by Mary Burton
“Where the hell are you?” she muttered to herself.
She filled a travel mug with the remainder of her coffee, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the front door. As she twisted her key in the dead bolt, a man called out to her. It was her neighbor Travis. Or Trey. Some name that ended in s. Or y.
“Hello, there!” he shouted.
Melina tightened her hand on her backpack’s strap and turned to face the man who lived on the other end of her unit. In his late fifties, he had told Melina his life history. A resident in the complex for ten years. Former schoolteacher. Was married but divorced for the last six years.
“Melina!”
“Yes.” Melina could hear her mother’s voice, dipped in its southern charm, warning her to be nice. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen my cat, Simba?”
“Simba?”
“She’s calico and has a white patch on her chest.”
Ah, so Wild Kitty was not as orphaned as she pretended. Her fat cheeks should have been the dead giveaway. “I saw her this morning.”
“And she seemed fine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She didn’t come in last night. When the weather gets warm, it’s hard to keep her inside.”
“She looked like she could take care of herself.”
Travis or Trey held up a ringed pink collar with a heart-shaped name tag jingling from the front. “She slipped her collar again.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like pink.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“She’s a little too independent for her own good,” he said. “I’m afraid a wild animal is going to hurt her. If you see her, bring her home to me. I’ve a bag of dried kibbles for her.”
“I’ll let her know.”
When Melina reached her car, she noticed a trio of cigarette butts. They were behind her car and she imagined someone leaning against her bumper, staring toward her unit. There was a faint hint of pink lipstick on each filtered edge. The guy next door dated a lot of women. Maybe one had been out here waiting for him to return from his bartending shift.
She leaned against her trunk, staring toward the line of town houses. It took time to smoke three cigarettes. Fifteen or twenty minutes if rushing, longer if killing time. “So, who’s being watched?”
Frowning, she slid behind the wheel of her car. The engine fired, and she backed out of the spot and headed toward the office. At least the white-van driver had not been wearing pink lipstick.
Fifteen minutes later, Melina arrived at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation’s offices on R. S. Gass Boulevard. The road into the complex wound over a lush, rolling landscape past modern buildings that contained TBI’s Nashville offices. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation was the state’s primary criminal investigative agency. Agents investigated crimes related to drugs, corruption, organized crime, terrorism, and fraud. Down the road was another building that housed the state medical examiner’s office.
Juxtaposing the modern buildings was a third building. The Freemasons had built the colonial revival stone structure circa 1915 to house their widows, orphans, and elderly. Later incarnations included a tuberculosis home and a foster home for boys.
She parked, showed her badge at the front desk, and made her way to her office. She dumped her backpack in her chair and glanced at her clean desk. She missed the chaos of reports and files piled up and around her desk, as well as the dust on shelves filled with well-worn technical manuals and the odd certificate of merit. This organization stuff had to stop.
A sharp knock on her door had her looking up. Her boss, Carter Jackson, filled the doorframe. A full, dark mustache matched thick hair threaded with silver at the temples. He was wearing his customary charcoal-gray suit, light-blue shirt, and red tie, but he never looked fully comfortable in it. She imagined when he got home at night, the tie was the first to go.
He was nearly forty and divorced and had made a name for himself a decade ago when he had broken up a nasty human trafficking and drug ring. For his efforts, he had been awarded a promotion, which came with a desk job. He never made a comment about leaving the streets, but she knew he missed the work.
“Shepard, you were born with a lucky horseshoe up your ass.” Jackson’s gruff comment was a welcome change from the stony silence.
“Only one?”
“That knife you stuck into your attacker delivered a nice DNA sample. I had the DNA testing fast tracked.”
She had detailed all her recollections of the van’s interior. Jackson might have been pissed at her reckless actions, but he had been listening. “Really?”
“I was on the phone late last night with the head of an FBI profiling unit. He’s coming out here to investigate the case himself.”
The FBI didn’t investigate cases unless there was good cause. “FBI interaction sounds great, sir.”
“Agent Ramsey will be here in about an hour.”
“That soon?”
“He just called me from the Nashville airport.”
“Of course.” She was not fond of FBI intervention, but on the bright side, she was not going to be confined to the bowels of TBI for the remainder of her career.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he said, “Like I said, lucky horseshoe. You should buy a lottery ticket.”
For the last seven days, all he could think about was Ms. Perky Breasts. He pictured her stripped naked and begging him for mercy as her blood flowed freely onto the floor of his van.
He slowly unwrapped the bandage from around his thigh and inspected the ten neat stitches. He had sewn up the wound himself, knowing the cops were looking not only for his van but also for a man with a leg injury.
Fragments of the gauze caught in the wound. Gently, he tugged as strand after strand peeled away from his skin until the strip released from the jagged wound. It was not infected, and he could now stand and walk with only a small limp. As much as he had wanted to retrieve the van, the injury would not allow him to leave his home in the woods.
Gingerly, he spread more antibiotic ointment on the wound and wrapped it again. He carefully tugged up his pajama pants.
He had stayed away from the Bottom for seven days and nights now. There had been no news reports about the incident or of the two other missing girls. The prostitutes and their problems did not merit any airtime in the crazy news cycle.
His luck was also holding in regard to the van. According to the transponder he had affixed under the front axle, it remained in the warehouse.
Coffee in hand, he stepped out onto the porch of his cabin and stared out over the woods that ringed the edge of his property. He loved the woods. And staring at them never failed to calm him. He took a sip and settled back into a rocker and then glanced toward the empty one beside him.
Ms. Perky Breasts should be sitting there with him. He had cooled off a lot in the last week, and he no longer dreamed of peeling her skin from her body.
His phone rang, pulling his attention from the woods. He recognized the number and smiled. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Hey to you, Grandpa. How are you doing?”
“I’m doing just great.” He rose and walked to the railing. “You packed and ready for boarding school?”
“Yeah, can’t wait. Mom is driving me crazy.”
“Give your old mom a break. It’s hard seeing someone you love leave.”
“I’m grown up. What’s the surprise?”
He chuckled. “There’s a lot you need to learn about the world, Sue.”
“I guess. How are you feeling? Are you taking your medicine?”
He had been diagnosed with cancer months ago. The pending surgery promised to leave him neutered and possibly incontinent. He would no longer be the master of his life. He was not going down that path.
“Like clockwork.”
“When do you go into the hospital?”
Never. “Soon.”
“Are you coming to parents’ weekend?”
&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Great. I’ve got to go, but I just wanted to call and let you know I’m thinking about you.”
“Love you, kid.”
“Me too, Grandpa.”
They ended the call, and he refocused on the woods. He had loved a lot of women in his life, and he was sad to see them all leave.
He pictured Ms. Perky Breasts standing on her corner. He was destined to dominate her. She was ordained to submit to him. But sometimes destiny needed a hard shove.
He would give it another day or two before he retrieved the van from the warehouse. When he did, he would change the plates and slap on one of the half dozen bogus business signs. Like him, the van was a chameleon. Then he would go looking for his girl.
It was just a matter of time before Ms. Perky Breasts returned to her corner. A girl had to make a living. And everyone, including a hooker, was a creature of habit.
He smiled, then sipped his coffee. “This Date Night is going to be extra special, baby.”
CHAPTER THREE
Monday, August 24, 11:00 a.m.
FBI special agent Jerrod Ramsey waited as the airport’s rental car clerk checked for his reservation. Her name tag read SALLY. This was her first day on the job, she had said several times, and she was having trouble with the computer. She looked to be in her early twenties and had freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose, and her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail streaked with several strands of blue. Triple ear piercings in the left ear, and she had suntan marks from a halter top. Her right thumb was calloused, and the nail was longer than her others. He guessed musician. A guitarist. Making ends meet until the big break.
“Can you spell your last name again for me?” she asked with a halting smile.
“R-A-M-S-E-Y. First name Jerrod. With a j.”
“Thank you.” The longer she tapped on the keys, the pinker her cheeks grew. Finally, she called over her manager, a short doughy man with thinning brown hair, who glanced at him cautiously and then quickly dropped his gaze to the screen. “We’re sorry for the wait.”
Ramsey fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled for the confirmation email. He had traveled countless places, and most trips came with a snafu. “I have a confirmation number.”
The manager was Fitz, according to his name badge. He brushed the girl’s hands away. “I told you how to do this twice this morning.” He punched more keys. “Here it is, a black SUV.”
“That’s it.”
“Do you have this?” The manager’s voice bit with sarcasm, and he lingered a fraction too close to the female clerk’s personal space.
Sally shifted a step away.
The manager was likely in his late forties, and Ramsey guessed he had spent his career processing thousands of car rental orders. The yellowing of his fingertips suggested he was a heavy smoker, the bags under his eyes hinted at poor sleep, and bloodshot eyes implied a hangover. No hint of a wedding band. This job was his fiefdom, and bossing women like Sally around made him feel better about his miserable existence.
Ramsey handed over his credit card to Sally and lifted his gaze to ol’ Fitz. “Thanks, Fitz. She’s got this now.”
Fitz held his ground for a beat, mumbled, “Have a nice day,” and then retreated back to another computer station.
Sally rang up the order. “You here for business?” Her conversational tone had a nervous edge, but her smile was bright.
“Yes.”
“Music or banking?” she said with a smile.
“Troubleshooting.”
Curiosity sparked in her gaze as she handed him his credit card and car keys. “Have a great trip.”
“Thanks.” If he had to bet, Sally would take less than six months to discover this job was not worth the paycheck.
He grabbed his roller bag filled with case files and headed toward the rental car bus. Ten minutes later, he was walking down a line of cars. He always rented the same make and model whenever he could. It cut down on the confusion that came with unfamiliar surroundings.
His phone rang as he tossed his roller bag and briefcase in the back seat. He recognized his niece’s phone number. “Kylie.”
“Uncle Jerrod. Where are you?”
“Nashville.” He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over his bag before closing the door.
“I got your text. What’s up?”
Kylie was his older sister’s child. At twenty-two, she had graduated from college and was beginning her first year of Columbia Law School.
“Checking in on Grandma. How is she doing?”
“Okay. She’s always grumpy.”
“When is your mother coming in to help?”
“I don’t know. She’s in Paris. Don’t worry, I’ve got the Grandma shift covered.”
“How long can you stay?”
“A week.”
“Good. That helps. I should be back in Washington by then.”
“I don’t do much. Tracy takes care of everything.”
Tracy had been his mother’s caregiver for five years. She was one of the very few people his mother listened to these days. “It’s good to have family around Grandma this time of year.”
“I hear ya. Grandma does keep asking for Grandpa. Tracy and I are going to take her to the beach.”
He glanced at his watch and checked the date. “It’s always a bad day for her.” The air blowing from the vents slowly cooled. “It’s the anniversary of Grandpa’s death.”
“I remember. I just can’t believe she does. She’s forgotten so much.”
Forgetting his father’s suicide would have been the one act of kindness Alzheimer’s could have done for his mother. But there was nothing kind about the disease.
This was not the first time he had been away from home at a critical time. He had missed Kylie’s college graduation. That had caused a blowup with his sister and renewed her complaints about his job. “Can I talk to Grandma?”
“Let me check.” Silence and then muffled conversations between Kylie and his mother. “She doesn’t want to talk to you or anyone.”
Six years ago, he had walked into the family home and greeted his mother, and she had started screaming. She had called the cops. That was when he’d realized she was really sick. Her memory had flickered on and off until finally it had not returned. He had been one of the first people she had forgotten. “I’ll be home in a few days. Can you hold down the fort?”
“You know I can,” she said.
“Thanks, kid.”
“Back at you, old man.”
“Touché.”
She was laughing when she hung up.
He locked away thoughts of home and shifted to the task at hand. It was never a good day for anyone when Ramsey or one of his crew left their Quantico headquarters and visited their jurisdiction. He chased the worst of the worst serial killers. The type of monster he and his team chased was not the garden-variety gangbanger. Their prey included predators who ate their victims’ flesh, sold children for sex or murder, and dismembered and mutilated bodies of the living and the dead. No one wanted to believe the creatures Ramsey hunted were real. He knew better than anyone that evil lurked in the darkness and was waiting for its chance to claim a new victim.
Now he was back in Nashville, Tennessee. It was home to a thriving economy and a growing population, which meant the city attracted the best and worst of humanity.
While in law school, he had thrown in an application to the FBI on a lark. It sounded like an interesting job, and he had dreams of carrying a gun and badge and screening for the Hostage Rescue Team. Chase a few bad guys, sharpen his shooting skills, and then eventually head to Wall Street, make bank, meet a smoking-hot wife, and raise a couple of kids. When he was old and gray, he could retire to the family estate on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and maybe write his memoir.
Then fate stepped in and punched Ramsey right in the mouth. Ramsey’s old man, who had been a gentle soul more interested in his bir
ds than the boardroom, had trusted the wrong man. Stuart Kline, a talented lawyer and accountant, had lured his old man into a quagmire of investments that toppled a fortune that had taken three generations to build. Ramsey’s father, unable to face his son and his board of directors, shot himself in the head two weeks after Ramsey graduated law school.
Kline earned only seventeen months of jail time in a minimum-security prison with cable television and conjugal visits.
Newly minted law degree in hand and more pissed off than Ramsey could put into words, he joined the bureau’s white-collar crime division. He knew numbers, understood the legal system, and had grown up in the rarified world of old money.
He had a natural talent for reading people, dissecting their moves, and hearing the meaning behind their words.
Ramsey’s success in white-collar crime had caught the attention of his supervisors, and he had been transferred to the criminal division. He recognized the transfer for what it was. He was a chess piece in a game bigger than white-collar crime. The best press followed the sexier hunt for serial killers, and he had the chops for the work.
The killers he and his handpicked team chased were soulless, narcissistic sociopaths who did unforgivable things to a human body.
Ramsey drove across town and wound his way toward the TBI offices. He found a spot close to the entrance. He shrugged on his coat, brushed the sleeves smooth, and checked his tie in the reflection of the vehicle’s glass. He grabbed his briefcase before entering the building.
He showed his credentials to the TBI officer stationed at reception. “I’m here for Agent Melina Shepard and her supervisor, Agent Carter Jackson.”
The officer called up to the investigative offices and informed him Shepard would be right down. A few minutes later, elevator doors dinged open and a trim woman stepped off. She wore black fitted pants and a white shirt, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that brushed her shoulders. Slim hips, muscular thighs and arms, and full breasts all caught his attention in a less-than-clinical way.