by Zoe Carter
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. If this was what the THPD was wasting their time doing, investigating the worried brother who’d harassed them to search for Tammy, Trevor knew they had absolutely nothing.
“Could your mother be a suspect?” Paretti asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
Anything was possible, but Trevor highly doubted his mother had hurt Tammy. She’d never laid a hand on either of them and didn’t have a temper. He said as much to Paretti.
The cop jotted that down, then looked back up at Trevor. “I did speak to a former coworker of Tammy’s at a restaurant where she was a waitress. She recalls last seeing her on June 7 at a birthday party, and we have travel records showing your mother was already some one hundred miles away at that point.
“I’ve already looked into boyfriends,” Paretti said. “But apparently, Tammy wasn’t much of a dater, according to the few friends she had. My guess is that we’re looking at a stranger, a case of foul play. If we could more easily pinpoint the exact day and time of death, we’d have an easier time investigating, but so far, there’s no easy suspect here, Mr. Gallagher. No one stands out as someone who would have wanted to hurt Tammy and she didn’t appear to be in any kind of trouble.”
“So there are no suspects and there’s no evidence,” Trevor snapped. “So what are your next steps? Whoever did this isn’t getting away with it. My sister deserves justice.”
“I agree, Mr. Gallagher,” Paretti said. “Of course, I’ll keep investigating and will keep you informed. We’ll do everything we can to find your sister’s killer. We’ll be in touch when we have information.” The cop stood up and extended his hand.
Dismissed. And case clearly closed, Trevor knew. To them, Tammy was an eighteen-year-old from the wrong side of the tracks who’d ended up dead, a bag of cocaine under her body. A druggie. A nobody. They didn’t care.
His hands balled into fists at his sides. He took an inward breath and thought about his unit, about the guys he’d left behind. In the army, control was everything. Timing was everything. Or you ended up blown to bits. Same lesson applied here.
He forced himself to shake Paretti’s hand. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the cops, not yet anyway. He needed them on his side.
Outside, he glanced up at the blue sky, his gut twisting. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Tammy. But I will find your killer and get you justice.
He’d need more information than Paretti had, though.
Trevor headed across the street to the old-time general store and grabbed a copy of the Thornwoods Heights Gazette. He got himself a cup of dark-roast coffee and walked over to an empty picnic table on the town green. He flipped through the paper, looking for mention of an identified body. It certainly wasn’t front-page news. Didn’t make the second page either. He was about to scour page three when a name caught his eye.
Lauren Riley.
“As Jamie Chen awaits trial for the murder of Victor Townsend, some Thornwood Heights residents speculate whether Lauren Riley, daughter of police chief Tom Riley, will sue the town for unlawful imprisonment. Lauren Riley, held for three weeks without bail, was fully exonerated when Chen was charged with Townsend’s murder...”
Whoa. There was a lot about the reporter Trevor hadn’t known. Including the fact that she was the chief’s daughter. She could have used that to her advantage to get him to talk to her. She didn’t.
Score one for the reporter.
He typed her name into a search engine on his phone and read a few articles about the Victor Townsend murder. He tried to imagine the nosy, pushy woman who’d come to the Elk Creek Ranch, her brown eyes flashing with equal parts desperation and determination, with her hands wrapped about the bars of a jail cell, innocent but convicted in public—and probably her father’s—opinion.
“Found with the bloody murder weapon next to her, her fingerprints on it, Riley had just come to from a drug- and alcohol-induced bender...”
Right. And three weeks later, someone else had been charged with the murder. Which meant that someone had done a hell of a frame job. Anything could be made to look bad. Good suddenly evil.
You could trust no one. He pocketed his phone, turning his attention back to the Gazette and any news about his sister being identified. He finally found a small write-up in the local-news section, beside an article about the traffic light malfunctioning on Main Street yesterday and how traffic had been snarled for fifteen minutes.
“Police have identified the body of the young woman found in the Thornwood Heights woods as eighteen-year-old Tamara Gallagher of Thornwood Heights. Four ounces of cocaine found by the body indicate that drugs may have played a factor in the death. Anyone with information is asked to call the THPD at 555-2323.”
That was it. Anger boiled in Trevor’s gut. He pulled out his phone and typed TownsendReport.com in the browser. The front-page story, the only story, it appeared, was about Tammy.
June 28, Thornwood Heights
by Lauren Riley
Three weeks ago, an eighteen-year-old girl with her entire life ahead of her was found strangled to death in the Thornwood Heights woods under heavy debris. Police are unsure how long she was there before a group of hunters with beagles found her.
She has finally been identified. Her name was Tamara Grace Gallagher, and she grew up in Thornwood Heights, graduated from THHS and had dreams of becoming a veterinarian. A beautiful teenager with bright hazel eyes and blond hair, Tammy had worked as a waitress at Catch of the Day and Maretti’s Italian Ristorante, hoping to save up money toward a college education and veterinary school.
But someone killed Tammy Gallagher, and she deserves justice. According to police, four ounces of cocaine were found underneath Tammy’s shoulder; however, those who knew her report that Tammy did not drink alcohol or use drugs. Anyone with information about Tammy, no matter how seemingly insignificant, especially concerning the final weeks of her life, should contact Lauren Riley at TownsendReport.com or the Thornwood Heights Police Department.
Whoa. Lauren had said she’d wanted to pay tribute to Tammy, portray her as a flesh-and-blood person who’d had dreams instead of as a forgotten body in a morgue. And she had.
Dammit. Maybe she could help. Maybe nosy and pushy and investigative were just what he needed right now.
He called the telephone number on her card.
“Lauren Riley speaking.”
He liked her voice. There was a rasp to it. Like she’d had to raise it a lot. To be heard, to scream her head off, because of hard drinking. Whatever contributed to it, Trevor figured it added up to a little “been there done that.” Experience in the mud.
“This is Trevor Gallagher. I could use your help.”
* * *
After all the bullcrud that had happened to Lauren the past month, the universe seemed to be trying to make amends. Last night, she’d secured enough advertising revenue to not only rent a small office just off Main Street with a great view of the main intersection, but she’d secured tech genius Xan’s IT skills for the next six months. Yeah, she’d had to spend almost an hour explaining why they couldn’t date, but Xan seemed to get it. Her work was everything. Guys, getting naked, her brain full of “will he call me,” “why haven’t I heard from him,” “that asshole used me”—No. She was done with all that. Xan was cute. Really cute. And he had a nice body. But he’d never been her type anyway, and no way was he hers. Lauren had never gone for hot, smart geeks. She’d always been drawn to dumb assholes.
Xan, tech god, had gotten a smaller-scale version of the site back up and running, and by six o’clock this morning, she had the front-page story about Tammy Gallagher live on the site. A sidebar from Lauren Riley, reporter and editor in chief, paid tribute to her late boss and mentor, Victor Townsend, and noted that Lauren’s mission was to continue his legacy of seeking the truth and expos
ing the dark underbelly of secrets that seemed to be plaguing Thornwood Heights.
“Really, Lauren?” her sister Jennifer had said over the phone an hour ago. “Dark underbelly? Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
“Is it?” Lauren had said, pleased that her sister had read the article. That meant others had too. “Missing girls? Skeletons? A dead teenager? Dark underbelly seems fitting.”
“Just be careful,” Jennifer muttered. “Cooking tonight?”
Lauren smiled. She liked the way Jennifer could change a subject. “Sorry, meetings all day and setting up my new office on Rush Drive off Main.”
“New office?” her sister repeated. “How’d you do that?”
Lauren glanced around the tiny new digs for the Townsend Report. She couldn’t resist one small fist pump. “By not underestimating myself like my family does.”
“Touché,” Jennifer said. “Well, good for you. I think.” She waited a beat. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Laur.”
Laur. She’d missed that. “I will.”
She had funding. She had an office. She had her long-estranged sister Jennifer calling her by her childhood nickname. And she had a meeting with Trevor Gallagher in two hours.
Yes.
Lauren looked around the three hundred square foot room of the Townsend Report’s new offices. Office. Yes, tiny, but enough room for a desk, which Lauren would buy at the thrift store on Main Street, a comfortable chair and her laptop. That was all she needed. Xan handled his clients on private servers, so she wouldn’t need any special equipment. She’d called Victor’s father-in-law, Lucky Martin, this morning and asked if she could have the signage from the former office, and he’d grumbled a “fine, sure,” and said he’d have it sent over from his storage unit.
Yes, the universe was working in her favor today. Maybe she could solve a murder by dinnertime. She sat on the wood floor with her laptop on her lap and did some research and made sure she had everything she needed for her meeting with Trevor, then checked TownsendReport.com for comments on the article she’d posted about Tammy. There were many “May she rest in peace.” A few “What is happening in this town?” Three lamented the lack of good parenting accounting for troubled teenagers who got mixed up with drugs. And there were over twenty comments about how druggies and junkies were ruining this great country. One, from a Sophie McDonner, said that “Tammy was so sweet and I hope her killer is caught and sent to prison for life.”
Ah. Someone who personally knew Tammy. Lauren jotted down the name; she’d go talk to Sophie McDonner after her meeting with Trevor.
Another comment was from a Lena R. “No one should care what Lauren Riley has to say about anything or anyone. She’s a slutty drunk who sleeps with other women’s boyfriends. I wish she’d been sent to prison for the rest of her pathetic life.”
Shit. She didn’t recall knowing a Lena, but someone she’d been with sure had. Well, Lena, you’re talking about the old Lauren Riley. So I don’t feel bad about using the delete key on you. Gone.
She grabbed her folder of notes on the Tammy Gallagher case, including all she’d dug up today, and headed out to her car, trying not to let that nasty comment get to her. She glanced at the address Trevor had given her—1000 Rural Route 6, about five miles past the Elk Creek Ranch. She had no idea why he wanted to meet there. A quick online search of the address had shown a white farmhouse and ranchland.
When she arrived, she saw Trevor sitting on the porch on a white wooden swing, the sun lighting his dark hair and casting shadows on his face. He wore a long-sleeved dark green henley shirt and dark jeans and brown cowboy boots, and he was so damned hot that she just stared at him for a moment, unable to take her eyes off him. Until she noticed the skinny black-and-white dog lapping water from a bowl near his feet.
She got out of her car and glanced around. A red barn was behind the house, a huge wrought-iron weathervane atop it along with a black crow. The pastures were empty, as were the corrals.
Trevor stood, the dog at his side padding over as she approached the porch steps.
“Family dog?” she asked.
“He was roaming the pasture when I arrived and ran over to me. Looks like a stray. I’ve already named him Charlie.”
She eyed the cute dog, then looked back at Trevor. “Why did you want to meet here?”
“Privacy, for the most part. And because I now own this place.”
“You bought a ranch?”
“It was always my plan,” he said, sitting back down on the top step. “I’d come back from my tour, buy a ranch, raise cattle and horses and put my sister through college. I promised her two alpacas, her favorite animal. She was going to be a veterinarian, as you noted.”
So he had read her piece. She’d wondered if that was why he’d called. “It’s beautiful country,” she said, shielding her eyes from the bright sun as she looked around. “I can imagine cows and horses and sheep grazing. And alpacas.”
“Me too.” He smiled for the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, and it lit up his entire face.
“You really loved your sister, didn’t you?” she asked, leaning against the porch railing across from him. She bent down to give Charlie a scratch behind his floppy black ears.
He glanced out at the pastures, pain crossing his features. “Yeah, I did. I met with the cop assigned to the case. No evidence, no leads, no suspects, no nothing. Case closed, basically. They don’t seem to care.”
“Full disclosure,” she said. “My father is Tom Riley, the police chief. My sister Jennifer is a New York City police detective who’s out here investigating the skeleton that was found a few weeks ago at the boathouse. My sister Nova works in the records department of the THPD. It’s all police all the time at my house.”
“Dinner must be a blast,” he said. “I imagine they can’t exactly talk shop with a reporter at the table.”
“They do and don’t. Part of it is the reporter thing and part of it is them worrying about me getting into trouble.”
He glanced at her. “I appreciated what you wrote about Tammy. It’s why I broke my rule about never talking to reporters.”
“You had a bad experience?” she asked.
He nodded, then stood up and braced his arms against the porch railing. He stood close enough that she could smell his shampoo. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
“I understand, Trevor.” The dog thankfully chose that moment to pad over to Lauren and sniff her foot, then stared up at her expectantly. “Sorry, I don’t happen to have any liver snaps on me. But I can scratch those cute floppy ears.” She gave the dog a good scratch and pat, then sat down on the step near where Trevor had been.
He smiled a bit at her and Charlie, the dimple poking out in his right cheek.
“Well, I may be a reporter, but I’m not looking to capitalize on tragedy, Trevor. I’m after the truth because I care—about your sister, about the other girls who went missing. As I wrote in that original post you read while still overseas, a bunch of girls vanished without a trace from Thornwood Heights, most twenty years ago and a few in the past year. Girls that had been dismissed like your sister as runaways or drug addicts from the wrong side of the tracks. One girl who vanished, though, was a Blake, and her disappearance was a big deal. Everyone was looking for Abby Blake. In all this time there’s been no evidence, no trail, no body, nothing.”
“Blake as in Blake Mining?” he asked. “Richest family in town. The medical examiner is a Blake.”
Lauren nodded. “Exactly. Abby’s twin brother. The other girls who’d disappeared weren’t considered worth the THPD’s time or resources, although to be fair, the police might not have even realized they were missing. Do you know the Blake family?”
He shook his head. “Well, everyone from Thornwood Heights knows them. Of them, I should say. Two sons, right? I think th
ey’re in their late thirties so we never really crossed paths. Not that we would have anyway. Different worlds.”
The less her path crossed with the Blakes, the happier she’d be.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the thick folder she held.
“Everything I have on your sister.” She pulled out the Thornwood Heights High School yearbook. “Between yearbook notations, and social media pages, and talking to former coworkers, we should be able to figure out what Tammy’s last days were like, who she was spending time with.”
Trevor took the yearbook, opened it to Tammy’s graduation photo. She was a pretty girl and looked so much like Trevor. He closed his eyes, snapping the book shut. “I should have been here.”
“You were thousands of miles away, fighting for your country. You couldn’t know she was in danger.”
“Tell me something, Lauren,” he said. “And be honest. Is your sudden dedication to my sister about saving the Townsend Report? There’s one article on the site, and it’s about her.”
“I do want to save the Report. Victor Townsend started the online newsblog from nothing but an idea and built it into a powerful source of news in this town. Two years ago, he took a chance on me when no one else would hire me. I worked my butt off as his assistant, and when he saw that I could write a decent article and help edit his, he promoted me to reporter. Yes, I want to save the Townsend Report, but not on your sister’s name or the notoriety from her case. I want to expose the truth about what’s going on in Thornwood Heights—toe stepping be damned, Trevor. Trust me, I know what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the truth. It sucks.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, and she was relieved to see that he seemed to believe her. Seemed was okay for now. She was used to having to prove herself. She’d do it until her word spoke for herself.
“I read about your boss’s murder and how you got framed. Everyone thinking you were guilty of violent murder? That must have been scary as hell.”
She wasn’t going to talk about the worst part. That for a few very painful moments, she’d been among those who thought she’d committed murder. Drugs had been found in her system. She’d come to with the murder weapon in her bloody hands. And she’d been found half dazed next to Victor’s body in their office, the supposed spurned lover having snapped in a rage. Motive, means, opportunity. But the more she was interrogated by her father and her sister Jennifer and her lawyer, the more she spoke up for herself from a place so deep within she hadn’t known it existed: she did believe in herself. And she’d known in that small, airless interrogation room that no matter what the evidence said, she hadn’t killed Victor. She wasn’t capable of it. Roofied out of her mind by a psychopath or not. Not capable.