“There are a bunch of city cams in this area,” Kellan said, tipping his stubbled chin at the black box perched on top of the telephone pole across the street. “Do you think maybe one of them caught her?”
Hope perked in Isabella’s chest, warm despite the frigid December weather. “It was dark out when she left. Still, worth a shot.”
They walked for a dozen more steps, quietly taking in their surroundings before Kellan quietly said, “You mentioned Marisol took a similar route the night she disappeared.”
“Oh. Ah, yeah.” Isabella’s belly dipped slightly beneath her low-slung jeans. “Her family—my Aunt Bianca and Uncle Santiago—used to have a row home about six blocks from here. She was walking to my parents’ old place on Caldwell Street when she…” Was kidnapped on her way to my house. Raped. Murdered. “Disappeared.”
“I know the area pretty well.” Kellan’s steps didn’t falter, his arm firm over hers. “Just from all the calls we go on. It’s pretty nice.”
“Mmm hmm.” She’d grown up less than a mile away. Gone to the library they were now walking by no less than a thousand times. How unfair that she could walk by it a thousand more when Marisol hadn’t even lived to see her own fifteenth birthday.
Isabella’s heart began to pound. But Kellan kept walking, his boots a comforting thump-thump-thump on the concrete, so she took a deep breath and kept going, too.
“Someone with bad intentions would have to go the extra mile to blend in around here. Both twelve years ago and now,” he said, and she unpacked the thought with care.
“That’s true.” While this part of Remington was well-populated, it was also very suburban, along with being notoriously tight-knit. She’d been on a first-name basis with half the store owners within a four-block radius of her parents’ brownstone growing up. From the sound of the passing greetings riding the air around them right now, not much had changed. “A stranger would probably stand out unless he took pains not to. But I’d have to imagine Barton and Weiss have canvassed the area to ask if anyone saw anything unusual.”
A thread of frustration uncurled in her belly. God, between the street cam footage she couldn’t pull and the canvass to which she had zero access, she hated not knowing what the other detectives had—or hadn’t—done. To say nothing of what they had or hadn’t found.
As if he’d zoned in on her brainwaves, Kellan arched a dark brow at her in profile. “We’re just looking, remember?”
Isabella released a heavy exhale. “I remember.”
“So this is where Brittany started out.” He inclined his head at the library, a two-story brick building that spanned more than half the block.
She smiled a hello at two moms hustling by with jogging strollers and toddlers bundled to the nines. “Yep.”
“Okay. Let’s walk the route between here and her house and check out the parts of the trip that would have intersected with Marisol’s walk to your house twelve years ago.”
They’d mapped out all the potential common spots when they’d gone over all the details of Brittany’s case last night, which—in addition to Isabella’s familiarity with the neighborhood—made finding the part of the route the two girls had likely shared fairly easy. The good news was that there were both several stores with security cameras along the three-block chunk of real estate in question, as well as one street cam. The bad news was that it had been dark when Brittany had left the library, and even if they did get sail-under-a-star lucky and caught a glimpse of her on the footage, chances were high it wouldn’t yield much.
“Ugh,” Isabella muttered, looking at the row of brownstones all decorated with red ribbons and strings of lights. “There’s that alley there, the park two blocks back, and the loading zone for that market across the street. Brittany could have easily been snatched from any of those places. If she even disappeared from the same part of the route as Marisol.” Just because Isabella wanted the cases to be connected didn’t mean they were. She had to keep a level head, here.
“There are a lot of plausible scenarios,” Kellan agreed, his tone reluctant.
Unease mixed with the determination in her chest. Barton and Weiss had given Sinclair the cold shoulder, yes, but that didn’t make them bad cops. Maybe they’d pulled all the footage, or nailed down a lead from the CSU report, or figured out another angle.
And maybe she’d go bat-shit crazy speculating all the could-bes and what-ifs while a killer roamed the streets, looking for another victim.
“There’s really only one way to know which scenario is most likely, and whether or not it’s being properly investigated,” she said, her determination winning out.
Kellan ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck as he looked at her. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”
“Because that one way involves a trip to the Nineteenth Precinct. It’s time to meet Detectives Barton and Weiss.”
In a sea of detectives, uniformed officers, and degenerates in handcuffs, Kellan was definitely the odd man out. His ID and fire department badge got him through the security checkpoint at the Nineteenth Precinct, though, and after a borderline flirty smile from the woman he was marrying in T-minus five days, the otherwise cranky desk sergeant sent them down a long hallway toward the homicide unit’s office.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Kellan asked, gesturing to the brown paper bag in Isabella’s hand.
“First of all, the Holey Roller is always a good idea. These donuts are like the holy grail of breakfast pastries. Secondly”—she paused for an inhale before nodding in certainty—“I don’t want to interfere in the case. But Marisol was my cousin, Kellan. My blood. My best friend. If there’s a chance, however small, that the man who killed her is back out there hurting young women, I need to know that everything in the RPD’s power is being done to stop him.”
Well, shit. When she put it that way… “Okay. Just do yourself a favor and try to take it easy, would you? Don’t go all Detective Moreno on them.”
Despite the potential gravity of the situation, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Unable to help himself, Kellan released a full-blown smirk at her as they reached the double doors marked Homicide Division, Nineteenth Precinct.
“Baby, I love you. But let’s just say you’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer, especially when you’re mad. Maybe play this one on the nice side?”
“I brought donuts,” Isabella said, her smile as angelic as it was full of shit. “I’m perfectly nice.”
Christ. They were going to need bail money. Kellan could feel it.
“Help ya?” came a gruff voice from just over the threshold. It belonged to a worn-looking man wearing a suit so rumpled, Kellan would bet good money the thing stunt doubled as pajamas.
Isabella didn’t hesitate. “I’m Detective Isabella Moreno, from the intelligence unit at the Thirty-Third.” She flashed the badge on her hip with her non-donut hand. “And this is Kellan Walker with the RFD. We’re looking for Detectives Barton and Weiss.”
Rumplesuitskin turned toward the back of the open office space, calling through the clutter. “Yo, Barton! You and Weiss have a coupl’a VIPs over here. From the Thirty-Third.”
Kellan felt his fingers flex slowly into fists at the guy’s tone and the snotty implication that went with it, but he kept himself in check. Isabella was far from a wallflower. She’d give better than she got if shit got critical. Plus, the lead wasn’t his to take right now. Not unless she needed him to have her back.
“That so?” The semi-bald, wholly obnoxious man at the desk along the rear wall barely looked up from the mountainous stack of forms and file folders on his desk. “Must be our lucky day, Weiss.”
The detective at the desk next to him actually had the decency to stop what he’d been doing and push back from his keyboard. He sent an assessing gaze over first Isabella, then Kellan, before saying, “I guess so. You’re a little far f
rom the schoolyard, aren’t you, Detective Moreno?”
Kellan didn’t miss the way she bristled before covering the cluttered office space in a handful of strides. “A little, I guess,” she said, her smile mostly teeth. “I thought I’d bring you guys some donuts and offer up some insight on a cold case that might be related to the kidnapping-rape-homicide you’re working right now.”
Barton took the bag, measuring her with a cold, flat stare that made Kellan want to throat punch the guy. “Huh. That’s funny, since I already got that line from your boss and I told him we’d take the possible connection under advisement.”
“I know you two already spoke.” Isabella had to tread very cautiously here, and the tone of her voice said she knew it. “But I have personal ties to the case from twelve years ago. I know all the details inside and out, and—”
“Let me stop you right there, sweetheart.” He lifted one meat hook of a hand at the same time Isabella’s brows shot upward and Kellan shifted forward on the linoleum. “I’ve been a cop for a lotta years. Known Sam Sinclair for most of ’em. I don’t need him—or you—to hold my hand while I work a case, and I’m sure as shit not going to let you waste my time with some crime that might as well be ancient history when I’m trying to do something important, like catch a killer in the present day.”
“The cases could be related,” Isabella said, her shock evident on her face and in her voice. “You might be looking at the same killer, and that ancient history might just give you the intel you need to find him and bring him down.”
Barton snorted. “Right. And Crosby over there might be jolly old Saint Nick.”
Just like that, Kellan was done holding his tongue. “Look, we’re just trying to help catch this guy, same as you two.”
“Save it, flame jockey. Like I said, we don’t need any help.” Barton slid a beady glance at Weiss, who was examining the coffee mug on his desk as if it were suddenly riveting. “I already read through that old case of yours, anyway. Couple of similarities, I guess, but there’s not really any evidence to suggest these crimes were done by the same guy.”
“Did you look for more than five seconds?” Isabella asked, not far enough under her breath to get it past Barton or Weiss. Weiss’s brows winged all the way past the thin black rims of his glasses, but Barton had apparently tapped out in the patience department.
“Tell you what. I’m going to assume it’s that time of the month and let that cute little remark of yours slide. Otherwise”—he reached into the brown paper bag on his desk to pull out one of the donuts Isabella had brought and took a huge bite—“we’re done here. Door’s that way.”
Kellan had moved two steps forward before his neurons had even stopped firing off the command to invade the motherfucker’s dance space. “Did you just say that? Did you seriously just say—”
Isabella’s fingers wrapped around Kellan’s forearm, squeezing with enough intent to stop his words. “No, you know what, Kellan, it’s all good. We’re done here, anyway. Thanks for your time, Barton. Weiss.”
They got halfway down the corridor leading back to the lobby before Kellan could find his voice amid all the free-flowing anger in his throat. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “You’re going to let that misogynistic horse shit go?”
“Believe me, I want nothing more than to drop gloves on that knuckle-dragging son of a bitch,” she said, and her fiery expression backed up the statement, one billion percent. “But we’ve got more important things in front of us, and we can’t do them if we’re both sitting in county lockup for popping off at the mouth at some idiot homicide detective.”
His brain played a lightning round of connect-the-dots, and oh hell. She couldn’t mean… “What more important things?”
“We’re going to figure out who killed Brittany Martin, and whether or not he’s also responsible for Marisol’s murder. But first, we’re going to stop and grab something to eat. We need a plan to deal with Barton, and I’m going to need all the strength I can get before I go all Detective Moreno on his ass.”
Chapter 5
Isabella’s heart had taken up permanent residence in her windpipe. But despite the fact that she knew it was going to earn her the gold-star spot on Sinclair’s shit list, she still sat in the chair across from his desk, ready and willing to tell him everything she’d done on her lunch break, then ask point-blank for his help.
She’d learned last year to rely on her team. All the time. Every time.
No exceptions.
Sinclair listened carefully as she spilled the story of retracing Brittany’s steps, then heading down to the Nineteenth and offering to help Barton and Weiss with the details of Marisol’s case. The muscle in his jaw started twitching when she got to the whole ‘yes, I know you told me to stay far away from this investigation’ part of things, and when she got to Barton’s reaction to her offer, she was pretty certain the thing might spontaneously combust. But it wasn’t until she relayed the detective’s less-than-polite dismissal that Sinclair lifted a hand to stop her.
“I think I’ve heard enough.” He sat back in his desk chair, examining her with that steel-tipped stare that said he was measuring his words with a truckload of care. “When this case popped up, I knew it was going to be a pothole for you.”
“I’m fine,” she argued, nodding in concession a second later when Sinclair hit her with a high-level frown. “Okay, so I did do a little looking around after you told me not to, and I get why you didn’t want me to do it. But I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t freelance, and I damn sure didn’t interfere in Barton and Weiss’s investigation. I learned my lesson last year, Sarge. I rely on my team. And right now, I’m asking for help.”
“You didn’t interfere,” he allowed. “But you did poke around after I told you not to. And you took Walker on your little fact-finding mission.”
Sinclair lifted his chin at his office door. Not wanting to leave even though he’d known her conversation with Sinclair had to be private—a case was a case, whether it was hers or not—Kellan had parked himself on the other side of the wood and glass.
Isabella exhaled slowly. “To be fair, Kellan and I took a walk in a public place on our own time, and we were never in any danger. The trip to the Nineteenth was a peace offering. I only wanted to tell them what I know about Marisol’s case. Nothing more. But that said, yes. You’re right. I didn’t drop it after you told me to.”
A heartbeat slid into two, then two more before he said, “In this case, your instincts were on target. Barton’s been an ass since the academy, and he’s clearly not investigating Brittany Martin’s rape and murder properly if he’s dismissing the possible connections with Marisol’s case so quickly. I can let Captain Foster know I’ve got concerns and that intelligence is happy to handle the job...”
“But?”
“But you are getting married in five days, and this is going to be a brutal case, even if it’s not tied to Marisol’s murder, which it damn well might be. I need you to be absolutely sure you’re good here, Moreno. No bravado. No bullshit. Just you.”
Although part of her was tempted to answer with a knee-jerk “I’m fine”, she didn’t. She measured the facts. Considered her emotions. Then answered truthfully.
“I’m absolutely sure I’m good here, Sam. This case deserves justice, and I think we’re the team to get it.”
“Okay.” Sinclair reached for the phone on his desk without hesitating. “Let me make a call.”
Relief whooshed through Isabella’s chest, followed quickly by a hard shot of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. We stand up for our own around here. Now why don’t you get everyone up to speed while I take care of the legalities? We’ve got a killer to catch.”
Ninety minutes later, the intelligence office looked like a two-ton evidence box had thrown up all over it. Isabella had done exactly as Sinclair had asked, giving the team a concise yet thorough rundown of both Marisol’s cold case and Brittany Martin’s act
ive one as soon as she’d beelined out of his office. They’d all jumped into action the second Sinclair had gotten off the phone with Captain Foster down at RPD headquarters, and even though it skirted the boundaries of the rules, Sinclair had let Kellan stick around for the briefing since he already knew the details of the case anyway.
“Okay, people.” Sinclair’s gravelly voice had them all looking up from their work stations. “Give me what you’ve got and let’s get a plan in place to nail this son of a bitch.”
Isabella frowned. Better to get the shit news out of the way first. “CSU turned up damn little in the basement where Brittany’s body was found. No DNA, no fibers or fingerprints that can be unequivocally linked to her assault. There’s also no evidence to point to where she’d been kept for the three days she was missing.” She knew, because she and Hollister had scoured the reports from cover to cover in search of some.
“The ME’s report isn’t much better,” Hale said apologetically. “No DNA or other physical evidence that would ID the killer or connect the two crimes, although there are pretty striking similarities in terms of the murders, proper. The official cause of death for both women is strangulation. Both had their hands bound pre-mortem with nylon rope”—she paused for only the briefest of seconds before adding—“and from the ligature marks on the victims’ necks, it looks like they were both asphyxiated manually.”
“Jesus,” Kellan whispered under his breath, and even though Isabella’s gut had pitched at the report, too, she had to stay strong. Focused.
“Did you get anything off the surveillance footage?” she asked Capelli, who pushed up his glasses and gestured to the six-screen array of monitors on the wall over his desk, which now had a video image displayed on the bottom center screen.
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