Never Look Back

by Mary Burton

  Elena stared at the picture of BB. “She said don’t talk to cops. They’ll put you in jail.”

  “I’m not going to put you in jail,” Ramsey said. “Neither is Melina.”

  “BB says cops lie.” Elena laid down the phone and shifted her gaze back to the Smurf cartoon.

  “I don’t lie,” Shepard said. “I said I’d come back, and I did.”

  The girl glanced down at the watch and the stuffed dog. Absently, she twisted a piece of the fur between her fingers. “BB has a friend.”

  Slight traces of tension rippled through Shepard’s shoulders. He knew the feeling. It was exciting when a piece of the puzzle presented itself.

  She did not rush to comment, as if seeming to understand that gaining more of the girl’s trust needed to be slow and steady so she would not spook the kid. “I know we’ve talked about the man BB talked to before. You think maybe we can talk about him again? I’m trying to figure this guy out.”

  The girl was silent a moment before she said, “Okay.”

  “Where did you see Sonny?” Shepard asked.

  “At his house.”

  “What did the house look like?” With children, interview questions had to be specific.

  “Brown.”

  “Brown paint. Brown bricks?”

  “Bricks,” Elena said.

  “Did the yard have green grass or pretty plants?”

  “Yeah. There was also a bath for birds.”

  This information suggested to Ramsey that Sonny kept up appearances. That was not surprising, considering his killings went back so long. He was accustomed to masking his behavior.

  “You said he had a mean face,” Shepard said. When the girl appeared to tense, Shepard scrunched up her face. “Did his face look like this?”

  A ghost of a smile teased the girl’s lips. “Meaner.”

  Shepard tightened her face another notch. “Like this?”

  “You don’t look mean,” Elena said, smiling now.

  She jabbed her thumb toward Ramsey and stage-whispered, “I bet he can make the right kind of mean face.”

  The girl cupped her hand close to her mouth. “He can.”

  Ramsey scrunched up his face and looked in a mirror across from the bed. “I don’t look mean. Melina looks mean.”

  “I do not,” Shepard said lightly.

  The girl’s eyes widened with amusement, and then she giggled softly.

  Shepard was smiling, and he sensed a genuine amusement that he found was very satisfying. “Did something make Sonny mad?”

  “Sonny didn’t like it when BB called him Sonny. He said it wasn’t his real name,” Elena said.

  “Did he say what his real name was?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “What does Sonny look like when he doesn’t have the mean face?” Shepard asked. “What color is his hair?”

  “Black. Like yours. And his eyes are brown like yours,” the girl said.

  They went through a series of questions until they had a rough description of Sonny. He was likely in his midthirties, tall, not fat but not thin, brown hair and eyes, and he had several guitars in his house. It was a start, but with no last name or an address, Sonny would be impossible to trace.

  “When you were at Sonny’s house, did he give anything to BB?” Ramsey asked.

  “No.”

  “Did she go back to Sonny’s house?” Shepard asked.

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. We went to the motel and I fell asleep.”

  Which did not rule out the possibility that BB had left the girl and returned to Sonny’s house.

  The girl yawned. “BB takes stuff all the time from everyone.”

  Did the preserved fingers belong to Sonny? Had BB taken them for some kind of leverage? He made a mental note to check past known associates for Bonnie Guthrie.

  “You’ve been a big help,” Shepard said.

  The girl yawned again and blinked slowly. “Okay. When you find BB, can I leave?”

  “You get to leave here really soon. I’ll talk to your doctor again when I come back later. I should know more this afternoon.”

  The girl’s eyes widened with panic before she seemed to catch herself. “Do you have to leave?”

  Shepard smiled at the child. “I can’t find BB if I don’t leave for a little bit. And we need to find her.”

  The girl frowned. “Okay.”

  Shepard smiled at the girl, but as she turned to leave, the girl grabbed her fingers in a surprisingly tight grip.

  Shepard seemed to tense, as if absorbing the child’s desperation. She leaned forward and hugged the girl. The child’s arms clutched her neck, and her small frame melted into the agent’s.

  Shepard patted the girl on the back. “I’ll be back. I won’t leave you hanging.”

  “Promise?” Elena whispered.

  “Promise. And don’t lose my watch.”

  “Okay. I won’t.” She giggled.

  Finally, Shepard was able to peel the girl’s arms free, and with one last squeeze of the hand, she and Ramsey left the room.

  Shepard reached for her cell and dialed. After an extended pause, she said, “Mom, this is Melina. Call me back when you can. I have a favor to ask.”

  Ramsey did not speak as the two strode toward the elevator. He pressed the button. “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Save the profiling for the suspects.”

  “It doesn’t take a profile to recognize your expression is tight and your face is pale.”

  “Don’t,” she warned.

  As the elevator doors opened, Ramsey was already texting. “I’m having Andy cross-check BB’s arrest records with the name Sonny.”

  “Bonnie Guthrie definitely knows the guy from way back. She gets out of prison and stays in California for a year, and then something happens, and she ends up stealing a car, a kid, and body parts. My guess is the guy has access to money or something of value to Bonnie.”

  “Agreed.”

  The doors closed and she pressed the lobby level. “She just didn’t happen to find herself in Nashville. She had a plan. I went back and looked at the crash site. There are no skid marks.”

  “I noticed that. She was hell bent on making it to the other side. But why?”

  When Melina and Ramsey reached the first floor, her phone buzzed with a text from her mother. Back home. She and her mom had a system. If Melina called, her mom would text back. Given Melina’s job and schedule, texting was the only option that worked.

  “I’m going to swing by my folks’ house and check on my father. If there’s an update, contact me.”

  “Will do.”

  They drove back to the TBI offices. Melina could ask him about what he was doing next, but she did not care right now. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Understood.”

  She settled into the front seat of her car, letting the heat from the seat soak into her chilled skin. She was grateful for the solitude.

  Old, latent fears long suppressed grew stronger and crawled from the shadows. They swirled and then joined to create a picture of another little girl standing on the side of a deserted country road. Her heart was racing with fear and dread, and her body was drenched in sweat.

  Melina raised her fingertips to the base of her throat. Her pulse thrummed under her skin. Unwanted fears of abandonment and loss tangled together and wrapped around her chest.

  “Nope. Not doing this now,” she said. “And fuck you, BB.”

  She fired up the engine and then texted her mother, alerting her she was coming by for a visit.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, August 25, 11:45 a.m.

  Ramsey returned to the hotel room he had used last night. He had reserved the room for three nights, but there was a good chance he would be extending his stay.

  The DO NOT DISTURB sign remained on the door, and when he entered, he was glad to see the maid had not come. Thoug
h he carried all sensitive files and his laptop in his briefcase, he still did not like the idea of anyone invading his space while he was gone. Better to have a rumpled bed and day-old towels. If he needed anything, he’d have the front desk send it up while he was present.

  He could have returned to the TBI offices but had opted for the seclusion of his hotel room. Loosening his tie, he dialed the hotel restaurant and ordered the steak and potatoes, just as he always did when he was on the road.

  He shrugged off his jacket, hung it up in the closet, and removed his tie, which he also draped over a hanger. He removed his gun from the holster on his hip and placed it in the nightstand drawer between the two double beds, next to the Bible. Threading his fingers through his hair, he sat on the edge of his bed beside his briefcase, which he knew was loaded with a dozen files of open cases he was monitoring across the country.

  He did not have to open any of them to recall the horrific details of each. There was a killer in Maine who had stabbed six prostitutes and mutilated their bodies. An offender purported to be female in Miami was hunting couples walking along the beach at night. In Denver, there was a man who kidnapped young women and held them for months as he sexually assaulted them. Only when the killer tired of his victim did he stab her to death and dump her body on a mountain roadside.

  Each on their own would give normal people nightmares. In the early days of his career, pictures of mutilated bodies had wormed into his dreams and bothered him, but slowly over time, he’d hardened to the images. Now, he had been chasing monsters for so long he did not flinch over the myriad of ways a human could be murdered.

  He had once worked with a senior agent who had reminded him that the best way to boil a frog alive was to put him in cold water and then slowly turn up the heat. The frog did not notice the temperature change until it nearly boiled. And by then, it was too late for the poor bastard to jump free.

  In retrospect, he knew that senior agent had been talking about himself and the toll the job took. Ramsey had never imagined he would suffer such a fate. He would know when the time came to get out. Now, he was not so sure. Whatever desires he had to call it quits were always silenced by the screams of the next victims demanding justice.

  Needing to connect to someone, Ramsey dialed his mother’s home number. The phone rang three times before his mother’s caregiver, Tracy, answered. “Ramsey residence.”

  “Tracy, it’s Jerrod. I’m checking in.”

  “Hello, Mr. Ramsey. Your mother is doing fine. She’s actually up.”

  He glanced at his watch and allowed for the one-hour time difference. “She normally naps this time of day.”

  “You know she doesn’t sleep when you’re out of town. I don’t know how she knows, but she does.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “Sure can.”

  He heard Tracy’s muffled voice as she seemed to speak to his mother. And then finally, “Jerrod.”

  His mother sounded clear and happy, which was now a rare combination. “Mom. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing just fine.”

  “How is your morning going?”

  “It’s a lovely day here. No humidity, and the breeze off the bay is amazing. I have Romo right here with me. He’s sleeping.” She chuckled. “He’s getting older and likes to sleep more, whereas I’m just the opposite.”

  “As long as you feel good.” His father used to say his mother had been one of the smartest minds he had ever encountered. She had earned her PhD in English literature and could speak five languages.

  “I’m wonderful. How are you?”

  A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “I’m great. Working.”

  “Make sure you take care of yourself. I know how you get when you work too hard. Are you eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “A good meal will always help with your studies.”

  “My studies?”

  “Starting your senior year in college. I can hardly believe you’re so grown up.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and glanced up in the hotel mirror. There was more graying at the temples, and the frown lines around his mouth were deeper. “It happens to us all.”

  Romo barked in the background. “Looks like the old boy is up. Time to take him for his walk. Are you doing all right, son?”

  “Just fine, Mom. Can I talk to Tracy?”

  “Sure.”

  Seconds passed and then, “Mr. Ramsey, don’t worry. She’s not taking the dog for a walk. I’ve got this.”

  “Thanks, Tracy.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Ramsey.”

  The call ended, and a second later his phone rang again. He cleared his throat and accepted the call. “Andy.”

  “Boss man,” Andy said.

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked toward the drawn curtains of his window and glanced out at the parking lot. How many parking lots and dumpsters had he had the pleasure of overlooking the past fifteen years?

  “I did a search of Bonnie Guthrie as you requested. She’s had quite the career.” Andy was always cheerful. It should have been annoying, but it was not.

  “Stands to reason the charges in California weren’t her first.”

  “Not by a long shot. Her first arrest was in 1976. She was fifteen and picked up for shoplifting. It was a first offense, so she was let off. It was another two years before she was caught stealing again. This time she did a few days in jail.”

  “Give me the abbreviated version.”

  “She likes to steal. She’s made a career of it. She was married for a short time while she was in Texas, but her husband died of natural causes in 1990. After his death, she took off.”

  “What about Sonny? Any known associates by that name?”

  “I was on the phone with each jurisdiction where she had a record and asked that same question. The only mention of a Sonny came from her most recent California parole officer. He said she referenced Sonny a couple of times and said as soon as she was clear to travel, she was going to see him in Nashville.”

  He stilled. “Any other information about Sonny?”

  “No. The parole officer said he asked but she wouldn’t say.”

  Nashville had been Bonnie’s destination. “What about the child? Elena. The girl said her mother’s name was Christina Sanchez. Was there a record of Bonnie having a relationship with Ms. Sanchez?”

  “Bonnie never mentioned Christina or a child to her parole officer.”

  “Was Christina or Bonnie living at the address Elena gave us?”

  “Yes. The address is in East LA. Not the best part of town. Not surprising. Ms. Sanchez was arrested several times for prostitution and possession. Her offences were small-time stuff, but she got picked up regularly. Sanchez never did hard time, but she was in and out of jail several times before her daughter was born.”

  “Find out who owned the residence where Sanchez lived. Maybe the landlord can tell us something about Christina, Elena, or Bonnie.”

  “Might take me a day or two, but I’m on it.”

  “Thanks, Andy.”

  “How much longer will you be in Nashville?”

  “A couple of days. I want to see what’s going on with this case; then I’ll turn it over to TBI. Anything on the Key Killer?”

  “Who?”

  “The killer who murdered ten prostitutes.”

  “The Key Killer? Who came up with that moniker?”

  “Local PD.”

  “I was reviewing the victim case files we have on the Key Killer, a.k.a. the Riverside Ripper in Atlanta. As you know, the first victim was killed in June 1999. What I’d forgotten is that she’d filed a police report a week before she vanished for good. In her report, she claimed a strange man driving a white van approached her. She said he tried to coax her into it with a wad of bills, but her street radar went off. He tried to drag her inside, but her pimp showed up. A week later she was dead.”

  Shit. He had forgotten that detail as well. Too many
damn cases. They were all starting to blend. “The killer doubled back?”

  “Appears so. Tell Agent Shepard to keep her eyes peeled.”

  “Will do.” He hung up.

  A knock on his door had him reaching for his gun and tucking it under his belt at the base of his spine. He looked through the peephole and saw the hotel room service guy. His name was Benny, and he had delivered meals the last two nights.

  Ramsey fished a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and opened the door. “Hello, Benny.”

  “Good day, sir. I have your lunch.”

  Ramsey handed him the folded bill and took the tray. “Thanks, Benny.”

  Benny rubbed the bill between his fingers as if touch might confirm this tip was as good as he hoped. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  The kid gave him a once-over, his bright eyes narrowing a fraction. “Are you FBI?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “I dunno. I heard some of the guys in the lobby talking.”

  Fresh face and bright eyes were typical of those on the other side of the thin blue line. They only saw excitement and all the shit that was on TV. If he showed this kid his files and told him what he really saw, he would ruin the kid’s year.

  He defaulted to a practiced half grin that tipped the edge of his lips. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Have a good day.”

  Before the boy could ask a second time, Ramsey stepped back and pushed the door closed.

  He set the tray down on the desk and rolled his head from side to side. He reminded himself that his kind of work needed to be done. The world needed men like him, women like Shepard, just like they needed garbage collectors.

  Everyone agreed that someone had to clean the mess up. They just did not really want to know the particulars. It made for a lonely life that took a toll not only on personal relationships but also on physical and mental health.

  Years ago, he’d had a fiancée. She was beautiful, bright, and truly kind. But the more he had confided in her about his work, the more distant they became.

  He was never sure if she had pulled away from him or he from her. Whatever the cause, neither could stop, and eventually they only spoke about the weather or social gatherings. There had been no drama or hard words when it had ended. It simply did. He’d heard she was now married to an ob-gyn and was expecting her second child.