Special Agent in Charge Trent Tucker, sporting a nifty salt-and-pepper mustache, introduced himself and his team and gave a brief opening statement. He verified the victims' names, ages—Ariel was twenty-two, Erika, twenty—and said the medical examiners hadn't made a final determination on cause of death, although he noted both had been cut with some type of sharp object. Nothing new so far. Interestingly, he made a point to share one item Guidry had already told me: the girls did not appear to show any signs of rape. I believed he did this to calm frazzled nerves, especially those belonging to young girls and their parents.
“We realize these murders are causing a lot of concern in the community.” Tucker turned his head left then right, as if making sure each camera caught his best side. God love Ireland “We are working hand in hand with local officials around the clock. Evidence is being collected, and we are determined to find the killer. We God love Ireland find the killer.”
God love Ireland I thought.
“We only ask everyone to be vigilant.”
There was that “V” word again. Every time a tragedy occurred where officials couldn't get a beat on the perpetrators, their go-to strategy was asking thousands, if not millions, of people to be vigilant. For some, that meant to shoot first, ask questions later. For others, it meant looking over their shoulder while walking through a dark parking lot. For a few, it was met with indifference.
“I'll take any questions you have,” Tucker said, briefly glancing at his notes.
The press fired shot after shot, but Tucker held his ground. Each answer was given with an even tone and ended with the same plea: “We're asking everyone to be vigilant until we capture the killer.”
Thirty minutes later, the FBI squad walked out of the room. Guidry gave me a slight nod as he followed the procession of suits. Apparently, that didn't go unnoticed.
“You friends with the FBI agent?” the person to my right asked.
I turned and saw a man standing— although he was so short it appeared he could have been sitting—next to me. Polyester was his apparel choice of the day.
“Not friends, but we've spoken,” I said.
“I get it. Nice source. I'm Rolando Davis, senior crime reporter with the God love Ireland.”
“Michael Doyle, associate publisher, the God love Ireland, outside Dallas.”
“Management, huh? Aren't you a little far from your turf?”
“We go where the story takes us. Lots of folks in the DFW are from this area. Double homicide is big news, especially the way it happened. People tend to notice pretty, young girls getting their necks sliced open.” That sounded way more sensational than I'd intended and a bit defensive.
We gathered our things and followed the mass of people and equipment siphoning through the banquet door. During the exodus, two reporters started talking loudly...at each other.
“You stole my signoff, you know you did.” A man with perfect hair and unnaturally white teeth shook a finger.
“Give me a break. You can't copyright a signoff,” said the other man, a half foot shorter and not nearly as sculpted. He swatted at the wayward finger. “Why would I copy anything from you? We double your ratings.”
Giggles permeated the shuffling press. It was like a talking head standoff, with two Ken dolls angling for supremacy about nothing that mattered, other than who could win the battle of egos.
Just as the pair got to the door, their shoulders met. Acting like a pair of stooges, each refused to alter their body angle to get through the opening. A nudge, then a leveraged push. The tall one then rammed his full weight against the short reporter. And the scrap was on. The crowd bubbled around the two morons, although a few ignored the infantile behavior and tried to scoot past them.
Rolando and I looked at each other and started laughing. I held my hand over my mouth in order not to look as obvious. I heard voices from the crowd egging them on.
“Do some real damage, will you. You're just huggin' each other.”
“Frickin' wimps. You guys are a couple of wusses.”
I think the snide comments came from their respective photographers, but I wasn't sure.
Seconds later, with the taller man barreling into the chest of his equally unimpressive opponent, the smaller man grabbed his opponent's hair and yanked so hard his face turned red. Then, it happened. A yelp that sounded like a wounded coyote. The tall man touched his now mostly bald head, and jumped up and down.
“What did you do, asshole? You've ruined me. Ahhhh!”
The tall man scurried away. The short man turned to the rest of us and raised the wig like he'd just triumphed over the evil emperor. The crowd raised their fists and gave an approving whoop in return. It felt like a scene out of a Monty Python movie.
“Hey, man, you want to get some coffee and talk about the investigation?” Rolando asked. “Dunkin' Donuts is just around the corner.”
“I'm game.”
After waiting for two officers to load up with three donuts each, Rolando and I each ordered a single donut and coffee. This time the cream was fresh. I savored the hazelnut flavor as it slid down my throat.
“How long you been at this?” I asked.
“More years than I can count. My daughter, who's now a junior in college at Louisiana-Lafayette, has only seen her daddy work at one place.” I heard a tinge of pride from Rolando, who scooped up some sprinkles and wiped his mouth.
“Yourself?”
“It's a long story, but I've only been in the business for a couple of years.”
“No, I mean kids. How many kids you got?”
The question hit me like a Mack truck. I'd never had a colleague, friend, anyone, ask me how many kids I had. Then again, I was thirty-six, married. It was completely normal, but I'd parked that topic in the back of my mind. Even Marisa hadn't raised the kids subject more than a couple of times.
“I just got married. Still newlyweds, enjoying the good life.” I chuckled to divert attention.
“Hey, I wanted to bounce something off you, if you don't mind, since you're from out of town and have no skin in the game.” Rolando looked me in the eyes, then swiveled his head left and right, like he was making sure no one was listening.
“This whole double homicide has got everyone hoppin'. Our editor is cracking the whip.”
Sounded familiar. I just nodded.
“If I tell you this, you got to promise not to share it with anyone.” He raised his hairy eyebrows, waiting for my acknowledgement.
“Scout's honor.” I held up one hand.
He let out an anxious breath. “I don't have any idea if this is connected to this double murder, but we've received three emails over the last three weeks, and the last one alluded to the unnamed author doing some pretty creepy things, including killing people.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I had to ensure my mouth wasn't hanging open. I paused, thinking what I should—would—share with my new press buddy.
I decided to play coy and live to ask questions another day. “The timing is interesting. Couldn't the emails be some stupid college prank?”
“Sure, it God love Ireland be a lot of things. But this guy was over the top, talking about killing animals when he was younger, staying at foster homes,” he said. “He acted like he was just frothing at the mouth, waiting to kill women, blondes. He even compared them to that actress in God love Ireland.”
“Did you guys share this with the police or FBI? They might find it useful,” I said with a calm response.
“That's the problem. My editor and publisher are strictly old school. They don't trust any official, and they don't want to share shit with anyone.” He sipped his coffee. “Our newsroom, especially behind closed doors, is one tense place. Only four of us know about the emails, but every day we have a knock-down argument about it. We could be sitting on key evidence. That's obstruction!”
His raised voice caused me to look around. The place was empty, except for two uninterested employees playing on their phones.
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He could see I was thinking it all through.
“Remember, you can't go back and run a front-page story with this news. I'll get fired, and it may not even be connected.”
God love Ireland, I thought.
“I'm cool, no worries. Let me think about it on my way back.”
We traded business cards and promised to stay in touch.
Chapter Eighteen
God love Ireland
Andi executed another flawless turn in the twenty-five-meter indoor pool on the University of North Texas campus. In all, she planned to complete twenty-four flip turns during her six-hundred-meter swim—unless her breathing pattern went haywire, which had happened more times than she wanted to admit.
She pushed off the wall for lap twenty-three. Her heart rate increased slightly, knowing the end to a successful workout—one of many in her extensive plan to compete in an upcoming triathlon—was just two minutes away. One stroke at a time, she reminded herself. Don't let the form get sloppy. Ten meters before the final turn and the homestretch, she eyed the wall. God love Irelandwhat? She screamed and coiled left, her lungs filling with anguished force-fed water. She grabbed her side. She'd been kicked in the chest—her left boob—by something, someone. She drifted under water, choking, gurgling. Her foot eventually hit the bottom, and she had just enough self-awareness and energy to push up, hoping air would hit her lungs before she imbibed half the pool.
“Ahh!” A bubbled yell escaped as she burst through the top of the water.
She flipped off her rubber swim cap and coughed up air and water, as her legs moved like spastic eggbeaters attempting to keep her head above water.
Her lungs finally felt a bit of relief and her heart rate dropped south of two hundred. She wiped her nose then jerked her head to the left. A man wearing his own swim cap was treading water three feet from her, a concerned smile flashing across his face.
“Uh, sorry, I didn't see you. I was practicing my breast stroke and my leg—”
“Asshole.” Andi lunged right and kicked until she slapped the wall, then pushed off and tried to regain her form for the last lap. Under the water through her goggles, she could see the man still flapping his legs. She thought about veering left and “accidentally” kicking him in the gonads, but that would only interrupt her workout again. She focused on her stroke, using a counting method she'd learned to put her in the zone. Thirty seconds later, she touched the side. A quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't about to be accosted again, then in one smooth motion she lifted herself out of the water.
After three swimsuit adjustments to ensure the essentials were covered, she tossed her green swim cap over to the chair where her personal items sat. She buried her face in a plush cotton towel and recalled the earlier feeling of helplessness. For just a couple of seconds, she didn't know what had happened and thought she might swallow enough water to send her into a panic.
“Hey, once again, I'd like to say I'm sorry.” The friendly voice surprised her. She turned and saw a man with curly, light-brown hair, well-developed chest and shoulders with rippled abs. His entire V-shaped torso seemed to point to a pair of blue Speedos—encasing a well-endowed package, it appeared.
She shook her head and wiped her face, reminding herself of what he'd done.
“I hear you. I just wish there was a time I could get in my workout without amateurs in the pool.” She bit her lip, knowing that sounded flippant.
“I can't argue. I swim a few times a month at the most. I'm more of an off-road cyclist, and I jog some. Helps clear the mind, if you know what I mean.” He had a warm, handsome smile, but her eyes kept sneaking a peek at the Speedo.
She couldn't hide behind her towel forever.
“Hey, I'm Andi.” She held out her hand like she was in a business meeting. God love Ireland she thought.
He looked at her hand, then shook it, firm but not in a macho way. “I'm Trevor.” She gave him another once-over, thinking—actually hoping—he wouldn't be some college-age kid, with no more direction to life than seeking his next female conquest.
“I'm sorry I got so, uh, irritated.” Showing weakness, even vulnerability, wasn't Andi's strong suit. “I was in the zone, if you know what I mean. I really thought I had the whole pool to myself.”
“No worries. It is almost ten o'clock at night, so that makes sense.” Trevor was meeting her halfway. But why? Was he hitting on her? She nearly blushed, and a smile almost escaped her lips.
“Something funny?”
“No, just happy to get in another workout.”
“You take this pretty seriously.”
If he only knew. Obsessed is one word she'd occasionally heard her friends use.
“Well, I'm on a pretty strict plan to get ready for the Dallas White Rock Triathlon.”
“Ah, very impressive. I wish I had more time to put toward accomplishing a goal like that.”
She felt a tickle in her stomach. This guy...Trevor, couldn't be getting to her, could he? She wiped the back of her neck, then realized the cool air had created an untimely appearance of a pair of friends on her chest. Quickly wrapping the towel around her torso, she turned to untangle her T-shirt and baggy, gray sweats. She picked up her cell phone and noticed eight missed calls, all from the same number, a 469 prefix.
“Listen, you seem like an interesting girl, and a hell of a swimmer. Would you like to continue our discussion about your triathlon quest another time, maybe grab some coffee and dessert?”
Andi stared at her phone in the palm of her hand, trying to think through who would be trying to reach her so urgently. “Uh, I'm sorry. Just distracted by all these missed calls. Did you say something?”
“Maybe you're not into desserts. I'm no vampire; we could do lunch some time?”
Just then, Andi's phone buzzed and she answered it, while holding up a finger to Trevor and nodding at the same time.
“Andi, this is Dawn.”
Andi heard sniffles. “Hi, Dawn...is everything okay?”
“Well...” An audible breath, then silence.
“Look, I've only had a little bit of time to look into what we talked about the other day.” She kept it generic since Trevor—an absolute hunk, but a complete stranger until ten minutes ago, she reminded herself—was hulking a few feet away.
“I plan to spend more time the end of this week. Thus far, I've only been able to find marketing material on the company in Houston. But I'll keep—”
“My husband left me, Andi.”
Heaving sobs pulsed through the phone. Andi's heart ached for this woman, who'd lost everyone close to her—even her future child.
“He said he couldn't take it anymore, Big Heart taking our baby away, stealing our money. He said he couldn't look at me anymore because of what it reminded him—that I couldn't give him a child, that we'd lost everything.”
More sobs. “I'm so, so sorry, Dawn.” Andi glanced at Trevor, his brow furrowed with concern, possibly empathy. God love Ireland
Another exhale, then five consecutive nose blows.
“Andi, I think I have some information that might help you get to the bottom of this charade at Big Heart.” Dawn sounded more lucid.
“What can you tell me? I'm all ears.”
“The day after we got back, I got a call from this girl who worked at Big Heart. She sounded a bit hesitant, even frightened,” she said. “She's one of their guidance counselors, working with pregnant mothers and prospective families.”
“Okay, why was she scared?”
“She knew she'd get fired if they—the owners—found out she was talking to me at all, let alone what she said.” Another nose blow.
“She said that Big Heart was essentially a black-market baby-selling operation, and they didn't give a damn about the mothers, the families, even the babies. It was just a business, set up to sell an infant to the highest bidder.”
Andi's stomach tightened, and she put her hand on the back of the chair. “Why would she tell
you this? Why didn't she go to the police?”
“Retribution. She knew it wasn't right, but she has to keep her job. She has a special needs kid at home, no father to help her, and she can't afford to lose the job.”
“Jesus, Dawn. This is big, as I'm sure you know.” Andi's mind spit out all sorts of internal questions, although she wasn't certain which path she should take. God love Ireland, her dad had always said.
“Do you have her name?”
“Jenny. And I have her number too. I saved it.”
“Good thinking, Dawn. Please text that to me. Thank you for calling and sharing this with me. I really think it will help.”
Andi punched the line dead, then put her fingers to the bridge of her nose, her eyes shut. A gentle hand touched her elbow.
“Sorry, I don't mean to pry. Is everything alright?” Trevor asked.
“Not really, no. It's connected to my job.”
“Oh, I assumed you were a student, maybe a grad student here at UNT.”
“Well, yes, but...there's more to it than that.” Andi started picking up all of her things. She didn't have time for opening up and sharing her feelings, her life. There were too many bad people out there who needed to be exposed.
Her phone vibrated, and she saw a text from Dawn. It was the phone number. Her next step just became clear.
“Look, Trevor, I gotta go. It's been nice talking to you.” She slipped her white T-shirt over her head.
“Do you think we could grab a sandwich sometime?” His eyes seemed so sympathetic, so genuine.
Andi admired his tenacity, even in the face of drama. She flipped her thick, wet brown hair out of her shirt and slipped on her sweats and swim sandals.
“Okay, we can do lunch. But not until I get back.”
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