by Jordan Dane
She looked up, narrowing her eyes.
"Maybe that's what the investigation needs, sir. A fresh set of eyes. Someone with a stake in this." She set her coffee down on the corner of his desk and crossed her arms. "Murphy is a good cop, but a real simple kind of guy. For him, thinking 'out of the box' is a radical concept, reserved for left-wing liberals, four-eyed geeks, and girlie-men."
Santiago raised an eyebrow and wrestled with his lower lip to avoid smiling.
"So why'd you let him get to you?" The man zeroed in on the heart of the problem. "You were ready to deck him."
She shrugged. "Seemed like a swell idea at the time."
"Not good enough, Rebecca." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Look, I know this has been rough on you, not being more involved in Danielle's case. I can't imagine how I'd feel if something happened to one of my kids."
His face softened in empathy. "Don't force me to stop you, Becca. My heart wouldn't be in it. But you gotta see, there's a bigger picture here. And I can't allow you to jeopardize this investigation."
"But my sister's case is getting lost in the shuffle of these abductions, sir." She pressed, her voice laden with emotion. "I gotta speak for her. I don't see anyone else doin' it."
His face settled into his usual stern expression.
"Need I remind you that the circumstances surrounding Danielle are a little different from the other two victims in this case? Yeah, all three lived here and were abducted from class outings across the country. But that's where the similarities end. Your sister left a trail after Padre Island, Becca."
His raised voice merged with an abrasive creak in his chair. The sound made her skin scramble like hearing fingernails screech across a chalkboard. Lately, her nerves were raw, but her revulsion had more to do with what he said. And the lieutenant added insult to injury by harping on his version of the truth.
"Look, you gotta face facts. Dani used her credit card at two gas stations and a motel. And we had an eyewitness sighting and a video to back this up. It looks like she ran away from home and hooked up with the wrong people."
An unreliable witness and one blurry video did not stack up to much in Becca's book. Even if the young girl in the videotape looked as if she wore Danielle's new clothes, identified by her sister's closest friends, it amounted to circumstantial evidence at best.
"But don't you see, Art? She'd never do that. Sure she had a rebellious streak, but what kid her age doesn't? Hell, you should've seen me."
Becca bolted out of her chair and stalked toward his office window, holding back the anger welling deep in her belly. She'd heard this account before, and it always made her furious, but talking about Dani in the past tense gnawed at her gut like a cancer. It didn't feel right.
"You? A rebel? Hard to imagine," he sniped.
"Sarcasm duly noted, but hear me out." She turned to face him. "I think someone stole her credit card and set up a bogus trail for us to follow. I think they wanted to throw us off what really happened to her."
"And what's your theory on that?"
Tick, tick, tick . . . Becca hated to admit it. She was as clueless as Murphy on what happened to her sister.
At first, Danielle's disappearance looked like the random act of a stray predator. After interviewing Dani's friends and extracting the truth, investigators closed in on a local hot spot. Tire tracks, signs of a struggle, and spots of her sister's blood marked the crime scene. And the college kid she was supposed to meet? He had a damned, rock-solid alibi. So the search for Danielle began. Local law joined forces with a contingent from San Antonio to scour the neighborhood for witnesses. Reward posters and flyers went out. Volunteers and local pilots searched for signs of a body. Radio stations and television news teams blitzed the story. None of the efforts paid off.
In between a few promising leads, many hoaxes were investigated, draining the resources of the police. Eventually, evidence of her credit card use trickled in, the sightings leading the search away from Padre Island. The FBI was brought in when it looked like her trail crossed state lines. Then Becca's worst fear. A motel room splattered with blood—too much blood loss for anyone to survive. At first, she was in denial that the blood belonged to her sister. But the tests came back a match. Dani had died in a cheap motel room. No body found.
Two other abduction cases followed in different states, but with connections to San Antonio. And in the turn of a page, Dani's story became old news. The media moved on.
With Becca relegated to the status of family member, she'd been kept at arm's length from the investigation. Her pushing investigators and double-checking leads had alienated her from the insiders to the case. Censored verbal reports gave her limited information, so she'd resorted to stealing peeks at Murphy's case book. Now that looked like a dead end. The word "powerless" didn't begin to describe how she felt.
And looking into the eyes of her despondent mother on the day they buried Danielle's empty coffin cast Becca into a new brand of hell. A part of her died that day.
"I don't have any theories, not yet." Becca slumped against the window frame. "But if Dani's case is so different from the others, maybe I can conduct my own—"
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Lieutenant Santiago clenched his jaw, a familiar gesture. "Sit. Now."
His command gave no room for interpretation. This was not an invitation to be declined. Becca heaved a sigh and trudged back to her seat, mustering a rebellious slouch.
"The FBI smells the work of a human trafficking ring with connections to San Antonio. And like flies to a pile of horseshit, they're buzzing over my jurisdiction. I don't need to tell you how that makes me feel. Pompous bastards." He furrowed his brow. "With you poking your nose into this, the feds have already raised their objections. Your link to Danielle could pose a problem for the prosecution if they find a connection, especially if a defense attorney gets wind of your involvement with evidence gathering. Do you want that?"
"I don't care about any damned court case, sir. I want justice for Dani."
"And that's the problem. Don't make me out to be the bad guy here. If there's some nut bag abducting and killing young women, it's my job—and yours— to put 'em away." A sad expression etched his face. "Don't make me force you to take time off. You and I both know how you'd spend it. I'd rather keep an eye on you myself."
With his brow furrowed, he leaned across the desk, concern overshadowing his personal disappointment. She owed Lieutenant Santiago so much. The man had been a mentor to her. Interfering in Danielle's case had been a flagrant betrayal of his trust and contrary to her sense of responsibility as a cop. Still, she had no choice. Straightening up in her chair, she waited to hear his version of a compromise.
"Before you hit the showers, get with dispatch. They got a call about skeletal remains found at the old Imperial Theatre, the one that just burned down. For now, I'm assigning you to the Cold Case Squad to handle it. On temporary loan."
"Is this an order, L.T.?"
"Does it need to be?" He matched her tone, ramped up the attitude. He'd lost his patience with the caring father routine. "Look, you've got a chance to give someone else closure here. And you must know how important that is. The pile of bones at the Imperial used to be someone's family. You do your job, I'll do what I can to keep you apprised of Murphy's progress myself. Deal?"
Becca crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, staring at him. He had played the guilt card like a master, no way for her to trump it. She cocked her head and crooked a corner of her mouth, watching as he basked in his victory.
He returned her smile. "If you need anything, or just want to talk, let me know."
"Thanks, L.T. I'll remember that."
Becca left his office and headed for dispatch, her mind working on what to do next. Lieutenant Santiago had been right about one thing. Closure was important. It would be worth any sacrifice.
The heat from the sun burned off the morning haze, but an early cool front brought a stiff bre
eze to jostle the trees. Real Texas weather. A taste of winter might come on the heels of sweltering heat or monsoon rains. This time of year, it paid to be a regular Girl Scout, prepared for anything.
Becca turned off Commerce onto St. Mary's Street and found a parking lot across the street from the Imperial Theatre. She found a spot next to one of the fire department trucks. Once outside her vehicle, Becca tugged at the collar of her white oxford shirt and buttoned the jacket to her navy pantsuit, preparing to go inside. Becca removed her sunglasses, slipped them into the pocket of her jacket, and clipped her ID badge on a lapel. She stared across the street to assess the damage from the front.
Yellow crime-scene tape whipped in the breeze, a flag for curious onlookers. Several people lingered on her side of the street and down a block or two. What they expected to see, she had no idea. For all they knew, it had only been a fire. News of the body had not been released. Still, morbid curiosity drew them like flies to roadkill.
But one man stood out from the rest.
Dressed in a sharp suit and tie, the guy looked like he had stepped off the cover of Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine with his swarthy good looks. GQ had mongo bucks written all over him. Wearing dark glasses, he leaned against a deep blue Mercedes S 600 parked along the street, hands in his pants pockets. Even without seeing his eyes, she knew he spotted her, his head turning with interest as she stood on the curb. He didn't look like the typical gawker who hoped to catch a glimpse of some action from the old burned-out building. Not this guy. He was anything but typical. And another facet of him caught her eye. Ever since leaving her Crown Vic, she had become his focus, holding his complete interest.
"The feeling's mutual, gorgeous," she whispered. "But I'm not in the mood."
Becca shifted her gaze to the Imperial. The theater bore a certain dignity, even covered in layers of soot. The fire had consumed much of its striking architecture and intricate detail with no regard for history. Prior to the blaze, she believed the theater had been left derelict. A real shame.
Seeing it now from the outside—nothing more than a blackened carcass—provoked her already sullen mood. She read somewhere that the recently declared historic building had been slated for restoration, but the work hadn't begun yet. Now, it never would.
From what she remembered of the theater, Baroque, Mediterranean, and Spanish Mission influences had inspired the design. Conveying theater patrons to a fanciful villa, arches with ornate columns, tile rooftops, and a bell tower surrounded the stage. Walls were transformed into steeples with colorful glass windows. Rising above the quaint setting, a vaulted "sky" in deep blue twinkled with endless stars and clouds drifted overhead like mist. On a balcony railing, a rare white peacock perched next to doves caught in midflight, all part of the architect's illusory world.
With a young Danielle in tow, Becca had been in the theater as a teen, the treasured memory of an outing with her late grandmother. The experience had forever left its mark. At the time, she and Dani imagined the Imperial to be a grand palace, home to a legendary king and queen with magical powers. Crystal chandeliers soared high above the plush seats, making the gilded walls glisten in the pale light. She remembered holding her breath when the lights dimmed, eyes wide. With its elaborate brocade borders, the velvet curtain rose over the stage. Elegant ballerinas performed The Nutcracker, looking even more enchanting on the ornate stage. Pure magic.
Now all that was gone, and so was Danielle. Her heart ached with profound loss.
Ignoring GQ, still standing by his pricey car, Becca crossed the street and walked through what remained of the front door. After she flashed her badge to the uniform stationed at the entrance, he handed her a protective helmet with Plexiglas visor, standard-issue. She reached into the pocket of her jacket for a fresh pair of latex gloves and made sure she had her casebook, pen, and flashlight.
Inside, a dank smoldering odor filled her nostrils. Water damage fused with the fire's destruction. Squinting, Becca adjusted to the dark interior and hit the switch to her Kel-light. The beam of light stretched into the void, capturing fine particles of dust in its wake—a reminder why the air felt thick and smelled stale. The scorched shell captured her attention, a macabre landscape in black and gray. Past the lobby, an eerie hum drifted through the cavernous space, leading her like a beacon.
She heard voices ahead, the words garbled by the distance and the steady whir coming from a portable power generator. With the electricity out to the building, the generator would allow them to work by floodlights. Crime-scene techs were hard at work, bagging and tagging evidence and taking digital photographs.
But one section of the theater caught her eye. Bright lights flooded a murky and gaping cavity in a stone wall to the right of the stage. A group of men gathered near the opening, their silhouettes casting elongated shadows with every flash of the camera. As she approached, one of the men turned.
"Hey, Becca. Was wondering who'd get the short straw." Team leader for the crime-scene technicians, Sam Hastings grinned as Becca snapped on her latex gloves.
Tall and lanky with curly brown hair receding at his temples, the senior CSI stepped aside for her to get a closer look. Details of his face faded from view as he moved deeper into the shadows.
"Short straws are all I get lately." Skeletal remains were uncommon. Becca crooked her lips into a reasonable facsimile of a smile. "Before I forget, have one of your guys record the crowd outside, especially the suit by the Mercedes. And get his tag."
"Good idea. Firebugs like to watch the aftermath of their handiwork. The guy look suspicious?"
"Let's just say he stands out from the crowd, but I want the license tags and faces of everyone out there." She bent to get a closer look and dropped to a knee.
One of the techs knelt by the masonry and removed another stone, setting it on the floor beside him. A couple of bricks were already bagged. She knew anything could be evidence, including the mortar used. It might give some indication of a time line.
With flashlight in hand, Becca kept her eyes focused on the dark hole. She found herself staring into the hollow eyes of a skull. Its jaw gaped open in a grotesque scream. The smell of old death lingered enough to fill the tomb with a stale earthy stench, nothing more.
"So, tell me something I don't know, Sam."
"Okay." He took a moment to think. "When I was ten, a kid half my size made me cry when he threatened to hit me."
Becca turned toward him, an eyebrow raised.
"Not exactly what I had in mind, but thanks for sharing." She fought a smile. "How did they find the body?"
"Firefighter swingin' a mean ax took out the first bricks, enough to find somethin' staring back."
Once again, Becca glanced over her shoulder. Before she made a smart remark, Sam beat her to the punch, "Hey, if I'd gone the fireman route, I would've had to make a trip home to change my shorts. But I'm your basic jaded CSI guy. Nothing much surprises me anymore."
"I hear ya." Becca shifted focus deep into the hole and noticed something disturbing. "What do we have here? He's got no fingers?"
"Phalanges are the first to go. Over time, small bones drop off," Sam replied. He nudged close to her shoulder and used his flashlight to locate the bone fragments in the bottom of the cramped space. "It's gonna take us a while to remove the skeleton. We'll extricate the rest in one piece if we can."
He changed direction of his beam to reveal the skull and spoke aloud as if he were making a mental checklist.
"We don't get many skeletal remains to ID. We may have to bring in a specialist—a forensic anthropologist—maybe try and reconstruct facial features. We'll collect some mitochondrial DNA and retain it to compare against any known relation to the deceased. That'll be your job to find next of kin."
"My best hope to speed up the ID process will be to check into missing persons. The body had to be buried in this theater while it was under construction or during some kind of renovation. Maybe that'll help narrow the time period for my search. W
e could get lucky."
She made notes in her casebook. With a grimace, she rested an elbow on her knee, and said, "I came here as a kid to see a ballet once. It really creeps me out to know that while the crowd gave a standing ovation, this guy was buried in the wall near the stage."
"Yeah, back in the day, I heard it was murder to get a front-row seat."
Becca shut her eyes and shook her head. A collective groan rumbled through the techs standing behind her.
"Everyone's a critic." The CSI team leader shrugged.
"Hey, Sam. Wouldn't the smell of the body be detected once it was time for curtain call at the Imperial?"
"Yeah, but construction or renovation work takes time, right? Crews coming in and out. Time for a body to decompose depends on temperature, moisture, and accessibility to insects. In the summer, an exposed human body can be reduced to bones in nine days. Now granted, this type of setup would've taken longer, but it's conceivable only bones attended opening night. No tux required."
With more of the wall removed, he craned his neck and directed his flashlight into the makeshift tomb. "Looks like we're gonna have to rethink the gender thing. Check out those hips."
With a tilt of her head, Becca turned to stare at the senior CSI. "You need to hang out with people who're partial to breathing. In case you haven't noticed, this is a pile of bones. What hips?"
"I used the word 'hips' for your benefit. I didn't think—'Hey, check out that sciatic notch'—would get your attention. Am I right?"
When she scrunched her face, Sam explained and pointed to the lower vertebrae.
"The sciatic notch spreads as a woman gets older, allowing the pelvis to make room for childbirth. If I had to guess, this sacrum and pelvic rim are from a young female. And the partially erupted molars back me up. I'd say the victim was late teens to early twenties at time of death." He pointed a finger to the brow of the skull. "Another thing, check out the forehead. It's almost vertical. Men's tend to slant more, develop a browridge. And with the narrow mandible, definitely female."