“I don’t know—”
“Jax, you want to talk to her about this more? Be my guest,” Ben said, glancing at his watch and standing. “But you know as well as we do that it’s unlikely there’s a solid link here. Yeah, the symbol is odd, but it’s not particularly unique. And we can’t even be sure the killer in her husband’s case is the one who drew it. She said it was spray-painted on an alley wall. Could have been some random tagger practicing. Our symbol was literally on the bomb fragment. That’s pretty different.”
“Maybe, but—”
“An alley in downtown Houston at a murder site. And a bomb fragment in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. A single murder and a bombing that’s already killed seven and injured at least twelve more. You’ve got the psychology background, so you tell me: How likely is it that a violent murderer turned into a bomber?”
“Not very,” Jax agreed, trying not to be distracted by the way his arms stung, the way his back and legs and head throbbed. The two aspirin he’d gotten from the hotel desk hadn’t done much to ease the pain.
From the type of murder Keara had described, the killer had wanted to get up close. He thrived on the brutality, on causing someone else to suffer, on watching that suffering up close and personal. He’d probably loved the attention, the big press coverage in a big city. A bomber was a different personality type. Someone who didn’t want to be hands-on for the actual kill. Someone who wanted to see more destruction, but choosing a place so far off the map meant maybe he wasn’t looking for the intensity of news coverage.
“Still...”
“What?” Anderson prompted when Jax went silent.
Jax’s specialty was working with trauma victims, helping them reclaim control over their emotions and their lives. He’d spent time analyzing the motives behind the perpetrators, but only if it was in service of the survivors.
But the more time he’d spent working for the FBI, the more he’d realized that the specialty translated. And not just as a Victim Specialist, but also in providing real insight into the way the perpetrators thought.
He didn’t know enough about the case Keara’s husband had investigated to be able to say if it was connected or not. But something about it kept nudging his brain.
“The symbol was on the bomb fragment,” Jax said. “That means it’s important. But maybe the bomber didn’t expect it to survive the blast. Maybe he drew it for himself.”
“Maybe,” Ben agreed.
“So maybe he never expected it to be connected to a seven-year-old murder.”
* * *
“IS THERE ANY news on the Luna bombing?” Tate Emory, an officer she’d brought on to the Desparre PD just over five years ago, leaned his head into her office.
Tate was one of her most easygoing officers, with a calm under pressure none of her veterans had expected. Of course, they only knew Tate’s cover story, believed he’d been a true rookie when he joined the force. But Keara knew he’d been a police officer before hiding away in this remote Alaskan town. Because she’d kept his secret, he was one of the only people here who knew anything about her past.
Still, she wasn’t about to share the possible connection to one of her husband’s cases. Not when the FBI had grown less and less interested the longer she’d spoken. Not when the light of day was bringing her own doubts.
Last night she’d been so certain. This morning, back at work in Desparre and fielding calls from concerned citizens about their neighboring town, she wondered if she was wrong.
It had been seven years since she’d seen that symbol. Yes, years on the force had enhanced her skills of observation and memory. But maybe it wasn’t the same. Even she had to admit it didn’t look like much beyond doodling. Or maybe both a murderer and a bomber had seen the same symbol somewhere and used it themselves.
“The FBI is managing the investigation.” She told Tate what he’d surely already seen on the news. “I couldn’t get anything useful out of them.”
An image of Jax, crashing down from the top of that bar after he’d tried to help her, filled her mind. There was something compelling about him. And it was more than the tall, dark and handsome thing he had going for him, or the adorable dog who followed him around.
It was the eyes, she realized. The way they’d fixed on her, given her one hundred percent of his attention. A psychologist’s trick, surely, but it had felt personal.
“They have no suspects?”
Keara shook off thoughts of Jax and focused on Tate. The officer was only a few years younger than her own thirty-five, but the way he carried himself made him seem like he’d seen a lot over those years.
“If they do, they didn’t share the details with me.” She thought about the exhaustion on the two agents’ faces in the lobby of the Luna hotel last night, going over evidence after a full day at a bomb site. “I think they’re struggling to figure out a motive.”
“That was a big blast. Seems like it was someone who had experience making bombs,” Tate said. “Then again, these days any criminal-minded sociopath can find a recipe to make a bomb on the internet.”
Keara nodded, her gaze moving to the open door of her office. Resisting the urge to ask him if he’d dealt with bombings in his previous job, she said, “I got cards from several FBI agents and their Victim Specialist. I’ll stay in contact.”
“Sounds good.”
As Tate turned back for the bullpen, Keara said, “Close the door behind you, please.”
Once she was alone, she dialed a number she hadn’t called since she’d moved to Alaska. For all she knew, he’d changed it. A small part of her—the part that really did want to leave the past behind her—hoped he had changed it.
“Fitz,” he answered on the first ring, his voice a deep grumble created by years of smoking and drinking.
The familiar voice instantly took her back to the swampy summers in Houston, to responding to a dangerous call one last time with Juan before he took the promotion to detective and partnered up with veteran Leroy Fitzgerald. Leaving her to work with a rookie for a year, before she made the jump to detective herself. But by then, they were engaged and rules prohibited them from working together anymore.
“You talk or I hang up,” Fitz snapped.
“It’s Keara Hernandez,” she blurted, relieved when her voice sounded only slightly strained.
She and Fitz had never gotten along. She’d tolerated him because he was Juan’s partner and a partner’s trust on the force could be the difference between life and death. He’d tolerated her for the same reason.
“Keara.”
His voice softened in a way she’d only come to know after Juan had died, when Fitz had been sidelined like her, and two other detectives were assigned to investigate. Unlike her, Fitz had been allowed to stay close to the investigation, even tag along at the end.
“How’s Alaska?”
His voice was neutral, but she’d always suspected he was glad when she left Houston. When she stopped hassling him and everyone else for details on her husband’s case. When she’d stopped making all of them feel guilty for failing, no matter how hard they’d tried. She’d been the final holdout, the last person to accept the case would never be solved.
If the sudden pain burning its way up her chest was any indication, she’d never truly accepted it. She’d only run from it.
“Peaceful, mostly.” She got right to business, not wanting to hear about life on the force she’d left behind—assuming he was still on the force. “I’m calling because there’s a case up here with a symbol that I think matches the one from that murder you and Juan caught at the end. The one you thought was a serial?” She was purposely vague about the Alaskan case, phrasing it in a way that wouldn’t be lying if she had to admit it wasn’t her case at all, but hopefully not inviting questions.
“Really?” He sounded surprised, but only vaguely interested. “An
other murder?”
“Not exactly. Could you fax me the details? I want to see if my memory is as good as I think it is. See if the symbol really is the same.”
There was a pause long enough to make Keara silently swear, before Fitz asked slowly, “I’m guessing since you called me on my personal line that this is an unofficial request?”
“Yes.”
“Is this about Juan?”
The pain that had been creeping up her chest clamped down hard. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I just...I figured if I ever heard from you again, it would be because you’d finally started investigating Juan’s death on your own.” He let out a forced laugh. “You always were dogged. Kind of a rule-breaker.”
It was a much more polite version of what she’d overheard some of her colleagues in Texas saying about her when she’d been a patrol officer, even after she’d become a detective. They were traits she’d tried hard to tame when she’d come to Alaska.
Follow the rules, for the most part. Definitely not date anyone within her ranks. She’d barely befriended them, determined to keep her distance. Not just to maintain her authority, but also to protect herself. Being a police officer was a dangerous profession, even in a quiet little town like Desparre. The officers here had become her responsibility and she took that seriously. If someone died on her watch, she needed to be able to stay removed enough to do what had to be done, to keep the rest of the team going.
Of course it was important to be persistent, to chase down the truth no matter what. But there was also value in learning when to let go.
It was something she thought she’d succeeded in.
“Is there some reason to think Celia Harris’s murder was connected to Juan’s death?” she asked tightly. If there was, they’d all kept it from her back then.
“No,” Fitz replied.
“Are you sure?” she demanded, suddenly certain he was keeping something from her.
“Yeah, I’m sure. As sure as I can be. I mean, we don’t know who the hell took Juan out. Just because Juan’s case went cold six years ago doesn’t mean we all gave up on it.”
It was only the hurt underneath the anger in Fitz’s voice that kept Keara from snapping at him. When the case had officially gone cold, she’d done the only thing she could do to survive it. She’d tried to shut down that part of her life entirely, remove herself from any reminders that she’d ever been married, that she’d ever faced such a loss. And she’d done it in spectacular fashion, by running as far away as she could.
“Have you found anything?” she demanded, anger seeping into her own voice. Whatever Fitz thought of her decision to leave Houston, she was still Juan’s wife. She still deserved answers.
“No.”
In that single word, she heard all of the defeat she’d felt six years ago, when the chief had officially called off the active investigation, told the detectives on Juan’s case they had to move on.
Closing her eyes, Keara let out a long breath, trying to regain her composure. “Tell me about Celia Harris’s murder, then. Please. You never found any likely suspects, did you?”
“Well...”
Her eyes popped back open. “Who?”
“Your husband went to talk to someone whose car was near the scene of the murder. A hospital orderly with some minor criminal history named Rodney Brown.”
A mix of dread and anger made her pulse speed up. “You remember the name all these years later? Why?”
“Juan talked to the guy on kind of a long-shot lead. I didn’t go with him. He said it didn’t look like anything, but that Rodney kept insisting the whole thing was a mistake. That he hadn’t taken his car out at all. It struck Juan as a little weird, but he thought maybe Rodney was just nervous about being interviewed by a police officer. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, either, except Rodney disappeared a few weeks later.”
Keara let the timeline sink in and her anger intensified. “A few weeks later. So you’re telling me this guy disappeared right after Juan was killed?”
“We looked into it,” Fitz insisted. “We couldn’t find any evidence that he was involved in Juan’s murder.”
“You couldn’t find any because it didn’t look like he’d done it or because he disappeared and you couldn’t find him?”
When Fitz didn’t immediately respond, Keara jumped to her feet. Through the glass walls of her office, she saw some of her officers staring at her with curiosity and concern.
She turned her back on them, knowing there was no way she could hide the horror she felt. “You think it was him.”
“I did,” Fitz said quietly. “But no one else agreed, Keara. And seven years later I wonder if I was just reaching for anything. For anyone I could blame. He was my partner. It eats me up every day that we couldn’t solve his murder.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“What would you have done?”
Investigated on her own. She would have done whatever it took to find Rodney Brown and figure out if he’d killed her husband.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” Fitz said, without her saying a word. “Because we chased that lead as far as we could. It was a dead end. And...” He let out a heavy sigh. “You deserved to move on. Juan would have wanted that.”
Keara grit her teeth, trying to hold back the tears suddenly threatening. “Just send me the file, Fitz.”
She hung up before he could say anything else, then planted her hands on her credenza for stability. Seven years. Someone who might have killed Juan had had seven long years to run. Seven long years for the trail to go cold.
Was it possible he’d shown up here, stepped up the volume of his kills by becoming a bomber?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Does this symbol look familiar to you?” Jax held up the digitally enhanced image that had been found on a bomb fragment.
Gabi Sinclair winced as she hauled herself up higher against the headboard of the hospital bed. Her sheet slid downward and she immediately hiked it up, avoiding looking at the leg that had been amputated below the knee yesterday. Her light brown skin was tinged with an ashy gray, her eyes bloodshot.
When Jax had met her last night, she hadn’t been able to stop crying about the fiancé who’d died in the blast. Today she was all gritted teeth and desperate determination, wanting any information she could get about the investigation. A mix of numbness and anger that would only last so long before the grief bled through again.
Hopefully, when that happened, he’d be able to help her.
She stared at the symbol intently for a long minute, her free hand dropping down beside the bed to pet Patches, who’d been patiently waiting. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t know it. What is it?”
From slightly behind him, Jax sensed Ben and Anderson’s disappointment, heard their suit coats slumping against the rough hospital wall. They’d taken the lead today, but asked him along to make the victims and their families feel more comfortable. The more rooms they visited, the more questions Jax asked. Technically, it was the agents’ job to ask about the symbol, but for some of the victims, he suspected it would be easier to talk to him.
Gabi was their final hospital visit. None of the victims they’d spoken to had recognized the symbol.
“This was drawn on one of the bomb fragments,” Anderson spoke up, stepping forward in the tight space. “We don’t know what it means. It might be nothing. But we’re checking everything.”
Gabi frowned slightly, directing her gaze at Patches, who scooted closer to the bed and made the tiniest smile quiver at the corner of Gabi’s lips.
“When we have some answers, we’ll tell you what we can,” Jax said, not wanting to overpromise what he might not be able to deliver, but also wanting to help start the healing process. If Gabi felt like she was cut off from real information, it would only i
ncrease the helplessness she felt.
She nodded at him, her hand stalling against Patches’s head, her brow furrowed like she was trying to puzzle it out, too.
Despite research done by Ben and Anderson—and some curiosity searching Jax had done himself on publicly available sites—none of them understood it. They’d found symbols that were similar, but nothing close enough and so far, nothing else tied to a crime like this. If the bomber had been trying to send a message with the symbol, it appeared to be one only he understood.
Maybe the case Keara’s husband had investigated would provide the break they needed. When Jax had pressed him on it that morning, Anderson said he was waiting for a call back from the Houston detective.
“Is there anything else you can remember from yesterday morning?” Ben asked, stepping up next to Jax, crowding him just slightly, like he wanted Jax to step back.
Gabi glanced from him to Ben, then shook her head. “Not really. Carter and I were just going for a walk.” Her voice trembled on her fiancé’s name, then she cleared her throat and kept going. “We’d stopped to sit on the bench for a few minutes when it happened.”
“And you didn’t notice anyone behaving strangely?” Ben asked. “No one leaving the park or staring at it from a distance?”
The FBI had gotten news back from the lab that morning that the bomb had been set off remotely. That made it more likely the bomber had been nearby, watching for the exact moment he wanted it to detonate.
Gabi shook her head quickly, but she’d answered these questions before.
“Thanks, Gabi,” Jax said. “I know this isn’t easy. But if you think of anything—even if you’re not sure it matters—you can call any of us. And if you need to talk, I’m just a phone call away, day or night. You know Patches is always excited to come and see you.”
Beside her bed, Patches let out an affirmative woof!
Gabi startled at the sudden noise, then gave his dog a tiny smile.
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