Today had been no different. Only this time, it was the noise in her own mind she was tuning out.
“Anything?” Taylor asked from behind her.
Startled, Becca swiveled her chair to see Taylor leaning on the edge of the cubicle, a thick folder in her hands. She looked tired, and Becca glanced at the clock. Ten p.m.
“Where did the time go?” Becca asked. “Did you get dinner?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember? I left to grab a sub, and I asked if you wanted something?”
“Honestly, no.”
Taylor frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Becca asked, almost dreading the answer.
“You. You’re . . .” Taylor shrugged. “I don’t know. Different today. Like something’s bothering you. Is it that thing you went to do with Connor?”
The mere mention of Connor brought back her frustration over his lack of defense when Vance had thrown them off the scene. She’d love to sound off about it, but she wasn’t going to discuss it with the new intern. Nor could she mention Van Gogh.
“I’m fine,” she lied, something she made a point of never doing. “Now you, on the other hand, look exhausted.” Becca forced out a smile. “How am I going to exploit your desire to do a good job tomorrow if you’re too tired for me to do so?”
Taylor laughed, and she looked as young as she was, a wrinkle-free twenty-seven. Becca hadn’t ever been that young and carefree, even as a child. She was only thirty-two, but she’d seen far too many bad things during those years. Van Gogh was the worst. He’d stolen so much from her. It was a good time to go home to review her files to help catch him before he took even more.
“C’mon.” She stood. “Let’s get out of here. Go grab your things while I pack up, and we can walk out together.”
Taylor went to her cubicle, and Becca loaded her backpack then joined her co-worker. “Ready to go?”
Taylor looked up, that carefree look gone. She glanced down at a folder in her hand and chewed on her lip.
“Something wrong?” Becca asked, hoping it wasn’t something that took a lot of brain cells to deal with. Hers were zapped.
Taylor’s gaze darted between Becca and the folder as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start. This was obviously going to take some time. Becca set down her pack and leaned on the edge of the cubicle, waiting for Taylor to get to the point.
“I did something I shouldn’t have today,” she finally blurted out, her gaze fixed on the folder. She shook her head and looked up, made eye contact for a moment, then stared into the distance. “I don’t usually do these things, you know?” She met Becca’s gaze. “I follow the rules. Honest, I do. I know that’s important at the Bureau, and I don’t want to lose my job, it’s just—”
“Hold up.” Becca flashed up her hand. “Take a breath. It can’t be all that bad. Just tell me what you did, and we’ll go from there.”
Taylor opened her mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail her. She took a deep breath, then blew it out. Took another one.
This had to be bad. A feeling of dread settled over Becca.
“I went to the jail to question Danny,” Taylor said on a long sigh.
“What? That’s all?” Becca shook her head. “You had me thinking you broke the law or something serious.”
“All?” Taylor sounded incredulous. “I went to visit a prisoner in jail without the case agent’s permission. What if I screwed something up? Screwed up the investigation?”
“Did you?”
“I don’t know . . . I mean.” She wrung her hands. “I don’t think so.”
Becca took a seat, trying to keep her frustration with the day from her tone. “Sounds to me like you’re upset because you broke the rules more than anything else.”
“I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands. “Maybe you’re right. I never . . . I mean I try not to bend them. So breaking them . . .” She ended with a shrug.
“You’re making no sense, Taylor. Or maybe I’m just too tired to see this, but why did you go there, then?”
She looked completely crestfallen. “I thought I could help.”
That didn’t sound like enough of a reason to go against her ingrained nature. “That was it? Your only reason. You wanted to help?”
“Yes, I wanted to help.” Taylor squirmed like a kid caught by her mother in a lie. “But I also thought I might do something to prove my worth on the team.”
“Worth? What in the world are you talking about?”
Becca noticed Taylor flinch, and she instantly regretted her biting tone. “Look, Taylor. I’m sorry for snapping. I’m tired, and I’ve had a trying day. Go ahead and explain it to me, and I won’t be such a grouch.” She forced out a smile. “I promise.”
“It’s probably not going to make sense, but you, Nina, and Kait are so well-respected. I’ve felt like such a novice since I got here, and I wanted to prove to the three of you that I belong.”
“You don’t need to prove anything.” Becca tried not to sound like a scolding mother, but she knew a subtle reprimand lingered in her tone. “Here’s the thing. You were chosen for the team for a reason. Vetted once, twice, shoot, maybe three times. That means your credentials speak for themselves and you have nothing to prove. Well, nothing other than showing us that you can make sound decisions and have our backs. Going off and doing something half-baked doesn’t do that, and it won’t endear you to us. We’re a team. We work together on everything. We have no room for loners.”
Right, except for your little secret about Van Gogh.
“Message received.” Taylor suddenly shot to her feet, a mix of relief and contrition in her eyes.
Becca probably should do something more formal about this infraction, but Taylor had just demonstrated that she’d be far harder on herself than Becca could ever be. Besides, Becca respected agents who took the initiative. It looked like Taylor was going to be one of them. She just had to learn when and where to do it.
“If it helps, I did learn a few things in my interview. Nothing earth-shattering, but Danny did admit he was homeless.” She opened the folder and selected a photo of a girl, then handed it to Becca. “He seems to have a connection to this girl. Romantic, I suspect.”
Becca recognized it as one of the pictures Connor had given to her at the gym. “What did Danny tell you about her?”
“Nothing. It was his expression that tipped me off.” Taylor closed the folder. “When I got back to the office, I got to thinking about all the foster kids who take off. So I spent the rest of the day searching the Department of Human Services database. It took a bit of digging, but I found files on a few girls who’ve disappeared. They’re all about his age, but unfortunately, the pictures didn’t match this girl.”
Missing foster girls. Van Gogh.
Becca’s pulse kicked up and she schooled her voice not to give away her anxiety. “Do you still have the info on the girls you found?”
“Sure, but their pictures don’t match the ones we have.” A look of frustration flashed over her face. “They could still have been recruited for the credit card ring, though, and Connor didn’t get pics of them.”
“Agreed. I’d like the information so I can follow up.”
“I’ll email it to you in the morning.”
“Can you do it now?”
“Now?” Her gaze locked on Becca’s. “It’s that important to you?”
Becca nodded and kept her mouth shut before she inadvertently mentioned something about the Van Gogh investigation.
“Sure, okay.” Taylor leaned over her computer and sent the email. “One more thing I should mention. Since Danny’s still not giving his name, I collected his DNA so we can run a search.”
“Resourceful.” Becca picked up her backpack. “But if Sulyard approves the DNA request,
which I doubt he will, I’m betting Danny will give up his name long before the test gets through the lab’s backlog.”
“We could use a private lab to get it done sooner.”
“Sulyard would never spring for such a high cost in a simple fraud investigation.”
“I could pay for it myself or try a few of my contacts in the forensic world to see if I can come up with someone who can—”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Becca interrupted. “I’ve got someone local who might be able to help. He’s a weapons expert, but he shares leased office space with a lab. Maybe he could get them to run the test for free. I’ll give him a call and get it to him if he agrees.”
Taylor frowned. “I’d like to see this through myself. Would it be okay if I took it to him?”
“Sure. Fine,” Becca said and started down the hall.
Taylor caught up, and they headed for the parking garage together. A cool wind blew through the space, but the air was waterlogged and the fall temperatures were unusually warm. That meant she’d find fog on the run she planned to take the minute she got home.
Once they reached her car, Taylor turned to Becca. “Thanks for not getting mad at me.”
“Honestly,” Becca said. “We’ve all done something like this in the past. But it didn’t take long for us to wise up and realize teamwork is a better option. You’re part of the team, Taylor, and we have your back. Now go home and get some sleep. If Jack agrees to help with the DNA, you’re going to need it to deal with him.”
Taylor cast Becca a quizzical look, but there was no way she’d be able to explain Jack Rains, so Becca went to her car. Taylor would just have to experience him for herself. Even with her fatigue, the thought of rookie Taylor coming eye to eye with world-weary Jack made Becca smile. He just might be the best lesson Taylor could get on why going rogue wasn’t a good idea.
Becca stopped to pick up a turkey burger and salad on her way home and shoved them in her refrigerator. She dressed in moisture-wicking running clothes before heading back outside for a long run to clear her mind. By the time she returned home, she was drenched in sweat, but she didn’t take the time to change. She could cool down while digging out boxes of Van Gogh records.
She’d accumulated twelve file boxes of information over the years. Reports, forms, sketches, and crime-scene photos. She’d neatly organized it all in labeled folders by date. The once-crisp folders were now worn from her semi-annual review of the information. She’d practically memorized it all, but that, in itself, could be a problem. She might skim or skip over something important. Hence the need for a clear mind.
She pulled out the main folders to create a murder board on the long wall above her sofa. First up was a sketch of Van Gogh created from her description in the nineties. Next to it, she added an age progression sketch that she commissioned every year on the anniversary of her abduction. Then she added Molly’s picture, as well as the photo of the girl whose body was discovered in the nineties. She’d been buried two weeks longer than the girl found today so it had been a gruesome sight. Next to that, she put up blank white poster boards where she noted the main case leads that didn’t pan out and the reasons why.
On her dining table, she set her copy of Detective Orman’s case murder book. She’d had the chance to interview him several times before he passed away this past year. He’d not been happy to see her at first. He’d said she reminded him of the most important case of his career, the one he’d never solved. He’d continued to investigate, but he didn’t like the thought of her getting involved. He feared she’d get close to Van Gogh, and he’d somehow figure out that she was alive. But that hadn’t happened, and on her last visit to Orman, he gave in and handed over a copy of his murder book. Actually, it was a copy of a copy. The original had to remain in PPB’s files. He shouldn’t have taken copies of the files either, but when he retired and the case remained unsolved, he couldn’t let it rest.
She got out colored pens, sticky notes in various sizes, and colored flags to mark report pages. She added two sizes of notepads, a stapler, and paper clips to the table.
Standing back, she assessed the room. Perfect. Just the way she organized her investigations at work. Her next step would be to post everything she knew about today’s Jane Doe to the board.
She printed out a map of the park and surrounding area, then highlighted nearby residential areas. Multi-unit homes in yellow. Single family homes in orange. On the computer, she panned the map out far enough to include the site where the girl had been found in the nineties. She printed it and marked the addresses on both maps. She tacked them up and studied them.
On the surface, no correlation appeared for the two locations. They weren’t even on the same side of town. The first burial site had been a vacant lot in an undeveloped area of town that now held an apartment complex.
So what did the two locations have in common? Had Van Gogh lived near the first site in the nineties and moved nearer the current burial site during that time? Or had he, in both cases, simply searched for an isolated location to dump the bodies?
She needed a more detailed map of the area surrounding today’s discovery to draw any kind of working hypothesis. She headed back to her computer, and her phone rang on the table. The sound startled her and sent her heart rate soaring.
Was it Connor? Had they found another body?
She quickly grabbed her phone and eyed the screen. Elise, her foster mother.
Okay, good. Not another body. Likely a foster kid in trouble.
Becca sighed out a breath.
“Since when has a foster kid in trouble become something to take lightly,” she mumbled as she decided if she would answer.
She wanted to help this kid, whoever it might be—she’d never said no to kids in trouble—but tonight was different. Tonight, she was dealing with Van Gogh, and she didn’t have the emotional strength left to talk about another suffering child.
Before she could make a decision, the call went to voicemail. Fine. Decision made for her. She went back to work, printed out the new map and highlighted it, then hung it on her wall. Her phone rang again.
The same jolt of adrenaline shot through her, abating only when she spotted Elise’s name again. Elise had been the one who had taken Becca in after her name change. She’d been told about Van Gogh and the danger that could follow Becca. Still, she’d said yes, and it was her tender care that had kept Becca sane. Becca couldn’t continue to ignore Elise, no matter what was going on in her own life.
“Elise,” Becca answered but kept her gaze on the map in hopes of finding the clue she was missing.
“I need you.” Elise’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I’m at the ER.”
“Are you hurt? Sick?” Please don’t say you’re dying. Please.
“It’s not me, it’s Frankie.”
Frankie. A sweet teen and one of Elise’s current foster kids.
“She’s dead, murdered, and it’s all my fault.” The words came out on a choked sob.
Van Gogh. Had he found out Becca had lived with Elise? Was he punishing Becca for running from him by going after one of Elise’s girls?
“How?” Becca held her breath for the answer.
“That’s why I need to see you. Please come. Hurry. Before it happens to another one of my precious kids.”
The line went dead, and a grim certainty settled over Becca. Van Gogh had struck and once again, it was close to home.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS ONLY TEN P.M. and Connor was dog-tired. Despite the time, he should be falling into bed instead of pulling up to Becca’s apartment, but there was no point in turning in yet. All he’d see when he closed his eyes would be the faces of murdered girls. Jane Doe number one, her face nearly decimated by decay. Jane Doe number two, now a skeleton, her face totally missing. And the third and fourth girls locat
ed by the cadaver dogs? It was still too early to see their faces. Dr. Williams had to take her time unearthing the bodies so they didn’t miss any possible leads. She couldn’t even determine a time of death yet . . . and might not be able to. Ever. She’d just have to wait and see what she located.
Which meant Connor had to wait, too. At least until tomorrow. Maybe longer.
He wasn’t good at waiting, and after spending time with Becca today, he wasn’t good with being alone, either. He hated to admit it, but that was his real reason for coming here.
He parked his truck and looked up to see her lights filtering through blinds. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. Good because she was awake and he really wanted to talk to her. Bad because of the potential consequences of violating every kind of protocol by sharing information with her before Vance cleared her.
Too dang bad. Connor needed her help on the investigation, and if this was what he had to do to find closure for these girls, then he would.
He slammed his truck door and crossed the lot to the main stairway leading to her second floor apartment. He’d barely planted a foot on the first step when her door suddenly opened. She was wearing serviceable running shorts and an Under Armor T-shirt. Her outfit should have made her look like a tomboy, but the shirt hugged her curves and the shorts gave him a nice view of her long legs. She carried a small backpack, and her face glistened with sweat, as if she’d already been running.
“Going for a run?” he asked.
She dropped to the ground, her hand going to an ankle holster, before meeting his gaze. “You scared me.”
“Sorry about that.”
“For your information—though I’m not sure why you need to know—I just came back from a run.”
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