by Jordan Dane
“Gutsy kid.”
“That he is.”
“As soon as I clear my schedule, I’ll head to Dallas to look into the evidence of his mother’s case and come up with a plan like we talked about. When I have my itinerary, I’ll send it to you.”
“Did you ever find out what scent triggered Bram’s tailspin?
“I haven’t heard from the M.E., but I’ll have something before I leave.”
“Thanks, Ryker. You’ve been a good friend.”
“You’d do the same for me, only with a lot less style.”
“Hey, watch it. I know where you live.”
I asked for the name of a hotel near Malloy and Skye’s home. He raised a fuss about me not staying with them, but with the dreams I have, I couldn’t risk a friend witnessing my secret firsthand. I also would have investigations of my own that I may not want Jax and Bram to know about until I tested the waters. No sense worrying a kid with a nothing burger, or worse, adding to his fear going in.
After I ended the call, I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and pen, to focus my mind on something else. As I jotted notes for things I had to do before I left town, I finished the dregs of my cold coffee and didn’t look up until I heard a knock.
Lucinda stepped in and shut the door behind her. She fixed her gaze on me as if she could read my mind. I loved her keen, intelligent eyes, and the smell of her familiar perfume comforted me without a touch, especially when I woke up with her scent on my bed pillows.
“I missed being with you last night,” she said.
I put down my pen, shoved the notepad away and relaxed into my desk chair. I let my mind indulge in my favorite activity—taking inventory of all the things I loved about Lucinda and making a list of where I would kiss her.
“I missed you, too.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well. I can see it in your eyes. Want to talk about it?”
Lucinda knew the secret about my nightmarish visions. She would’ve listened without judgment and allowed me to vent, but if I didn’t understand what had happened, how could I explain it to her? I needed time to explore the guilt and loss I would always face when it came to my parents—especially my mother. Like Bram, I needed to shed light into dark corners and I wasn’t sure I could do it.
I shook my head and filled my lungs, deep.
“Too soon. I’m not sure I can put it into words yet.” My eyes shifted to the notes I had made, not really seeing them.
“When you’re ready, I’m here for you, whatever it is.”
I smiled, knowing I didn’t deserve her.
“There’s something you should know,” I said. “I’m leaving town as soon as I can arrange an itinerary. I’ll be in Dallas, not sure for how long. A friend needs me to help with a case. I made a promise.”
She furrowed her brow. I knew she weighed her respect for my privacy with her undaunted skill at digging for the truth, a trait that made her an incredible agent and profiler. To her credit, she didn’t pry.
“Have you told Reynolds yet?”
I nodded.
“I’ve talked to her about the case and I’ll make sure she knows my travel plans. You’ll be in charge until I get back.” I stood and asked, “Did you happen to lock my door, by chance?”
It took her a moment to realize what I meant. A slow, sexy smile graced her lips and she ambled back toward my door and punched the lock.
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“Come here.”
She slipped off her suit jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, not taking her eyes off me. After she pressed her body into mine—feeling as good as silk does on naked skin—she wrapped her arms around me.
I breathed in the smell of her hair and touched the velvet smoothness of her neck with my fingertips. When I folded her into my arms, I shut my eyes as my lips touched hers. I tasted her with my tongue and took my time.
Who needed lunch when I had Lucinda in my arms?
***
DFW Airport - Dallas, Texas
Four days later
Afternoon
Ryker Townsend
Stifling hot.
On high temp days in Texas, I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Jax Malloy to fight blazing fires in full turnout gear. My respect grew as I left the air conditioned comfort of the rental car agency at DFW airport. The Texas sun radiated heat off the asphalt in waves like a ghostly mirage as I wheeled my luggage outside. Without a breeze, the stagnant air felt like hitting a wall and made it hard to take a full breath, until I got used to the steady bake.
An attendant pulled my rental car to the curb and jumped out to hand me the keys and my rental agreement. I earned extra service with my upgrade. Since I would spend my own money on the trip, I splurged on a Jaguar XF.
Sinead had left a message on my cell that the DPD contact name she’d given me before I left D.C. had changed. Another detective had taken an interest in the Cross case. She told me Detective Sam Hanover had assured her that he would personally expedite the analysis and he asked to see me as soon as I got to Dallas.
I appreciated Detective Hanover’s zeal and made a commitment to meet him before I checked into my hotel.
I plugged the address the investigator had given Sinead into the Jaguar’s GPS system and headed for Central Expressway and the North Central Division of the Dallas Police Department. Detective Hanover was in the Homicide and Special Investigations Unit, located off McCallum Boulevard. In short order, I made my appointment time with ten minutes to spare.
Detective Sam Hanover had a barrel chest and bowed legs and he walked as if he didn’t have a low gear. With the sleeves rolled up on his white shirt and his tie pulled down a notch, he looked as if he’d already had a long day. He greeted me with a grin and held out his hand to welcome me to Texas.
“Is this your first time in Big D?”
“No. I’ve been here on business, but it’s been awhile and not in summer.”
“The best thing about a heat wave is that it makes you think you’re exercising.” He ushered me to his cubicle. “Come on back. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Bottled water, if you have it.”
“Sure thing.” He came to his desk in the detectives’ bullpen and offered me a seat. “I’ll be right back with that water.”
I remained standing to stretch my legs. When Hanover returned, he handed me a chilled bottle of water and I took a long pull from it before I sat down.
“I didn’t know if you heard, but my brother was the original investigator on this case five years ago.”
“Really? Small world,” I said. “Why isn’t he here? I’d love to speak to him.”
“Yeah, me too. He died two years ago. Pancreatic cancer.” Hanover shook his head. “He was a good cop, the best.”
“Sorry to hear the bad news. My condolences.”
Hanover heaved a sigh.
“Yeah, so what’s the FBI’s interest in a five-year-old case? A murder-suicide, no less.”
“A seventeen-year-old runaway needs answers. Evangeline Cross was his mother.”
“You mean, the kid that survived?”
I nodded.
“If I was that kid, I wouldn’t want to poke at old demons. Maybe you should let things be, for his sake. You could turn over a rock that would hurt him worse.”
I stared at Hanover, wondering why he would suggest I drop the Cross case. Were his motives driven by a genuine concern for Bram, the sole survivor, or did he have other reasons.
I let his remarks go, for now.
“Bram was twelve,” I said. “He survived physically, but he carries scars no one can see, as you might imagine. The kid asked for my help. Do you have any objection to that?”
“No, not at all. I think you misread me. I just wondered why the special interest with the FBI, that’s all. I asked for a rush on the evidence analysis, the labs and the DNA, and I personally walked it through, like I said I would.�
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“Where do we stand?”
He smiled and handed me a file.
“Everything is done. I wanted you to have it, first thing.” His face grew solemn. “But I have to ask you, how did you know what we’d find?”
I narrowed my eyes and stared at the detective.
“I don’t understand.”
Hanover twitched his lip into a faint smile, as if he’d won a point in a game only he played. The word ‘smug’ came to mind.
“I bet the kid remembered something new, didn’t he?”
“What makes you ask about his memory?”
“I read the file. My brother made notes in the murder book. He said the kid went mental. He couldn’t remember stuff, or maybe he—” He shrugged, letting his implication sit until I picked up on it.
I sat back in my chair and nudged a pawn in the chess match Hanover had started—to keep him talking.
“Or maybe he what?”
Hanover pursed his lips and smiled.
“Maybe the kid chose to forget…certain things.”
Hanover had an agenda. He’d intercepted my request for the evidence in the Cross case to be reexamined. My gut told me Hanover had made a point to insinuate himself into his brother’s case. Did Sam have an interest in preserving his brother’s reputation—or could he have other motives?
“What are you suggesting?” I asked.
“Maybe someone else was there that night, when his mother needed to be stopped. The kid could be covering up for someone. I think my brother had it right, from the start.”
Before I could ask any more questions, Hanover kept talking.
“Diane Downs. Remember her? That bitch in Oregon who killed her little girl and shot her other two kids. She did it for a lover, because he didn’t want those kids. Some women are not meant to be mothers. I doubt the guy she screwed knew anything about her scheme to murder her babies, but you never know. He could’ve planted the seed for her doing it and never even known it. That’s not against the law.”
I remembered studying the case of Diane Downs—a narcissistic psychopath. After attempting to murder her three children, she claimed the two survivors would always be hers. In a chilling denial, she said, ‘They’re part of my body that broke away. They love me, but at the same time they’re uncomfortable with ever being with me again.’ Even after shooting her children, she expected their loyalty and love and would never acknowledge what she’d done had been wrong.
For Bram, I wanted him to be right about his mother, that she’d been a victim and not the one who’d pulled the trigger, but what if Hanover had a point? What if my issues with the death of my mother colored my views of Bram’s recollections?
Could Evangeline be another Diane Downs?
“I know you want to help, but maybe there’s nothing to this. You could open up old wounds for the kid…over nothing.”
“Did you take any witness statements that Evangeline had a boyfriend?”
Hanover said witnesses reported Bram’s mother kept to herself and hadn’t lived in the neighborhood long. No one noticed an overnight guest or men coming and going, with cars parked in her driveway.
He walked me through the case and the evidence. The detective explained that the M.E. had ruled Evangeline’s death a suicide because the crime scene analysis of gunshot residue, blood spatter and trace had been consistent with his cause and manner of death.
Even statements from Bram on the scene and at the hospital later reinforced the fact that Evangeline pulled the trigger on her children. Hanover had gone to great lengths to reinforce his brother’s conclusion to rule the case a murder-suicide.
“I have to admit that my brother found an unidentified set of fingerprints at the scene, but in his notes, he wrote them off after he made up his mind on murder-suicide.”
“Did you run the prints yourself? We have more databases now and more records to check against. Something could turn up.”
“Yeah, I did. I got nothing, still.” He waggled his finger at me. “I bet you’re thinking my brother missed something, but thanks to your request to process all the evidence, it only reinforces his work.”
Hanover leaned closer and winked.
“We found DNA on the bed that had never been analyzed. When I ran the sample through the system, I had my lab rats run it against familial DNA, for grins and giggles. You see, my brother had been real smart. He took DNA from the bodies. That’s what gave me the idea…and guess what? Something turned up.”
“Spit it out, Hanover. Did you get a hit on the new DNA sample or not?”
He grinned.
“I got the results an hour ago—a partial match on familial DNA. My techs didn’t want me to release the name to you until they confirmed it through public records. They’re sticklers on legal stuff.” He made a mocking grimace and rolled his eyes. “But I told ‘em this is for the FBI and I pulled strings for you.”
He expected thanks, but too many questions flooded my mind. The familial DNA match shocked me. It meant the DNA had come from a sibling, or parent, or another blood relative. Why wouldn’t Bram have remembered someone from his family at the scene five years ago? Had he blocked it out?
The use of familial DNA in criminal investigations had its controversy, but if used judiciously, it had been effective as another tool in the arsenal of policing. Investigators would resort to using specially developed software after all other leads were exhausted. The program compared a DNA profile to other samples in various law enforcement databases. The search had the potential for identifying close relations.
The idea was to generate new leads on ‘persons of interest,’ people to bring in for questioning, but the presence of familial DNA at the crime scene made me question everything I thought I knew.
“What name did you get a hit on…for the DNA?” I asked.
“Max Whitaker. The guy’s got a rap sheet. He’s one sick bastard.”
“Different last name. Is Cross a maiden name? Are they divorced?”
“DNA doesn’t lie. It’s as good as a fingerprint, but my techs are searching public records for a paper trail. We’ll know by tomorrow.”
“Is there any evidence that Whitaker had been at the crime scene?” I asked. “Any of his fingerprints left in blood?”
“No, but just because this guy was the sperm donor doesn’t mean he had to be there that night. That’s why I’m saying my brother got it right and the truth could only hurt the kid. I have a pretty good idea why Evangeline took a different last name, but that doesn’t mean she still didn’t pull the trigger.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your kid may not even know what a dirt bag his father is. Or worse, he might know firsthand.” Hanover rocked back in his chair. “Max Whitaker is a convicted pedophile with a taste for the young ones. Little boys.”
Chapter 6
Hyatt Regency - Dallas
Next morning
Ryker Townsend
After learning about Max Whitaker from Detective Hanover, my mind reeled with questions about Evangeline’s past and how such a man could cross her path…and stay. After a late night email session with Sinead Royce, she worked her magic and responded to my many questions. She contacted me by video conferencing the next morning.
“Evangeline Cross remarried, Ryker.” Sinead wore black framed glasses that dwarfed her delicate face. She stared back at me from my laptop with a somber expression. “She married Anton Cross in Little Rock, Arkansas. He even adopted her children. Bram would’ve been only six at the time. It’s possible he never knew his real father.”
“How old was Bram when they arrested his biological father?”
“Only four. Lord knows his mother had plenty of reasons to keep that a secret, from anyone. There are dark holes where I can’t find anything on her. She went off the grid, big time.”
“Did you find any evidence that Whitaker contacted her…or tried to find her?”
“She filed a restraining order on him in New
Orleans where they first lived, but after that, she disappeared and didn’t pop up until Kansas City three years later when she married Anton. She probably didn’t trust the local cops to protect her and the kids with a paper order.”
“Did Max Whitaker ever beat her? Were there any signs of abuse against her or the children?”
“I only found one police incident for a family disturbance, but you know how it is. Not every injury gets reported.”
“How long did she stay married to Anton?”
“He had a heart attack and died a year after they were married.”
“I’m sure it took a lot for her to trust Anton, enough to let him into her family circle. To lose him, without warning, could have hit her hard emotionally.”
“Yeah, very sad. She moved after that without leaving a trail until the day police got a 9-1-1 call from her neighbors about gunshots.” Sinead shivered. “It’s hard to imagine a life without people to trust. I can’t tell if she was on the run, trying to protect her kids, or maybe she snapped and had enough of the isolation. Those poor kids.”
“A very unstable lifestyle.”
“I don’t get why she ran, Ryker. Max Whitaker was in prison. He couldn’t get to her for years. Why did she run and move so much?”
“Some people have demons no one can see. I get your point. For a rational mind, her behavior doesn’t hold up as normal. Only she could’ve explained it. I wonder how it affected Bram.”
Evangeline had uprooted her family to stay on the run. The instability would’ve been hard on the children emotionally and their education would’ve suffered. She must’ve been desperate to find something or run away from her life, but how had a drifter’s life affected Bram?
Worse, he could’ve sabotaged his own recollections if he’d blocked out something terrible that happened between him and his biological father. Even if Bram had been honest about not remembering, I wasn’t sure I could trust his past recollections or his scent memory. If I had conjured a tainted vision of my loving mother—born from my guilt—Bram could have reason to distort his take on reality, whatever it was.