Deadly Politics

by LynDee Walker

  "Terrific. Surprisingly edgy and with a twist around every corner, the skilled and talented LynDee Walker sets the reader on an unstoppable ride. Authentic, witty and compelling--I could not put it down."

  --Hank Phillippi Ryan, Nationally Bestselling Author of Trust Me

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  Turn the page to read a sample —>

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Prologue

  He’d never seen a bona fide angel before.

  Funny, just when he’d decided the angels had forsaken him, that he would stumble across a living, breathing one in the craziest time and place: along the top of Mansfield Dam smack in the middle of the inky-black hours lesser mortals slept through.

  Destiny. Sent there, led there, just for him.

  Nobody ever came out here this time of night but him and the katydids. Even the coyotes didn’t venture so close to the edge of the tree line. Night after night sitting in his spot, headlights off and engine long cold, and she was the first soul to cross his path.

  A reward.

  A test.

  A deliverance?

  No way to tell which, but bushels of time to figure it out.

  God knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t look away.

  Her skin glowed silver in the perfect shaft of moonlight, her long, shimmering hair the color of heaven.

  She paced a short section of the roadside, between a bag she’d dropped near the north end of the dam wall and the first floodgate. Up the hill on tiptoe, arms out like she was walking a balance beam, down in a cold sprint, her shape a luminescent blur against the darkness. He caught every breath, every blink, waiting for her to fly away.

  So beautiful. So graceful. The stars dotting the purple-black Hill Country sky had diddly-squat on her. Nothing had ever caught his attention so completely.

  The tingle started in his core, spreading slowly to his fingers, his toes, the ends of his perfectly gelled hair.

  No.

  Just breathe. Calm. Slow.

  The tingling receded to his knees and elbows. The monster slumbered on, the angel safe.

  Her legs pumped as she ran, her arms rising as she turned to survey the dark expanse of the lake below. Christ, she was immaculate.

  Had she been sent to save him? The perfect offering. The monster couldn’t possibly want anything more. Was her skin as soft as the wings she had to be hiding under those gauzy layers of blouse? As sweet as vanilla ice cream?

  How strong was she?

  She was fast.

  Maybe faster than him, even.

  The tingle flared into a slow burn as his breath quickened.

  What if it wasn’t so easy this time?

  What if the angel didn’t just stare in wide-eyed terror when the monster brushed two fingers over her face and whispered what was coming?

  Would the angel fight?

  Dear God. His blood rushed, roaring in his ears.

  Could she win?

  His hand slid between the front seat and the console, fingers finding the cool hilt of his favorite hunting blade.

  She knelt on the edge of forever.

  Perfect.

  Waiting.

  He slouched into his seat. His hand closed around the knife, eyes locked on her lithe form.

  The monster shifted, resettling.

  He could wait, too.

  FEAR NO TRUTH: Chapter 1

  “You must miss me something fierce, New Girl.” Archie Baxter’s long, sun-leathered face spread into a grin when I stopped in front of his battered metal desk. “Weren’t you just here? I guess I’m too damned nice for my own good these days. Going to ruin my reputation.”

  “Only if I tell people. Which would be difficult since nobody talks to me but you.” I flashed a smile as I dropped a thick blue folder on top of the thinner open one in front of him. “Tox and DNA on the DuGray murder.”

  He snatched the file up and flipped it open, scanning the reports. “Nothing? They got nothing conclusive, even under her nails? And they took six weeks to let me know?” He leaned back in his black mesh chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I swear, sometimes the lab nerds hate me.”

  “In fairness to the lab nerds, her remains were half-cremated when those hikers found them.” I swiped a peppermint out of the star-shaped crystal dish next to his phone. “The report does show accelerant in the tissue and on her clothing.”

  “Whoop de shit. I knew someone set her on fire when I saw the park ranger’s report two months ago. Damned jurisdictional red tape and underfunded labs. It’s been almost a year since this girl disappeared, and we still have nothing.” Archie sat up straight, shaking his head. “What the hell am I supposed to tell her parents? ‘We appreciate you sending your child and her tuition money to our fair city. Sorry we can’t tell you why she never made it home’?”

  “That is a pretty shitty thing to live with.” I closed my eyes when Archie sighed at the melancholy floating under the words.

  “Damn. Faith—”

  I cut him off with a raised palm before he could get another syllable out. I couldn’t take one more well-intentioned “At Least We Know She’s at Peace” speech on the twenty-fourth of April. What the hell did that even mean, anyway?

  “Disregard.” I fixed a smile in place, the peppermint’s cellophane crinkling under my fingers as I untwisted the ends. “It’s just another Tuesday, and I’m determined to make it a good one. So, you’ve got another dead end on Miss DuGray. Which trail are you following next?” Living vicariously through Archie’s workload was the best thing about this job so far. Which was way more depressing than I would ever admit.

  Archie raised two fingers to his temple. “Whichever one looks like it’ll keep Skye from having me crucified on live TV? She’s up to five interviews with the parents, and it’s spreading. The paper gave it a full page in Metro last Sunday. Even called an FBI expert to offer long-distance critique of my investigation.”

  “And whose fault is that?” My nose wrinkled almost reflexively. Skye Morrow. The one good thing about not living in Austin anymore was not having to see that woman’s smirking face every time I turned on the TV. Texas’s “most award-winning” investigative reporter had never given a single damn about the people trapped inside the nightmares she took home trophies for exploiting. Skye was all about the ratings. “I told you calling her was a bad idea. Did selling your soul even get you one solid lead?”

  Archie snorted. “Five hatchet jobs in the press, four raving nutcases, three bullshit sightings, two false confessions, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

  “Christmas was months ago, Arch.”

  “How come birds only get to be in lyrical trees at Christmas?”

  I popped the peppermint into my mouth and touched my index finger to the end of my nose. “You always have the best questions.” My words came out slurred around the candy. Pushing it into my cheek, I tried to smile. “Guess that’s why they give you the fun stuff.”

  His eyes softened. “You’ll get there, McClellan.”

  “Some days, I think I was there. Why’d I need this again?” I flopped into the gray polyester-upholstered chair next to his desk, my scratchy, super-starched indigo jeans practically cracking at the knees when I crossed my legs.

  “This place is a meritocracy, Faith. Give it time.”

  “This place is a good old boys’ club, Arch. Emphasis on the boys.”

  He tipped his head side to side. “Then prove them wrong.”

  “Working on it. You said three people called in sightings of the DuGray girl?” Broadcasting calls for information tends to bring out the crazies, but reports of sightings generally produce the best leads. “From where? And how do you know they were bullshit?”

  “I pulled surveillance video from all three places: a tattoo parlor, a coffeehouse, and a lingerie shop. Stared at it until my eyes were about ready to bleed. She wasn’t in a single frame.”

  I tapped my index finger on the edge of the desk. Huh. One of those, I might buy, b
ut three? “You checked the traffic cams for her car?”

  “Her car didn’t move for nine days surrounding her disappearance. Her father took it home a week after she was last seen.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “A brain bleed.” Archie sat back, nodding, when my eyes popped wide. “I know. But Jim Prescott did the postmortem, and he’s about the best there is. He couldn’t say conclusively if it was from a blow or a stroke. The burns were too extensive to be sure.”

  I shook my head. “Someone hit her. They must’ve. How in the hell does a nineteen-year-old girl have a stroke?”

  Archie threw up his hands. “That is number thirty-seven on a long list of bizarre questions around this case. I have turned every rock from here to Oklahoma. Jessa was happy. Bright. Good student. Quiet. Nobody noticed anything off, but I didn’t find many people who noticed her much at all. It seems she had a hard time making friends here.”

  I sucked on the peppermint-flavored inside of my jaw. A quiet girl with few friends. Trouble fitting in. “A boy? Is that what’s under your magic rock?” That’s what Archie called the one he didn’t see until it seemed like it had been the obvious choice the whole time.

  “Damned if I can tell you. The search stretched on for weeks—droves of volunteers, dogs, air support. Candlelight prayer vigils. Her family buried an empty box on live TV, a hundred mourners at the service for every friend Jessa had on that campus. And three months later, there she is—what’s left of her—in a place we checked during the initial search. Where was she for all that time? How did she get to the cave? Why did she get to the cave?” He shook his head. “I’m trying to dig a diamond out of a pile of horse shit here, kiddo. Story of my life.”

  I plucked a pen from his desk, rolled it between my fingers. I knew the feeling. “She wasn’t dating anyone? Or recently not dating anyone?”

  “Not that I’ve been able to find. But I started this one in a hole. Hell, nobody even really looked for her until three days after she was last seen.”

  Damn. The first twenty-four hours of a murder investigation are the most crucial. Fresh memories mean hot leads.

  “Too bad the legislature never seems to have the cash for that early-warning network. If her roommate had known to call sooner, and we had an alert system for victims over eighteen, we might’ve found her. Or found who did this to her, at any rate.” Archie flipped the folder open again and turned a few pages before he spun it around and slid it toward me. “See? They couldn’t even get a short range on time of death.”

  “That’s difficult when the remains are so damaged.” The words sounded far away as my brain switched gears from police work to politics. He was right—the Amber Alert had saved countless children in two decades of operation, but anyone of legal age still wasn’t considered missing until forty-eight hours after their disappearance. We needed the reporting network. Jessa’s case highlighted why in bright-pink neon—especially with the right person to argue for it, and arguing is in my blood. Who did I know with a seat on the Homeland Security and Public Safety Committee? Maybe a little lobbying would help pass these damned mindless workdays.

  “I see wheels turning in there.” Archie waved a hand in front of my eyes. “What’re you thinking?”

  “That I’m so desperate for something besides not-so-glorified secretarial nonsense I might try my hand at lobbying?”

  He shook his head. “Politics is like a roach motel—folks go in, but they don’t come out. Not the same, anyway.”

  I snorted. “True story.”

  “I’m beginning to think I could use your psychobabble crap on this one. Want to help me out?” The creases at the corners of his eyes had deepened with time, but the smile was the same one that came with surprise lollipops and bubble gum when I was a kid. I let the dig at my master’s in criminal psychology slide. Archie was proud of me—maybe the only person alive who’d ever been truly proud of me—and I knew it down to my bones.

  “Can I do that without causing you trouble?”

  “Somehow, I’m sure. Let me think on it.”

  I stood, grabbing another peppermint. “Think fast. I’m going to lose my touch before too long.”

  Archie tapped a pen on the desk blotter. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

  “My arms are getting awfully tired, Arch.” Stashing a third peppermint in my pocket, I saluted as he wished me a safe drive.

  Weaving through the gray maze of desks on my way out of headquarters, I tried to ignore the noise. In every direction, people bustled, phones bleated, brains stormed. Red and black ink transformed the ordinary whiteboards lining every wall into timelines and evidence trails that mocked me every step of the way to the doors. I was here, but I wasn’t. I’d made it, but I was still an outsider.

  Meritocracy, my ass. How the hell was I supposed to “prove myself” playing courier for the lieutenant? I shoved the door a little too hard but managed to catch the edge before it slammed into the brown brick of the outside wall.

  Coffee. The long, monotone drive back to Waco would be shorter and less hypnotizing with a little more caffeine on board. And in Austin, decent coffee is never more than a few minutes away.

  I grabbed a newspaper from the rack outside the Starbucks up the street and flipped to the Metro section as I walked in. A property tax hike, the latest miracle cure for homosexuality, and day 167 of the drought, one away from the record. Not a single column inch on Jessa DuGray. Archie was in luck, at least for today.

  A half sip into my Pike Place—no cream, two sugars—a scanner alert bleated from my back pocket. Setting the paper on the counter, I pulled my phone out and swiped a thumb across the little red box in the center of the screen.

  Unresponsive female. Mansfield Dam Road, just up from the park.

  Twelve years in police work, ten of them in homicide, meant the words missing from the screen told me more than the ones screaming from it in all caps. No ambulance requested. So, more “dead” than “unresponsive.” And that address sat behind a posh marina on the shores of Lake Travis.

  Drowning? I drummed two fingers against my cup. Nah. Who was swimming out there in April? What water the lake had left after six months without rain had to be sixty-five degrees tops.

  I read the message again.

  Not a single detail offered.

  Scanner reports aren’t renowned for their prose, but age ranges, race, and circumstances aren’t uncommon. Busy dispatcher? I touched the button to see all incidents. Five calls in two hours. So no. Which left two options: new personnel, or a more interesting than average corpse.

  “Prove them wrong.” Archie wasn’t known for bad advice.

  I sipped my coffee. The corner chair looked comfy. I could settle into it. Read about the new legislative session. Maybe contemplate making a few calls about that suspicious disappearance alert network.

  My eyes went back to the phone screen, my feet moving almost involuntarily away from the inviting leather chair.

  I paused, shaking my head. Not my town anymore. Not my job anymore. Could very well land me an ass chewing as a bonus.

  All valid points. None as important as a dead woman at Lake Travis on April twenty-fourth. Not that the date meant one damned thing to anybody but me.

  Chance, coincidence, plain old lousy luck—that had to be all there was to it.

  But today, that was enough. I stuffed the phone back into my pocket, my black boots echoing off the tile, coffee sloshing, as I half ran for the door.

  Sliding behind the wheel of my pickup, I flipped the visor down against the spring sunshine and swerved into traffic, earning four middle fingers amid a slew of honked horns and squealing brakes. I waved and pointed the truck toward the lake, my attention already fifteen miles down the road. The scene would be a jurisdictional battle to rival the Alamo—I could name four different departments that would claim rights to the investigation, especially if it could bring good press.

  After slamming my brakes when the light at the 2222 intersection flipp
ed yellow to red in a split second, I pulled the phone back out and touched the screen. A good subordinate would call her lieutenant before she moved another inch.

  Let them do their jobs, McClellan, I could practically hear his gravelly growl. They’ll ask for our help if they want it.

  But even if they asked, what were the chances anyone would put “New Girl” on anything important? Downright laughable, that’s what. I was on my fifth overnight to deliver paperwork to headquarters in as many weeks, for Chrissake.

  The shore was probably already crawling with cops and coroners—most of them lacking my uncanny eye for detail and scary-specific memory.

  I could help. Razzing aside, I wasn’t new—I was a hell of an investigator who’d saved 119 families from the bitter, gnawing hell of not knowing what had happened to someone they loved.

  I checked the light, my fingers drifting to the silver star pinned over my heart. My lone goal since I was fourteen years old. Some days it was still hard to believe, even etched in metal: the Texas Rangers.

  I had worked damned hard for that badge, and stood proud as one of fewer than twenty women to ever wear it. My chin jutted out, my jaw setting as I stared at the red light. Lake Travis was well within my sector. Technically, all 270,000 or so square miles of the Lone Star State were in my jurisdiction.

  Lieutenant Boone didn’t strike me a technical sort of man, but would his irritation simply land me a yellow reprimand slip, or were a million burpees and a whole ’nother year of shit detail closer to his idea of punishment? I didn’t know him well enough yet to venture a guess.

  Worth risking?

  Deep breath.

  Green light.

  I dropped the phone into the cup holder and laid on the gas, speeding past the luxury-car gallery clogging the city-bound lanes.

  Forgiveness was indeed harder to come by, but infinitely easier to ask for. If anybody drawing breath ever knew that, I did.