The stretch of freeway between Mason’s home and Portland was one straight, flat line. A boring line. If he pushed it, Mason could be in his office within fifteen minutes, depending on the traffic once he hit Portland. He was making excellent time, until he hit a traffic jam south of the city on the interstate and came to a complete stop. And sat.
And stewed.
Steaming, he mentally reviewed his interview with Fielding and conversation with Ray. Where was Hinkes? How could his information simply vanish?
Fuck it.
Mason forced himself to face the one question he and Ray hadn’t been able to voice out loud. Who’d made Hinkes’s information vanish?
Files can be lost, mistakes can be made, but every bit of information on Hinkes was gone. That took some string pulling to accomplish. Somewhere, someone had dirty hands.
Maybe he was put in witness protection.
Mason nearly spit out the coffee he’d just sipped. Clearly, he was losing his mind from watching too much television. But he didn’t like the other option, that someone with power had stuck his fingers into the police system and stirred. He hated that option. It took cooperation from his brothers in blue to make it happen. Mason knew some cops broke rules here and there. He’d pushed his own line a time or two. But to do his job well and keep his sanity, it took faith in the system. Faith that the system worked to put away the bad guys. And left them there.
Mason’s faith was being rattled.
Who’d erased Gary Hinkes?
Gary Hinkes was the Tattooed Albino Man. Mason knew it in his gut. Now if only his gut would give him answers to his other questions.
What name was he using now? Who’d cleared his history and allowed him to kidnap and kill all those kids? And why the hell would someone grab a group of kids? Talk about making it tough on yourself. Was the guy sick enough that he needed a group of kids? Or was just one kid the main focus and the rest got in the way?
It’d been the question asked for twenty years. All the parents had been thoroughly interviewed about who would want to harm their kid or hurt the parents in the process. The Brodys had seemed to be the biggest target with the father being a public figure. The senator’s latest lead had turned out to be a bust with the death of his stalker ten years ago. The man they were hunting for was plainly alive.
Mason had talked with Hove in Eastern Oregon. The sergeant was giving plenty of consideration to Jamie’s—and Mason’s—theory that the same man had attacked her, wrecked her brother’s home, and murdered the old Mexican.
Someone was cleaning up a loose end.
Chris Jacobs was that loose end.
But why now? Why hadn’t Jacobs been targeted when he’d first returned? Someone had waited nearly twenty years to take out the kid and now was frantically burning a path to get at him. What had changed? Had Chris revealed that he remembered something? Something to make someone very nervous?
Or was it simply the exposure of the case? All those children’s bodies coming to light? Was there a clue there that pointed at someone who the police had missed? Or was the Tattooed Man concerned the press coverage would stir up lost memories for Chris Jacobs?
Mr. Tattoo was taking huge risks to silence Chris Jacobs.
Somebody had big motivation.
Mason couldn’t wait to get his hands on Somebody.
The traffic inched forward. His exit was still three miles away. At this rate, he should be back in the office by midnight. He glared at the man in the adjacent Prius yakking on his cell phone. Looking around, he saw two other drivers texting. Talking and texting while driving was illegal in Oregon…unless your job required it. Like delivery guys. Or police.
He crammed his Bluetooth in his ear. He hated the little earpiece. But not as much as the dorks who walked around with the plastic hanging out of their ears 24/7. He called Ray.
“Where are you?”
“Sitting motionless on I-5 watching the other assholes around me text on their phones.”
“Wave your badge at them.”
“Why?”
“They’re gonna kill somebody someday by not focusing on the road.”
“I’m gonna kill someone if this damned traffic doesn’t start moving. Got anything new for me?”
“Yeah, heard back from my guy in the gang unit. They can’t associate the tattoos with anything they’ve seen before, so he’s definitely doing his own thing. If he was trying to start something with the ink, it’s not caught on.”
Mason snorted. “Nothing like throwing a party and no one coming.”
“I got a translation on the two wrist tattoos. And they’re Chinese characters, not Korean, like we’d wondered.”
Mason’s ears perked up.
“One stands for enlightenment—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“—the other is chaos.”
“That seems appropriate. The ass has been causing chaos for these families for decades. I don’t get the snooty enlightenment symbol. This isn’t a highbrow character we’re dealing with.”
“Ever watch that show on cable about people who hate their really bad tattoos? Some of the stories are hilarious. Usually at one point, the tattoo had seemed like a good idea and the image really spoke to them. Then later, they realize how stupid it looks.”
“After they sleep off the alcohol?”
Ray’s chuckle filled the line. “You’d be surprised how many of them are sober and let unknown artists mark them up permanently. Now they’re paying through the nose to have it fixed. I’m thinking this is steering us away from the lead Cecilia Brody gave us about her Korean patient. I’m gonna keep Mr. Jeong on the back burner while we give this more priority.”
“Definitely. He’s looking less and less likely to be involved. So maybe Mr. Tattoo was trying to better himself with a classy message on his wrist? A message that showed in the pictures of those kids with his hands around their necks? That worked real well. Totally distracted me from the sick prick’s intentions!” Mason glanced at the cars nearby. Had anyone heard him yell at Ray? He blew out his steam and ran a hand over his head. “Sorry,” he muttered into the phone.
“You’re just saying what I’m thinking.”
The phone line was quiet for a few seconds as Mason tried to get those Polaroid images out of his brain. His Bluetooth did an odd double beep in his ear, and he glanced down at his phone screen in his console.
“Hey, Ray. I’ve got Michael Brody trying to call. Have you talked to him recently?”
“No, haven’t heard from him.”
“I’m gonna take this call and get back to you.”
“Okay. I’m going to return a call to the ME’s office. They’ve got something they want to run by us.”
Mason switched over the call. Brody was breathing heavily. Oh shit.
“What happened?” Mason barked.
“Jamie’s gone. I left her in the hotel room for thirty minutes…not even that long…and I came back and she’s gone.” His words ran together. “No one has seen anything, she didn’t go to the store, her cell phone is still in the room.” He drew in a deep breath. “But a male called her room. Sounds like right after I left. He must have said something that would make her leave. Damn it, Callahan, I think he’s got her.”
Silence.
“Fuck.”
“I talked to Spencer. They’re still processing the scene of that kid who was killed in the garage. Spencer thinks he was killed because he talked to Mr. Tattoo. Thinks that might be how he found Chris’s house and knew of his friendship with the baker. Jesus Christ! I’m pulling out my hair here, Callahan!”
“Calm down—”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!”
“What’d Spencer say to do? Did you talk to Hove?” Mason thought hard. He was hours away from Brody’s position. As much as he wanted to jump into the scene boots first, he’d be too fucking late. Damn it!
“He’s putting the word out and contacting Hove. I shouldn’t have left her alone! That sick asshole’s got her. He’s killed two people in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe more if he already got to her brother.”
“If he’s gotten to her brother, he wouldn’t have needed Jamie. Now concentrate, Brody! Did you see any vehicles by the hotel? Did you see anyone? Hear anything?” Usually the reporter was unflappable. This level of alarm from Brody was rattling Mason.
“Nothing! I’ve already gone through all that.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m out in front of the bed-and-breakfast. Spencer is supposed to be sending someone over. I’ve checked the hotel room. It’s immaculate. No signs of a struggle at all.”
“So he probably did get her to leave.”
“Why would she leave her phone?”
“Maybe she thought she’d be right back. Like she was just going down to the lobby to meet someone or get something.”
“Shit.”
Mason heard the reporter exhale forcefully. “We’ll find her,” he said lamely.
“I know. I just need something to do. I’m stuck here with my hands tied because no one knows where to start—what the hell?” Brody’s tone shot up an octave.
“What?” asked Mason. He could hear a car engine through the line. Brody was silent, and Mason heard the vehicle shut off. “That someone from county?”
“What the fuck,” Brody stated. “I’ll call you back in a minute.”
“Wait! Is it Jamie? What happened?”
“No,” said Brody. “I think Chris Jacobs just pulled up.”
The phone call clicked silent.
Mason grabbed at his phone and stared at the end call screen. “Jesus fucking Christ, Brody!” He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and pounded both palms on his steering wheel. “You can’t do shit like that to me!”