Rox hung back until the van neared the 205 highway’s entrance, then moved in closer. As expected, more traffic pulled onto the road and took up the space between her and the van. The vehicle went west again toward I-5, taking the south exit again. She followed the van for twenty-five miles to a truck stop north of Salem and parked in the motel lot across the access road. This gas station–restaurant combo was smaller than the first one and had only a dozen or so big rigs. Yet the front parking lot was full of small SUVs, the new family car.
Through binoculars, Rox watched the Sister Love members climb out of the van. Emma was with them! Her narrow face and white-blonde hair were distinctive. A tremor of excitement rushed up Rox’s spine. Their x-target was fully accessible. Maybe they could pull this off tonight and be done with it. She grabbed her phone and called Marty, noticing he hadn’t texted back. Her stepdad didn’t pick up. Damn! He was probably watching TV and had the volume up full blast as usual.
She left a message, her voice more urgent than she intended. “I’m at Jackman’s, the gas station and café on I-5 north of Salem. Emma is here with the Sister Love girls. Maybe we can grab her tonight.” Rox glanced in the binoculars again. The girls were headed inside the restaurant. “I’ll give Emma the mom-emergency bullshit to get her in the car, then hope for the best. I could use some backup.” She started to sign off, then added, “Text, please, instead of call. I don’t want my phone going off if I’m in proximity.”
Rox put on glasses and a baseball cap, then climbed out of her car. Without a gift shop, this truck stop offered no real place to hang back and watch, but she needed to get in close. She crossed the road and entered the parking lot, an eerie sense of déjà vu hanging over her. The lurker from the last truck stop flashed in her mind, and she automatically looked around. Spotting only one older man sleeping in a passenger seat, she moved forward. That incident had been a fluke and probably had nothing to do with the Sister Love crew.
Rox stepped into the restaurant and looked around. The girls had split up like before, and Emma was sitting with the dark-haired girl who’d gotten into the truck last time and seemed to be the leader of the crew. Damn. A sense of urgency overcame Rox. She needed to get Emma out before the girl started down a path toward prostitution. Rox stepped back outside. She needed a plan. She needed Marty. He could approach Emma and pretend to be interested in the charity. Maybe get her to come outside. She called him again, and this time he answered. “What’s the update?”
“You didn’t see my text or listen to my message?”
“No, sorry. I’ve been watching a game.”
Rox ran down the situation. “It’ll take you nearly thirty minutes to get here, but I’ll try to wait. You have a better shot at getting her away from the cluster than I do.”
“Hang tight. I’m on my way.”
Rox walked to the end of the building, leaned against the wall, and stared at her cell phone. How long could she pretend to be a motorist taking a break? Holding back wasn’t in her nature. If Emma walked out the door with a man and headed for a big truck, Rox would move in.
After ten minutes, a family with small children left the restaurant, followed by an older couple shortly after. Rox paced to the front entrance, resisted the urge to go inside, then headed back to her spot near the corner. She heard the door again and turned back. A fifty-something man with a squat build stepped out, and the dark-haired cult member with tattoos followed. Rox watched them walk into the truckers’ parking area and climb into the second rig. Curious as she was about what the cult members really did in exchange for donations, Rox stayed put. She wasn’t going to miss Emma if she exited the café. Still, Rox glanced back and forth between the restaurant door and the big truck. She’d developed a concern for all the sisters. After hearing Bethany’s backstory, in addition to Emma’s, she now realized that most of the members were deeply damaged—and becoming more fucked up as they did Blackstone’s bidding.
Motion in the cab of the big rig caught her eye. Oh shit! The trucker was punching Tattoo Girl in the face and now had her pinned against the door.
Rox charged toward the semi-trailer, reaching for the weapon she no longer carried, her Glock still in her car. She rejected the idea of using it anyway. A loud interruption might be enough to intimidate the prick. As she neared the truck, she shouted, “Hey! Leave her alone!”
The round-faced man turned his head, startled, and stared at her through the high windshield. The girl had all but disappeared under him.
Rox shouted again. “Let her go!”
The trucker mouthed nasty things in her direction.
Rox slammed her palm into the passenger door. “I’ll call the cops!” She heard him yell, “Bitch,” and the door opened. Rox jumped back, and Tattoo Girl tumbled to the ground. Rox squatted and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The dark-haired girl pushed to her feet. “I’m fine.”
Rox ignored her, and pulled her away from the truck. Jolene had become a sex slave to the man who controlled her life and had put up a tough front too. This girl needed help. But Tattoo Girl pulled free. “Get away from me.”
Rox let her go and glanced at the restaurant door. Nothing was happening. But she’d taken her eye off it for five minutes. To reassure herself, Rox hurried inside the café and looked around. Where was Emma? Shit! How could she be gone? Maybe she was in the restroom. Rox strode to the side hallway, her speed and anxiousness feeling obvious and out of place. A table of truckers looked up at her as she passed. The space and both stalls in the restroom were empty. She ran back outside. Had Emma climbed into a truck too? Damn!
Rox scanned the row of big rigs, not seeing anyone in the cabs. But most big trucks had sleeping compartments. Emma could be on her back and out of view. Rox spun toward the other parking area. She had to check it first. Before what? Going back to pound on every big truck, calling out Emma’s name?
Jogging to the front lot, Rox passed Tattoo Girl, who was smoking a cigarette by the front door. The girl called out, “Who the fuck are you?”
Rox kept moving. A car pulled out of the gas station nearby, and it was loaded with young men. Please don’t let her be in there. Movement in the space between the two buildings caught her eye. A young girl was walking toward the tiny convenience store inside the gas station. Emma!
Rox stepped up her pace. This was perfect. Emma was alone, out of the complex, and hopefully open to outside influence. As Rox closed the gap, someone in a dark trench coat stepped out of a small car and grabbed the girl—holding a hand across her mouth.
What the hell?
Rox sprinted forward, shouting, unaware of the actual words she formed. The attacker turned, their face covered by a dark ski mask with a contrasting neck band. The sight of it made her heart skip a beat. “Let her go!” She screamed it so loudly her throat hurt.
The assailant shoved Emma aside, scrambled back into the car, and punched the gas of the still-idling engine. The small vehicle came straight at her, and Rox jumped out of the way, tripping and stumbling into a pickup truck. Her body slammed hard, and the impact knocked the wind out of her. Footsteps raced by as she processed the pain. When Rox caught her breath, she looked around. Where was Emma now?
Rox scanned the area and saw the girl running for the white van. The other sisters were piling in too. Damn! Rox wasn’t surprised to see them go. It had been a rough night, and they were clearing out. But she couldn’t let this opportunity slide. “Emma! Stop! I have something to tell you.” The girl glanced her way but climbed through the side door of the van. The engine started, and the vehicle lurched forward.
Damn! Rox spun back toward the side road, hoping to get another look at the vehicle the assailant was driving. But all she saw were taillights heading up the freeway ramp.
CHAPTER 24
Monday, April 24, 9:05 a.m.
Detective Kyle Wilson glanced at his cell phone. The team meeting was taking forever, and the sergeant in charge hadn’t
called on him yet. The medical examiner had already taken up a chunk of their time and was still talking about the forensic evidence from Bethany Grant’s murder. There seemed to be a lack of anything to compare to the other deaths, and Kyle’s mind was on the victim’s finances.
Abruptly the bearded ME said, “The ligature marks on the neck were interesting though.”
Wilson snapped to attention.
“On the surface, they look like the other I-5 cases and were most likely made with a piece of cloth, a thick scarf, or belt. But Bethany Grant’s bruising was less severe, and the hyoid bone wasn’t damaged. Either this girl struggled less than the others, or the killer was physically weaker.” The medical examiner gave a small shrug. “But I can’t conclude for certain that the murder was committed by a different killer. People have off days. If our perp is a drug user, he could have been less high, or even straight, that day.”
Wilson wanted more clarity. “But it’s possible that it was a copycat crime?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
The sergeant started to speak, but Wilson cut him off. “This seems like a good time to mention that I found another motive for Grant’s murder.”
“You have the floor.” The sergeant’s tone held a note of sarcasm.
“I talked to one of the workers at the Sister Love kitchen. She told me Grant had shot and killed her father accidentally and had probably moved here from Eureka. So I called the PD there.” Wilson paused to sip his coffee—two weeks without a day off was taking its toll. “They informed me that the father had been an author and that his royalties were still going into a trust for his daughter. The Eureka detective is trying to locate the financial information and will fax it to me when he does. I expect it this morning.”
The sergeant glanced at him over black-rimmed glasses. “How much money are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe a couple grand a month.”
“Enough to kill for.” The sergeant made a note on the whiteboard and turned back. “But only if the killer could access the funds. Trusts are written by lawyers and are usually very specific and hard to break.”
“I know,” Wilson said. “It’s a long-shot idea. Plus, it would have to be someone close to her. Bethany had no other family.” He thought about Deacon Blackstone and the work camp full of women. “Other than the cult members, I mean.”
“Get the bank records, then update me.” The sergeant turned to another detective. “What did you learn about the tire marks at the last scene?”
“We found three sets, and none matched the evidence from any of the murders.” Detective Sabine shook his head. “But the sets from the second crime scene were inconclusive as well.”
The sergeant used his wrap-up voice. “I don’t have to point out that the time frame between each of these murders is getting shorter. Based on the pattern, we can expect him to strike again any night.”
A deputy from the sheriff’s office stood and said, “We’ve added highway patrols, but the geographic area is so expansive, I’m not sure it will make a difference.”
“We do what we can.” The sergeant put down his whiteboard pen. “Keep me updated, and we’ll meet again on Wednesday.”
The other ten law enforcement officers stood and filed out. Wilson hurried to his cubicle on the second floor, grateful that he didn’t have to drive to the meetings like many of the other team members. The Portland PD had taken the lead on the cases because the first body had been dumped inside the city limits.
At his desk, he checked his email. The Eureka detective had sent a message with several documents attached. Wilson downloaded and printed the files, eager to see what had been coming and going from the Grant trust each month.
He walked over to the shared printer and snatched up the papers, which were still shooting out. Damn, more reading than he’d expected. He glanced through the first few pages. It was all legal mumbo jumbo about how the trust was set up. He would get the details of that later. Right now he wanted to know how much the monthly royalties were and whether they had gone, or were going into, the Sister Love bank account.
After scooping up the rest of the papers from the printer tray, he strode back to his desk. The other cubicles were mostly empty or the detectives were quietly doing what he was—reading and analyzing documents.
Thirty minutes later, he had a summary. Barrett Grant had been earning a monthly average of $2,300 around the time of his death, and it had gone into an account called Grant Family Trust at Pacific Crest Bank. But these were old documents, and things could have changed in the last year. Wilson called the Eureka branch of the bank, identified himself, and asked to speak to a manager. He was transferred to a young woman named Ariel. He launched right in. “Your customer, Bethany Grant, who inherited the Grant Family Trust, has been murdered, and I need your help.”
“Oh no. That’s terrible.” She was quiet for a moment. “That poor family. Her father died just a year ago.”
“I’m aware of the circumstances. I need to know what has happened to the royalties since Bethany inherited the trust.”
“I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you that. I’d better ask my boss.”
“Bethany is dead. You’re not violating her confidence, but you would be helping find her killer.”
“Uh, okay. Do you want me to send the account statements?”
“Please.” He gave his email, assuming they would come as PDFs. “Can you open a couple of the statements right now and summarize for me?” Sometimes people got busy and forgot to follow through. He needed basic information ASAP.
“Let me pull up the account.”
A moment later she mumbled, “It looks like Bethany made monthly cash withdrawals from her local branch for the full amount of the royalty, leaving a balance of around a thousand, from month to month.”
“What’s the average amount of the royalties deposited?”
“It varies. In February, they were around twenty-five hundred, but last month, it was only seventeen hundred and thirty.”
The downward trend wasn’t surprising, considering the author had died. “Where do the royalties come from?”
“Amazon dot com and few smaller ones from Audible.”
“Has money left the account in the last week?”
“No.”
“When is the next royalty due?”
“Hmm. Let’s see if there’s a pattern.” A pause. “Of course. They come at the end of each month on the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh.”
In the next few days. Would someone try to pull out the cash? Could they? “Is anyone on the account besides Bethany?”
“No.”
“Can you freeze the trust? So no one can access the money?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded skeptical. “I’ll try to find out. We might need a court order.”
That could take days. “Hey, if someone tries to access the money, I need you to call me.”
A long pause. “If it’s a cash withdrawal from another branch, I’ll have no knowledge of that.”
He would have to find and call the bank closest to the work camp. “Who is Bethany’s heir?”
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask her lawyer.”
The girl probably didn’t have one, unless her father’s lawyer was still involved with the trust. “What happens to the money if she has no heir?”
“It probably just sits there. But I’ll see what I can find out. Can I call you back about that?”
“Thank you. Don’t forget to send the monthly statements.”
“Right. I will.”
Wilson hung up. The only thing he didn’t know was what Bethany had done with the cash every month. But he would have bet his own paycheck that it had ended up with Deacon Blackstone. Did Rox know? Was that what she was holding back? He didn’t want to ask her and risk being lied to. He still cared enough to be hurt by a betrayal. The only way to find out for certain about the money was to subpoena the charity’s bank statements. Black
stone’s personal accounts too, if they were separate.
Time to go see a judge.
CHAPTER 25
Monday, April 24, 8:35 a.m.
Rox woke after a night of bad dreams and poor sleep and dragged herself to the kitchen to make coffee. This case was affecting her peace of mind. She couldn’t think about anything else, yet she was making no progress in getting Emma out of the cult. Something had to break their way. Such as Marty finding the nursing home where Arthur Blackstone stayed, and the old man being senile enough to help them.
She sat down with her coffee and cereal and skimmed the front page of the Portland newspaper. One story contained updates on the I-5 Killer case and mentioned the escalating frequency of the murders. She thought about the night before, and a shudder quivered through her. Had she stopped Emma from being the killer’s fifth victim? It seemed unlikely, but who else would wear a ski mask and grab a young girl at a truck stop? She’d called Kyle the night before and left him a message about the incident, but now she wondered if that was enough. He might not be listening to his voice mails again. She’d also reported the incident to the state sheriff’s office. But once the desk officer realized the victim and the assailant were both gone from the truck stop, he’d lost interest in sending a deputy out to the scene. Rox had promised to file a report online but hadn’t done it yet.
She ate the last of her Mini-Wheats and showered before calling Kyle again. She expected him to give her crap for being at the truck stop, especially after asking her to back off the case. He’d been so upset with her yesterday! But damn, she was a private investigator, and it was her job. He’d never complained about her activities before. But they’d never had an overlap. Still, none of her cases had ever felt this dangerous. She pressed Kyle’s contact icon and waited, expecting it to go to voice mail, even hoping it would.
But he picked up. “Hey, Rox. Sorry about yesterday. I might have overreacted.”
“You did.” She decided to be gracious. “But it’s okay. I know you’re stressed about the I-5 investigation.”
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