Tracers 02 - Unspeakable

by Laura Griffin

  The detective picked up a yellow legal pad from the coffee table and tossed it at him like a Frisbee. Troy caught it.

  “Yeah, we’ve got a system. And it’s worse than it looks.”

  N 26° 12.375 W 097° 10.701

  Elaina plowed her way through the cattails, ignoring the blisters and the scratches and the merciless sun. The first two she pushed out of her mind by concentrating on the ever-changing terrain and devising a path. The last was harder to ignore, especially when her jaw muscles went slack and her scalp grew cool and tingly with sweat. She was approaching heat exhaustion. With every shiver, she knew it. And yet she felt completely incapable of a rational response. She needed water, yes. And shade. But Loomis and Callahan were just ten feet ahead, and she’d be damned if she prevented her team from scouring its designated quadrant of swamp.

  “Tell me about Cinco Chavez.”

  Elaina’s gaze cut up and to the right, where the task force leader was forging ahead through the tall reeds.

  “What about him?”

  He tossed a look at her over his shoulder. “What’s your read there?”

  Elaina’s poached brain somehow caught his implication. “You mean my read on him as an officer?” No, that wasn’t what he’d meant.

  “Your read on him as a suspect.”

  She flicked a glance at Callahan, who’d taken on the role of pace setter for their little expedition. He didn’t react to the question from Loomis, but he was much too close not to have heard him. Evidently, the team leader’s theory didn’t come as a surprise to him. They were grasping at straws now, and she guessed it was because their prime suspect had an alibi for last night. An agent had tailed Noah Neely home from his interrogation and surveilled his apartment until the call came in about Angela. A quick check had revealed Neely to be asleep in his bed at the time, which pretty much eliminated him from their suspect list, provided Angela’s disappearance couldn’t be attributed to a copycat.

  So now the latest and greatest suspect was Cinco?

  “I think…” Elaina struggled for a response. “Frankly, I think that’s crap. Sir.”

  “He knows Martinez,” Loomis countered. “He knew the Cooper girl, too. They grew up in the same neighborhood in Bay Port.” He glanced back at her. “You aware of that?”

  “Yes, but he would have been sixteen at the time of Mary Beth Cooper’s murder. That’s much younger than the profile—”

  “He lives on the island, just like you said. Likes to hunt and fish, has access to boats. He’s got the law enforcement background, plus the inside skinny on everything happening around here. And the kicker—he supposedly took that phone tip with the GPS coordinates from Noah Neely’s girlfriend.”

  “You think he lied about—”

  “I think he’s been up to his eyeballs in this thing from the get-go. More than any other cop here, including his boss. You aware he was the first responder to the Gina Calvert crime scene?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “And he’s been at Coconuts bar almost every night for the past two weeks?”

  Elaina’s legs were Jell-O, her skin clammy. “You’re suggesting he’s been trolling? Under the guise of searching for the killer?”

  “I’m suggesting he’s always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place, however you want to look at it.”

  Elaina stepped into a hole, and lukewarm water filled her right boot. She took a few steps back and veered toward Callahan, who seemed adept at finding what little firm footing there was in this mud pit. The tide had gone out since last night, leaving acres and acres of soggy marshland that would have been accessible by boat at three o’clock this morning.

  “You’ve spent more time with Chavez than any of the rest of us,” Loomis pressed. “Tell me what you think.”

  Elaina took a deep breath. She needed to be objective. After all, she’d shared her geocaching lead with him, and he hadn’t outright laughed. Yes, he’d looked at her like she was crazy, but at least he’d heard her out.

  It had been Callahan who’d smiled. Smugly. While looking away. And she’d known her theory was going to be the topic of much discussion among members of the task force later.

  Let them tear into her. At least they’d be giving her theory some thought.

  “Well?”

  Rivulets of sweat slid down her spine. She cleared her parched throat. “I think Officer Chavez is solid. Dedicated. Eager to lend a hand, but there’s nothing more to it than his devotion to the job.” She sounded like a sappy toast at some retirement dinner. “Anyway, his age doesn’t fit the profile, and I’ve seen nothing to make me think he’d be capable of this level of violence.”

  The men fell silent in front of her. The sun’s rays beat down, and the chorus of cicadas surrounding them escalated to a deafening buzz. Elaina tipped her head back. Noon had come and gone, and the sky was nearly bleached white by the unyielding sun.

  A distant bird caught her eye.

  She knew that bird. She knew its swirling, circling pattern. She stopped short, just as the buzzard swooped down and disappeared behind some foliage.

  “There,” she said, and her lungs constricted.

  “What? Where?” Loomis turned to look at her.

  “A buzzard. There.” She pointed at the distant clump of cattails. “It’s feeding.”

  Troy had a crick in his neck and a renewed sense of loathing for the sick bastard who’d killed all these women.

  He glanced across the room at Ric Santos, who was buried in old police reports.

  “I covered the Woodlawn murders up in San Antonio years ago,” Troy said, and the detective looked up from his paperwork. “Crossed paths with a special agent Rey Santos with the VICMO squad up there. Any relation?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  Troy thought he’d seen a resemblance. “Elaina’s got a theory this unsub may have applied to the FBI,” he said. “I know the applications in this region go through the San Antonio field office. Could your brother—”

  “She already asked,” Ric said. “He’s checking it out, said he’d probably have something by tomorrow.”

  The door to the suite opened, and Weaver trudged in, looking battered and fried. Elaina followed. Her glassy-eyed gaze drifted over the room, paused briefly on Troy, then moved to the minibar, where an unopened bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket. She crossed the room, plunked the bottle onto the counter, and walked out with the bucket.

  Weaver dropped into an armchair.

  “What happened to you two?” Ric asked.

  “Heat index of ninety-nine-point-nine million.” He tossed his shades on the coffee table, revealing pasty white circles above lobster-red cheeks.

  “You guys ever heard of sunblock?” Ric asked as Elaina slammed back into the room. She went straight into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Troy looked at Weaver. “What’s wrong with her?”

  The agent’s worried, bloodshot gaze settled on the door, and Troy heard the shower go on.

  “She found the body.” Weaver sighed heavily. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  Ric cursed. “Time of death?”

  “Early this morning, they think. We missed her by a few hours.”

  Another curse from Ric.

  Troy got up and snagged Elaina’s duffel bag from the floor. It felt empty. He pulled open dresser drawers and gathered up clothes, then grabbed an Evian from the mini-fridge.

  “God, I’m whipped,” Weaver said. “Anyone up for a burger? All I’ve eaten today is a granola bar.”

  “You guys should hit the diner across the street.” Troy crossed to the bathroom and tapped his knuckles on the door. “We’ll catch up with you there.”

  He opened the door and slipped inside. Elaina was on the floor of the shower, her knees hugged to her chest as the water pelted her back. Beside her was the ice bucket.

  Troy dropped her clothes in the sink and pulled open the glass door. He crouched down next to her, and
she turned her head just enough to see him.

  “Go away,” she mumbled.

  He pried the ice cube out of her hand and replaced it with the bottle of water. “Drink this.” Then he moved her hair aside and rubbed the ice cube over her neck. Her back was pale, in sharp contrast to her neck and arms, which were brick red.

  “Please go away.” She rested her forehead on her knees and hunched into a tighter ball.

  His jeans and boots grew damp from spray. At least she’d had the sense to take a cool shower instead of a hot one. He grabbed another ice cube and rubbed it between her shoulder blades. She didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, she turned to look at him. Her face was pink, her lips chapped. Scratches marred the skin of her arms.

  “We were too late,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Her gaze held his, and he read a world of emotions he knew she’d never talk about. At least not right now. And it was all he could do not to pull her into his lap. But she’d shut down if he did that. She’d shrink into her shell, like a hermit crab, and never come out.

  She closed her eyes and turned her head away. “I need to be alone.”

  He stood up and stepped out of the shower. “Five minutes, Elaina. Then we’re meeting everyone across the street for dinner. Finish that water.”

  She didn’t argue, and he wouldn’t have listened to her if she had. He slipped out of the bathroom and found the suite empty. He sat on the bed to wait, resisting the urge to go out on the balcony for a cigarette. Ten minutes ticked by, but he heard movement behind the door, so he didn’t hassle her. Finally, she stepped out of the bathroom in the shorts and T-shirt he’d selected. Her freshly combed hair hung damp and loose around her shoulders.

  “Ready.”

  He held the door open for her and followed her down the hall. Her gait this evening was stiff, her shoulders slumped. She looked like a casualty of the Boston Marathon, and he half expected her to sway into the wall as they walked down the corridor.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  He shook his head but let it go as they made it down to the lobby and crossed the highway to the diner.

  “Who’s coming?” she asked listlessly.

  “Ric. Weaver. Whoever’s around.”

  “Cinco and Maynard?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Was she worried about walking in with him? He couldn’t have cared less, but he wasn’t sure she wanted to advertise their relationship.

  Relationship. Troy cut a glance at her as they neared the entrance. He wasn’t quite comfortable with the word, but he couldn’t come up with a better one.

  She glanced up at him. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He yanked the door open, and she flinched at the arctic blast of air-conditioning.

  “It’s freezing.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” He spotted Ric, Weaver, and Cinco around Dot’s large corner booth. They watched him and Elaina approach the table. All three looked unhappy, particularly Weaver, who somehow managed to rake Troy over the coals with a three-second glare.

  Elaina slid in beside her partner, and Troy followed.

  “I was just telling Ric about the apartment,” Weaver said.

  The waitress appeared, and they ordered Cokes and hamburgers all around. Troy asked for a chocolate milkshake.

  “What about the apartment?” Elaina asked.

  “No sign of forced entry,” the agent reported. “Door was unlocked. Purse on the counter this time, wallet out.”

  “Contents?” Ric asked.

  “Driver’s license, insurance card, photos, health club card, twenty-five dollars cash. None of the victims’ wallets look to have been pilfered.”

  “And her car?” Ric asked.

  “At the marina,” Cinco said. “Along with her clothes.”

  “So you’re thinking he keeps a boat there.”

  “Actually, no,” Weaver told him. “He parks the victim’s car at a different dock each time, and we think it’s a diversion. The theory is, he has a boat someplace else, maybe a private slip somewhere.”

  “Timing’s tight,” Cinco said. “Angela was at Coconuts at least until one-thirty. I saw her myself. Assuming he followed her home from the bar, he would have had to kidnap her, take her out on his boat, kill her and dump her in the wildlife park, then go back and plant her car at the marina, all before three-fifty.”

  “What happened at three-fifty?” Ric asked.

  “Patrol officer called in the abandoned Kia,” Cinco said. “Door was open. Angela’s clothes were inside.”

  The waitress arrived with the drinks, and silence settled over the table as everyone unwrapped straws and started slurping. Everyone except Elaina.

  “Your missing hikers,” Weavers said to Ric. “Were their valuables stolen?”

  “Backpacks, clothes, car keys—all that turned up in a trash can not far from the trailhead. Their cars were in the parking lots, right where they’d left them, according to witnesses.”

  “So he probably found them on the trails, versus kidnapping them at their homes and taking them there,” Troy said. “Why the change in MO?”

  “Who knows?” Ric said. “Maybe being near the water changed things for him. He wanted to throw a boat into the mix.”

  “Pretty bold move,” Weaver said.

  “What, using a boat?”

  “That, but also the kidnapping. It multiplies the number of potential witnesses. Also increases the odds of leaving evidence behind.”

  Troy glanced at Elaina. She was staring at her plastic cup, tracing a pattern in the condensation with her index finger.

  “What’s your take, T?”

  Troy’s gaze snapped to Cinco.

  “Why go to their apartments and hotel rooms?” Cinco asked him. “Why not just take them straight from a bar to the dump site?”

  “Who knows?” Troy said. “Maybe a bar is too busy. You ever seen the parking lot at Coconuts after last call? It’s a meat market. Besides, there’s been no sign of forced entry, so he’s probably got some sort of ruse. Something that gets them to open the door for him.” Troy eyed everyone at the table. Ric looked most interested, and Troy had come to realize over the past six hours that the detective was obsessed with this case.

  The food arrived, and everyone busied themselves with ketchup and mustard. Elaina nibbled a french fry.

  “But why a bar instead of a hiking trail?” Weaver said around a mouthful of food. “In the most recent five cases, all the victims have spent their last evening at the same bar.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Ric asked.

  “We’ve got their credit-card activity, along with eyewitness accounts. Every one of them was at Coconuts the night of her abduction. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, if he wants to do his thing in a nature preserve, why not just lie in wait and spring himself on some hiker?”

  “He works at night,” Elaina said quietly.

  “What’s that?” Cinco asked.

  “The mutilation. The part he considers his work—all that happens at night, under cover of darkness. Women don’t generally hike at night, and he couldn’t just grab them and carve them up in broad daylight.”

  She leaned back against the booth now and looked out at the restaurant, avoiding all the gazes at the table. Weaver frowned at her.

  “What happens now?” Ric directed the question at Weaver, who—for lack of a better candidate—seemed to be the designated expert on the workings of the FBI’s task force.

  “There’s a press conference scheduled for tonight,” the agent said. “Loomis and Breck at the podium, feds and locals playing nice for the cameras. Autopsy happens”—he glanced at his watch—“right about now, as a matter of fact.”

  Troy slid Elaina’s water glass in front of her. “Hydrate,” he murmured in her ear.

  “The autopsy won’t produce much,” Weaver said. “We already know the victim’s identity, plus the cause and time of death are pretty evid
ent this time.” He shook his head. “What I’d really like to do is round up every last surfer and frat boy at Coconuts tonight and hook them up to a polygraph.”

  Elaina pushed her plate away and pulled Troy’s milkshake in front of her. She took out the straw and licked ice cream off the tip.

  Troy’s gaze scanned the restaurant, looking for out-of-towners mixed in with all the locals. Tonight was tourists, mostly, along with a few media-types, easily identifiable by their loosened neckties and wilted dress shirts. Evidently the Paradise Killer wasn’t having quite the negative effect on tourism the governor had anticipated when he’d sent a Texas Ranger down to lend a hand. Troy had hardly seen that guy all week, and the feds had clearly taken over.

  He glanced at the fed beside him, relieved to see her working on his shake. It wasn’t as good for her as water, but at least it would put some sugar in her system.

  What had she seen today? Or maybe it was the thought of how close they’d come to saving Angela Martinez that had put that haunted look in her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Troy had dealt with that kind of insomnia. He knew a cure for it, too, but he doubted she’d let him show her.

  She pushed the cup away and leaned back against the booth. She looked out across the restaurant, and suddenly her dull expression was replaced by alarm.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What?” Troy gazed out the window facing the Sandhill Inn. A man and a woman walked up the sidewalk together and entered the hotel. The woman, Troy would have known anywhere. The man, he vaguely recognized.

  “I wonder why they’re here,” Elaina said.

  “I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

  CHAPTER 20

  What are you doing here?”

  Mia whirled around at the familiar voice and gazed up into a pair of brown-black eyes. She immediately went on the defensive.

  “I’m checking in,” she said crisply.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Um… so I can have a bed for the night?” Mia accepted a pair of key cards from the clerk with the over-teased hair. She glanced back again and watched the muscle tighten in Ric’s jaw. Clearly, he didn’t want her here, and she found that interesting when for the past week he’d practically been pleading for her help.