with a call.

  “It’s the fire chief, Alex Sears,” Tara said. “I can’t prove it, but everything fits.”

  Her voice sounded excited and choppy, like she was on the move.

  “He spent five years in the Army,” she rushed on. “Three tours in Afghanistan. Took a discharge six years ago and became a firefighter. He went through one of your training camps and applied for a job with Wolfe Security. You rejected him a year ago.”

  Liam’s brain was spinning as the elements fell into place. Alex Sears, Army veteran turned firefighter. He’d come through training three cycles ago. Liam recalled a talented shooter with mediocre PT scores and an attitude problem.

  “Liam? Are you there?”

  “He knew Catalina,” he said, thinking aloud. “He met her when the homemade bomb was thrown at her house. Have you told the task force yet?”

  “No way. I don’t know who his friends are. I’m keeping the locals out of it while I nail this down. But listen, that’s not why I called. I need Jeremy’s phone number. I can’t reach M.J.”

  Liam looked at Jeremy. “You heard from M.J.?”

  He frowned. “No, why?”

  “Jeremy hasn’t talked to her.”

  “She’s not answering her phone, which is totally out of character. I’ve been calling and texting. I—”

  “You need to have emergency services ping her cell. They’ll be able to locate it with GPS unless the battery’s been removed or destroyed for some reason.”

  “I did all that! Nothing. It’s totally dead. Liam, I’m getting worried.”

  He could tell by her voice that she was beyond worried. “Where’s her last known location?”

  “She was on her way to Corrine Timber.”

  “What’s at Corrine Timber?” He looked at Jeremy, who took the information aboard and stepped on the gas.

  “She was interviewing the property manager. Oscar Somebody.”

  “Listen to me, Tara. You’re dead on about Alex Sears. I just got a customer list from my contact at Full Black. They shipped a custom-made tactical knife, camo green, to Sears’s Silver Springs address two years ago.”