Cold Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 3)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  She tried to shove the door closed but Roarke got a foot in and held it open with his left hand.

  “FBI, Ms. Collins. Special Agent Roarke, Special Agent Epps. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Susannah.”

  “Let’s see the warrant,” she snapped.

  “We’re just here for a friendly chat.”

  She snorted. “Friendly. The Feds. That’s a new one.”

  She tried again to shove the door closed and Roarke stopped it with the flat of his hand. “We’re here to talk about your daughter. Now be a good mother and give us a few minutes.”

  Her eyes flashed fire, but then she lifted her shoulders with exaggerated nonchalance and stepped back. “Of course. Anything for my government.”

  She was unmistakably related to Jade; there were hints of the girl in her bone structure, in her easy sensuality, and of course in her wild, thick hair. No doubt where Jade had gotten her fuck you brashness, either.

  Roarke and Epps moved through the doorway and inside, hands hovering beside their weapons, eyes scanning the premises.

  Inside was hippie décor, shabby chic, emphasis on shabby. Velvet pillows and zebra-patterned throws, everything tattered. No Christmas decorations here, or even much attempt at basic hygiene. There seemed to be a layer of dust on everything.

  Alison stepped to a table that had the remains of several drinks on it and picked out a pack of Camels. The bravado was largely put on; Roarke could see she was nervous. Whether those nerves were about Jade or about the drugs that he would have bet money were in the house, he couldn’t be sure. She tapped out a cigarette, lit up, exhaled.

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of trouble Suze is in, but it’s got nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen her for six, seven months.”

  Wonderful, Roarke thought bleakly. A sixteen-year-old kid on the street and all her mother cares about is keeping herself out of trouble.

  “So you haven’t seen her since she was, what, fifteen?”

  Alison’s eyes narrowed. “Something like that.”

  While Roarke spoke, Epps was casually circling the room, glancing into doors, taking note of everything that could be seen. She watched both men at once, like a cat watching birds.

  “Do you know where she lives?” Roarke queried.

  She took a drag of smoke before she answered. “We don’t talk.”

  Roarke felt a quick anger. He could see Alison caught it. She stroked a hand through her hair, and even through the obvious hostility he could feel the come-on underneath the gesture. “Suze made her own choices. You can’t stop a girl who wants to go.”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Roarke kept his face impassive. “So she was fifteen when she made this ‘choice’? Kind of young to be out there on her own, isn’t it?”

  Alison gave him a slow, cold smile. “As old as I was when I left home. So?”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Five years.”

  “And Jade . . . Susannah was with you for four of those years.”

  Alison looked offended. “Of course she was with me. Where else would she be?”

  “Was anyone else living with you at the time?”

  The woman’s gaze narrowed. “In four years? Sometimes there was, sometimes there wasn’t.”

  Classic evasion.

  Roarke recalled his conversation with Shauna. “We heard something about a stepfather.”

  Alison gave him a lofty look. “You heard wrong.”

  “A boyfriend, though, surely,” Roarke said, making it a compliment. He saw a flash of a preening smile, quickly suppressed.

  “What, I’m supposed to be celibate?”

  “We’d never expect that,” Epps said dryly.

  She shot a sharp look at him, smoothed her hair back. “I like to keep it simple. I don’t need a man to be happy.”

  “What about Darrell Sawyer?”

  An angry, furtive look crossed her face. “Who?”

  Roarke shook his head. “Come on, Ms. Collins, it’s all there in your record. The SCPD questioned you about Mr. Sawyer.”

  “So?” she challenged him.

  “So we’d like to talk to him. Do you have a phone number? An address?”

  She flipped her hair back. “Like I told the cops. I don’t have a fuckin’ clue. It’s ancient history now.”

  “It was six months ago,” Roarke pointed out. “That’s when you talked to the police. Not long after you say Susannah left home. Sawyer was living with you while she was still here. So what I want to know is, what made her leave?” He caught the fleeting, guilty look in her eyes and felt anger flare again. “Did Sawyer ever touch your daughter? Did she ever ask you for help?”

  Alison turned on him. “Is that what she told you? It’s a lie. You don’t know what it’s like, having a girl like that little—”

  Before he could even process what he was doing, Roarke was stepping forward, backing Alison against the wall. Just as instantly, Epps had a hand on his arm, holding him back.

  Roarke spoke into Alison’s face. “Here’s how I think it went, Ms. Collins. Your scumbag boyfriend raped your daughter, and you didn’t want to lose the gravy train, so you kicked her out of the house. That sound about right?”

  She snarled back at him. “You don’t have a clue, you Federal motherfuckers—”

  “All right, now. All right.” Epps’ hand was on Roarke’s shoulder, pulling him away from the woman.

  “Coming into my house and accusing me . . .” Alison raged.

  Roarke fought down his fury and allowed Epps to hustle him out the door, while Alison screamed behind them. “You better get him out of here. I’ll sue. I have rights. I’ll sue—”

  Her voice was cut off by the slamming of the front door.

  On the porch, Epps turned Roarke loose. Roarke walked in a circle on the worn boards to control himself. “Sorry,” he managed.

  Epps stood on the sagging steps below him, waiting. “No worries.”

  “I could have killed her,” Roarke said through a sinking feeling.

  “I doubt it,” Epps said.

  “I wanted to,” Roarke said.

  “Well now. You’re not exactly alone with that.”

  Roarke nodded, and they moved down the steps, both dropping it. When they were out of earshot, Epps looked back at the front door. “So, we bring her in? Try to sweat her?”

  Roarke had already been thinking on it. “To find Jade? I don’t think she knows.”

  “Or find Sawyer,” Epps said tightly. “I know what you’re thinking. If Jade’s got a list, sounds like Sawyer’s on it.”

  “If she even knows how to find him.” It was a big If. He glanced back at the house himself. “But I can’t see her going to that one for anything.”

  Epps shook his head. “No. No help there.” He looked at Roarke. “You do think it was Jade’s kill last night?”

  Roarke felt an acid rush to his stomach. He’d been so focused on the trail to Jade he’d been able to block out the other glaring revelation of the day. He answered evasively, to buy himself time to think.

  “I think we’re here for the night. These kills have been in pairs all along. Chances are if there’s a second, it’s going to be close. And soon.”

  The sun managed to burn through the fog as Epps drove them to a hotel he’d spotted on Beach Street, the road running parallel to the boardwalk. The Moroccan-style building wasn’t exactly four-star, but it clung to the side of a small, steep cliff right across from the wharf, overlooking the bay.

  After checking in and settling themselves, the agents met in Roarke’s third-floor room and sat on the couch and armchair beside the wide window as sunset streaked the sky outside.

  Roarke had made all the
calls he could. No word from Rachel. So he looked across at Epps, and finally said what he had been avoiding.

  “Jade isn’t the only problem we have, now. We don’t know that she was here last night. But Rachel was.”

  Epps stared at him.

  “One of the street kids described her. She was asking around about Jade. She was on Pacific an hour before Cranston was killed.”

  Epps stood, ran a hand over his head. “What the fuck, now . . . ?”

  Roarke looked automatically down at his phone, as if a text or call would suddenly appear. “I’ve left messages. No response. She didn’t go in to work today, either. Took a personal day.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t get it, either. But I don’t like it. She’s been strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  Roarke had a sudden, clear memory of Rachel’s outburst about DeShawn Butler. “Someone should just take a blowtorch to all of them. Pimps, johns, the whole fucking lot of them.”

  “This thing is getting to her,” he said aloud.

  “Getting to her how bad?” Epps demanded. Roarke looked at him. He didn’t have to break down the implications; Epps was already there. Rachel was political. She was angry. In her own way she was as angry as Cara about the same kinds of abuse.

  “Jesus Christ,” Epps said, walking the room. “Jesus Christ.”

  Roarke took a breath and tried to think. “We grab some sleep and hit the streets tonight. This isn’t that big a town. If the local cops are out on Ocean, we can cover Pacific Avenue, and maybe the boardwalk.”

  Epps stopped and looked across the room at Roarke. “Looking for what?”

  “Looking for Jade . . . and Rachel.”

  “And Cara?”

  Roarke looked out the wide window into the twilight. The moon was rising from the water, leaving a shimmering trail of white across the bay.

  One night from full.

  Cold Moon.

  “And Cara,” he said.

  Chapter 67

  Santa Cruz’s hundred-plus-year-old boardwalk was a tourist attraction, with a Victorian arcade and an extensive amusement park: a beach strip of roller coasters, haunted houses, Tilt-a-Whirls, and the original 1911 carousel with its hand-carved horses.

  At night it became a pulsing fantasy of wheels and lights, a giant child’s glowing toy set lit up on the sand. Organ music from the antique carousel and eerie calls and creaks from the haunted houses wrestled with the strains of Abba, Def Leppard, and Beyoncé coming from more modern rides: Whirlwind, Crazy Surf, Tsunami, Cliffhanger, Fireball. Screams of exhilarated terror echoed over the shimmering water of Monterey Bay.

  Roarke stood in the midst of the brightly lit cacophony.

  Detective Williams had the Santa Cruz police out in force tonight: on the Ocean Avenue stroll, on Pacific Avenue, patrolling the bus station.

  But this carnival was Jade’s kind of place. If she was still in town, it wasn’t beyond reason that she might be here. So while Epps walked Pacific Avenue, Roarke was taking a chance on the boardwalk. He braced himself and plunged into the crowd.

  He wove his way through the food trucks and game booths and the shops selling sparkly souvenirs, fast food, and saltwater taffy, eyeing every cluster of teens he passed, on the lookout for Jade’s wild mane of hair.

  Like her mother’s, he thought, though he was using the term mother loosely. His rage at Alison Collins seared through him again. He’d texted Singh, updating her on the interview—or whatever you could call it—with Alison. Recounting it had only made him more angry, had chased away any chance he’d had at sleep.

  How did it go with Jade? Did she run from her mother’s piece of shit boyfriend? How long was she on the street here before Ramirez snatched her up?

  What chance do they have, these kids? Against men who think nothing of abusing them for fun and profit . . . so-called mothers who facilitate the abuse . . .

  And now there was Rachel to think about.

  He felt an acid rush of fear.

  Could she be responsible for the Tenderloin killings? Or the Inty ones? This latest one?

  She had been living on the front lines of hell for so long. Would it be any surprise if she finally snapped?

  Snyder’s voice suddenly spoke in his head. “I’ve never understood why we don’t see more women acting out in a similar way. God knows, enough of them have reason.”

  Roarke breathed in against the uncertainty and moved on toward the lights of the Casino Arcade.

  The old casino was now called Smuggler’s Arcade: a huge wedding cake of a building at the end of the boardwalk, just before the stairs that led down to the ocean. In the old days, the likes of Artie Shaw and Benny Goodman had played there while the California elite danced in silk tuxedos and glittery gowns. Now the halls were crowded with teenagers. The décor was pirate-themed, clashing with the modern booths housing video games with names like Crimson Skies and Lord of Vermilion and Terminator Salvation. And the noise was deafening: the pings and revving engines and gunshots and tinny music of the vintage machines and modern video games, the pops and explosions of the shooting gallery, the shrieking dance machine where lithe Japanese girls quickstepped to a rapid pattern of lights on a screen.

  Roarke stared around him at the kaleidoscope of noise and lights and felt exhaustion and despair.

  What was I thinking? What are the chances that Jade will show up here?

  But he held on to one slim hope: that she might return simply because she had grown up here. In years, at least, she was little more than a child, and children were drawn to their childhood places.

  Maybe especially someone like Jade, who had had her childhood ripped away from her.

  So he moved farther inside, bracing himself against the din as he walked through the dark, tiered space, surrounded by flashing lights and video screens.

  And kids. So many kids.

  Kids like Jade. Like Shauna. Like Becca. Every one of them just a heartbeat away from capture by predators like Ramirez. Butler. Cranston. Sawyer. Predators who were undoubtedly out on the boardwalk right now, even trolling this arcade at this moment.

  Roarke’s head was pounding, and not just from the overlapping music. The screams of kids surrounded him, and for a moment what he heard was no longer the excitement and adrenaline of an amusement park, but the agony of unimaginable pain.

  Whose pain? Rachel’s? Cara’s? Jade’s? Every kid out there on the street?

  He stopped in the middle of the pulsing lights, his heart suddenly racing out of control.

  What am I doing? Taking down one pimp at a time? One john? How can it ever be enough?

  Rachel’s voice was in his head now.

  “Someone should just take a blowtorch to all of them.”

  And Molina’s.

  “You tell me your way is working, Agent Roarke, and I will call you the liar you are.”

  And Cara’s.

  “It never dies. You can kill It over and over and It only comes back.”

  Their voices overlapped in his head, crying, accusing, begging. Gunshots, shrieks, screams. For the second time in days, he felt himself close to the abyss, to some complete breakdown. He bent over, put his hands on his knees, and gulped back bile.

  Out. Get out.

  He straightened and shouldered his way through the crowd.

  He shoved through the doors of the arcade and strode outside, out onto the promenade, with its elegant arches looking out on the beach and the moon, almost full now over the bay, casting a cold white trail on the blue night water.

  In the sudden silence, he took slow breaths and tried to calm his pulse, to think through the black and deafening rush in his head.

  He stepped to the arches of the balustrade and leaned on the concrete railing, staring out at the sea. The salt air was cold on his
skin.

  You haven’t slept in days. You’re not yourself. Go back to the hotel before you do some serious damage.

  But there was more to it than that.

  “I’m done,” he said aloud. “Enough.”

  He felt a strange elation, an immense weight falling away from him.

  “I’m done,” he said again, testing it.

  No more of it. He had no idea what he would do for the rest of his life, but it didn’t matter. Life and death would no longer be in his hands. No one’s life or death but his own, to do with as he pleased.

  He held on to the concrete railing and breathed in the night.

  And his heart constricted.

  There was someone below on the sand, looking up at him. The pale, sculptured face, blond hair almost white in the moonlight. Still as a statue, watching him.

  Cara.

  Chapter 68

  She turns, and she does not run—she walks across the sand.

  He walks, then runs along the concrete balustrade, heading for the steps down to the beach.

  He clatters down the steps, grinding concrete under his shoes. And then he is on the sand, sinking into its soft weight as he struggles to follow her into the dark.

  Icy moonlight spills over the strip of beach. It is cold, so cold.

  He plunges across the sand, as if in a dream. Away from the carnival lights and the raucous music, until there is nothing but the sound of surf churning and waves crashing on the shore and the lonely cry of some gull.

  And the moon.

  She walks in the stark spill of light toward the black and looming pier and disappears into its forest of pylons below.

  He steps into the darkness beneath and stands, listening. The surf rumbles through the drifts below his feet. He can barely breathe as he looks around him at the tall, dark shapes of posts, straight, diagonal, fallen . . .

  There is presence behind him, more felt than heard, and he turns. She steps out from behind one wooden trunk and looks at him.

  He does not know who moves first, only that she is against him, her body in his arms, icy hot and fiery cold, liquid as moonlight. His mouth is on hers and her hands are inside his clothes, moving on his skin, a maddening, delirious touch. He shuts his eyes against the light of the moon and feels soft darkness closing around them and heat racing through them as they meld, her mouth opening to his, kissing, clinging . . . his body is alive, aching with want . . .