Mason headed out to look at the bunker again. All the evidence had been collected. It’d been enough to fill a small U-Haul trailer. Mason was a bit overwhelmed by the huge amount of crap that’d been taken from a bunker that, at first glance, had seemed sparse and bare. But when it came to children, they overlooked nothing. Anything that could give them a hair or fiber had been pulled. The state lab was going to be backed up. Again.
He’d looked over everything the techs were removing, but he’d been focused on the big items. The kids’ backpacks, the cameras, the pictures. The state crime lab would let him know if a grain of dirt yielded any amazing clues.
The scene beneath the big firs was quiet. One lone trooper held the assignment to keep away the curious public. The OSP navy sedan with its distinctive gold swoop was parked in the shade but blocked the pathway to the scene. Its driver sat in the front seat. Mason saw him put down a novel as he pulled closer and then stepped out of his vehicle. Mason parked beside the sedan and pulled out his ID for the trooper. He didn’t recognize the cop, but he figured Ray would have known him instantly. The trooper waved off the ID.
“Afternoon, Detective.” He waved his wide-brimmed hat to fan his face. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”
Mason shook the trooper’s hand. “Robertson,” read his name badge. “I wasn’t planning to come out. I just need to look around again. How long have they got you on guard duty?”
Robertson snorted. “Tomorrow should be it. Haven’t had any Curious Georges to turn away since yesterday. You guys are done here, right?”
Mason nodded. “I think they took away everything but the bunker itself. And there were a couple of guys who wanted to do that.”
“They’re gonna have to do something with it. Fill it up with concrete or weld it shut. Don’t need any other a*sholes deciding to make use of it.”
“There’s been talk of the welding idea. That’s probably what they’ll do. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”
The trooper gave an informal salute and went back to his book.
Mason used his own hat as a fan. The forest was giving off a dry, dusty smell that reminded him of a woodstove burning old wood. It was going to be a bad summer for wildfires if they didn’t get some rain. In Oregon, usually you could count on rain off and on until July 5th, but this year had been hot and dry since April.
He strolled to the bunker entrance and stared at how the earth had been flattened and trampled around the hatch. So many feet over the last few days. The quiet of the forest was overwhelming. No sounds at all. Was this how it’d been for the children? During the investigation, the site had been crawling with people. Now it felt empty and lonely.
How long had the children been in there?
Mason looked up. The firs blocked his view of the sky. A few pieces of blue shone through here and there, but the dark-green ceiling felt ominous. Like it was smothering something, keeping something hidden from the rest of the world. Which was exactly what it’d done for twenty years. But it was still hiding one thing.
Where was the body of Daniel Brody? The forest hadn’t revealed that secret.
Mason stared into the dense woods. Another boy was in there somewhere; Mason imagined the trees hiding his final resting place. Why hadn’t Daniel been buried with the other children?
The cadaver dog and her handler had been through the immediate surrounding woods several times. Her amazing dog had found nothing. He’d had her walk the farm again, too. Daniel’s final resting place was staying buried for now.
When Mason had a suspect in his hands, he was going to get that answer. No matter what it took. Cecilia Brody deserved to know the fate of her son before she died.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ray was calling.
“Yep.”
“Got a minute?” Ray asked.
“You bet.” He hadn’t decided if he was going back down in the bunker today. His previous two descents had given him emotional nightmares that he didn’t care to repeat. He moved toward the pit and stared into the abyss where five bodies had been hidden for years.
“We’ve put together another ID on one of the bodies from the pit.”
Mason stepped back from the yellow caution tape, slightly disturbed by the coincidence of his location. “I’m f*cking staring into the thing right now. That’s freaky. What did you get?”
“One of the females was reported missing fifteen years ago.”
“Fifteen?” Mason pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “She was seen that recently?”
“Yes, she was reported missing by an aunt who’d seen her the week before.”
“So our unsub brought vics here after Chris Jacobs escaped. What’s her history?”
“One solicitation arrest. Eight years before she vanished.”
“Nice. Let’s hope our guy keeps sticking to the same MO. We’ll pin him down.”
“Even better. She had a previous address in the same neighborhood as the other victim we identified.”
“They were neighbors?” Mason wanted to rub his hands together. Would the other victims come from the same fishing pond? Enough dead fish from one area and they could start narrowing in on the common denominator. History had proved serial killers were creatures of habit. They liked routines. When something worked well for them, they had a tendency to repeat, trying to match that success.
“Dawn Henderson. She was thirty when she went missing. Had a decent job as a receptionist at a car dealership, no steady relationship at the time, and no issues with past boyfriends that we could find back then. One day she was at work, and the next day she wasn’t. Basically, she vanished.”
“Basically, all these victims vanished. That’s part of this guy’s MO. He really knows how to take people without leaving a freaking clue. They vanish off the radar without a blip.”
“I haven’t gotten in contact with Henderson’s aunt yet, but there’s an interview with her in the file that the vic had been distraught in the past over the murder of her roommate several years before but had received therapy at some point and had been doing well. For a while, she’d been nearly suicidal.”
Mason’s Spidey-sense went off. “How many years before she vanished was her roommate murdered? Was that in the same neighborhood?”
Ray shuffled papers in the background. “Nine. Almost ten years. Ugly scene. And the address is close to where Dawn was living when she disappeared. The roommate was attacked in their home. Name was Sandra Edge. She was sexually abused and then strangled. Dawn Henderson wasn’t home at the time, but she found the victim after.”
“They catch him?” Hope rose in Mason’s chest.
“Yep. He’s in Salem.”
Shit. “The state pen?” Mason asked. “He’s been locked up this whole time?”
“I’m looking…yeah, he hasn’t been out at all.”
“Name?”
“Lee Fielding.”
Mason’s brain was working at full speed. There was something here…he could feel it. But the guy had been locked up the whole time? “I still want to talk to him. And would you run a search for the registered sex offenders who were living around the residence…aww crap! That’s before they had to register with the state, isn’t it?”
“The roommate’s murder occurred a few years before state law had sex offenders registering. And they only had to register for five years at first, but I’ll see what history I can find for that area.”
“Our tattooed man is plainly a sex offender. Something tells me he’s got to be in the system somewhere. And I still haven’t heard back from the gang unit about his tattoos.” Mason filed a mental note to follow up. “I’ll call and tell the state pen I need to talk to Lee Fielding. Maybe I can get in this afternoon or tomorrow morning.” Mason paused. “I’ve got a good feeling on this one, Ray.”
“Damn it! Don’t say that! You’ll jinx it, Mason!”
Mason smiled into his phone as he strode back to his car.
Mason paced the small interview room at the state prison. The room was so stereotypical; he’d nearly rolled his eyes when he walked in. Painted cinderblocks, small window with bars, and a metal table fastened to the floor with two fastened stools. Impossible to budge. Or use to hit someone over the head. Mason hadn’t had time to review the Sandra Edge murder case. Ray was digging through the files and would get him the highlights as soon as he could.
Didn’t matter. He just needed to see Fielding. Get a feel for him. The right questions would come when he saw the murderer’s face.
Two guards appeared with Lee Fielding between them. Fielding had handcuffs attached to his leg irons and shuffled as he walked. The prisoner looked about sixty years old, but Mason knew he was closer to fifty. He was soft everywhere. Soft face, soft hands, soft belly. It looked like the man hadn’t attempted physical exercise since he’d been imprisoned. Mason instinctively sucked in his gut. This guy was too close to his own age, and Mason couldn’t help but compare. He knew he looked decent for his age. The damned graying hair and lines on Mason’s face announced his age, but he made sure his body stayed fit. A home gym and runs through the neighborhood kept away the middle-aged spread. He exercised more out of stress relief than anything else.
Fielding glanced curiously at Mason as he shuffled by and then plopped himself down on one of the stools with a sigh. His hair had grayed to completely white but had left his eyebrows black. The puffiness of his face kept away most of the lines men get on their face in their fifties, but his demeanor added invisible lines, aging him. He radiated old. He gave off the emotional waves of an old man who’d been beaten down. The guard attached a link to the big silver loop on the table and Fielding was fastened into place. A flash of anger crossed Fielding’s face as he studied the fastener and then vanished, and his face took on the doldrums look again. Mason noted the anger.
Can’t fool me, buddy. You just try to look lazy.
There was a pissed-off man inside that soft body.
“Mason Callahan, I’m with OSP.”
Fielding raised his gaze to meet Mason’s. And shrugged.
Silence.
Mason internally rolled his eyes. You’d think the a*shole would appreciate the opportunity to see and talk with someone new. A break in his boring routine.
“Sandra Edge. It’s been a while,” Mason stated.
Fielding’s puffy face didn’t flinch.
“Why her?” Mason asked.
Mason saw a touch of surprise behind the lazy eyes. The directness of the question had caught Fielding off guard.
“Why not?” Fielding’s voice was surprisingly high pitched for an older man. He sounded like a thirteen-year-old. A thirteen-year-old girl.
It was Mason’s turn to be surprised, and he wondered if Fielding was gay. Dumbass. Like a voice indicates sexual preference.
“Did you know her before?”
Annoyance crossed Fielding’s face. “Why are you asking questions that you already know the answers to?”
“Humor me. I didn’t have time to read your case.”
Fielding’s gaze narrowed. “In a hurry? What’s the rush?”
Again, Mason was treated to a glimpse of the person hiding inside the soft figure. Fielding wasn’t dumb.
Of course he’s dumb. He’s sitting in prison for murder.
“Sandra’s roommate disappeared nine years after she was killed. Dawn Henderson. Her body just turned up, and we’re looking into it.”
“Can’t help you there. I’ve been inside.”
“Again. Why Sandra?”
Fielding shrugged and looked away. “A lack of planning on your part does not necessitate urgency on my part,” he stated as if reading from a rule book.
Mason’s anger tightened his throat. He’s f*cking with me. He’s bored.
“I saw that on a sign in a public health office once,” Fielding said. “Seemed typical of public employee attitudes. Roles are reversed here, aren’t they?”
Mason leaned forward, his hands on the metal table.
“Why Sandra? Where’d you meet? And don’t give me shit about wasting your time with information that’s already in your file. You’ve got plenty of time to waste. Why don’t you just enjoy talking to my pretty face and see it as a break in your boring-assed routine. All the other prisoners should be so lucky.”
Fielding’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Okay, Detective. I’ll play. I met Sandra at a local bar. She was selling it. I was interested. I was stoned. Things got out of hand. The end.”
“Local bar? You both lived close by?”
Fielding shrugged. “My buddy lived close by. I was in town and camped out on his couch for a few days.”
“Where did you live?”
“Nowhere.”
“Transient?”
“Sometimes.”
“So you had no money to pay her. No money for a roof over your head and no money for the hooker. But you had money for the dope and beer. F*cking typical.”
The anger flashed through Fielding’s eyes, and Mason knew he’d perfectly nailed Fielding’s life at the time.
“You must be loving prison. Three squares a day, a roof, cable. And it doesn’t cost you a dime. In fact, as Joe Taxpayer, I’m paying for your stay at the Ritz.” Mason paused. “And you’re very welcome. Anything to keep shit like you off the street.
“Your buddy must have been thrilled when you went to prison and got off his couch. I bet you weren’t there for just a few days, you were probably sponging off of him for weeks.”
“F*ck you. He went in, too.”
“Went in? Prison?”
“Yeah, he was there. You really should read the f*cking file so you don’t sound like an idiot. Gary and I both went away for Sandra’s murder. He got off easy because they lost half the damn evidence.”
“And because you were the one who actually killed her. He was probably just there to party,” Mason prodded. “You f*cked up his life, too. What was his name?”
“Who, Gary? You’re coming off as a dumbshit because you haven’t reviewed the case.” Fielding’s face reddened. “You’re like a high school newspaper reporter who doesn’t know what the f*ck he’s talking about.”
“Gary what?”
“Gary Busey.”
“Oh, for f*ck’s sake. Grow up.”
“Gary Hinkes.”
Mason wrote the name in his mental notebook. “Was that so hard?”
“Are you really a cop? ’Cause you don’t seem to know shit.”
Mason smiled, showing all his teeth. “I’m all cop. Now pretend I’m your best friend and tell me everything you know about Hinkes.”
Fielding shifted on the metal stool, his black brows coming together. “F*cker fell off the face of the earth. He went to Shutter Creek for his time.”
“In Eastern Oregon?” Mason had never been to the medium-security prison.
“Yeah. I’d get a letter now and then. Then mine started coming back to me. I tried to find out if he’d been released or transferred. He was only supposed to be in for nine months, I think.”
“That’s it? Accessory to murder and he got nine months?”
“Naw, it was for breaking probation and something else. I don’t remember. I’ve searched for him online but can’t figure out where he went.”
“Online?” These guys get Internet access? “I bet you were looking at dating sites, right?”
Fielding didn’t even blink. He kept rambling, his eyes focused on a spot on the table as he thought about Hinkes. “He’s probably dead somewhere or locked up somewhere else. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“What does that mean?”
Now Fielding looked up. And grinned. “He liked it. He liked getting it from anyone. The rougher, the better. A lotta pain involved, all the better. Men, women, didn’t matter.”
Mason froze. Every neuron in his brain firing at once. Bingo.
“Where is Hinkes?” This is our guy.
“I just told you that I don’t know. I’ve looked. Nothing else to do in here. I figure he served his sentence and got out. Who knows what the f*ck he’s up to, but asses like that don’t change. It’s in his blood. I’ve never seen anyone who likes the pain along with the sex so much.”
“F*cking pervert.”
Fielding just nodded. “Gary fit most pervert descriptions.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Gary? Oh, he was a freak. One of those white-skinned guys. You know, the genetic shit? Albinos? But he dyed his hair. Used the cheap crap…it always looked like shit. He wanted colored contacts but couldn’t afford them. Had some pretty amazing tattoo work done. Don’t know how he paid for that…I can guess, though. His back looked like a piece of oriental artwork. F*cking amazing.”
Blood was pounding in Mason’s head. He strained to hear past the noise. “Did he have tattoos on his wrists?”
“No, his upper arms were tattooed. Not his wrists. That could have changed. He had a serious addiction to tattooing. Loved them. I never understood. That shit f*cking hurts.” Fielding pulled up his sleeve to show a small phoenix on his upper arm. “I did one. That was enough.”
Mason stared at the small figure. “Why a phoenix?”
Fielding looked away and pulled down the sleeve, rubbing at the fabric over the tattoo like he could wash it off. “Stands for new beginnings. Change.”
Mason snorted. “Maybe someday, eh?”
“How can he just vanish?” Mason asked. He was seriously frustrated. His best lead, the name from Lee Fielding, was hitting a stone wall. After his prison interview, Mason had called Ray, pointed him in the direction of searching for Gary Hinkes, and sped back to the office, hoping Ray would have fantastic news by the time he’d arrived.
Ray shook his head. “It’s crazy. I went to records to pull the file. Everything is still on paper from back then. The whole file on Hinkes is missing. The only info I can get is from Fielding’s file. And I swear, there’s shit missing from there.”
“There’s no record of Hinkes’s arrest and sentencing?” Mason didn’t like this one bit.
“There is. I can find that he was arrested. I can find that he was sent to Shutter Creek. But that is it. Everything else is flat gone.”
“What about previous arrests? Fielding said he’d broken probation, so there has to be something previous.”
“Nothing.”
“What? How can that be?” Mason tapped his desk with a pencil and then spun it in his fingers, mind churning. Noting the slightly blunted tip, he thrust the pencil into the electric sharpener and let the noise clear his brain. He added the pencil to the other perfectly sharpened dozen pencils in a mug on his desk.
“What about pictures? There’s got to be at least one photo of the guy somewhere. One we can show to Jamie Jacobs.”
“Nothing,” Ray stated again. The cuffs of his white dress shirt had been sloppily rolled up to his elbows, and the lines between his brows hadn’t left his face since Mason had walked into the office.
Mason stared at Ray’s cuffs and noted the tie askew. Ray was feeling the pressure, too. The man was usually the picture of beefy male elegance. Unlike Mason, who strove for matching socks inside his cowboy boots.
“We’re close here. What’s bugging you? Spit it out.”
“How can all this information be missing?” Ray asked. He looked over his computer monitor at Mason. “It’s just Hinkes’s info that I can’t find. There’s plenty on Fielding. I can tell you exactly what he’s been doing since his arrest, what he eats for dinner, and when he takes a shit, but everything on Hinkes is gone.”
A small buzzing started at the base of Mason’s skull. “What are you saying?”
“Someone made all this info go away. I can find a half dozen pictures of Fielding. Why can’t I find any of Hinkes?”
“Did you check newspaper archives? Maybe his face ended up there.”
Ray nodded. “Most papers have their archives accessible online. Nothing is coming up. Same with driver’s licenses. No photo available.”
“That’s f*cked up.” The buzzing was getting louder.
“Agreed.”
Michael was pumped. He fought to hold in his excitement. Lusco and Callahan had figured out that Jamie’s attacker was albino. And that the kidnapped children were probably held by a person with the same coloring. How many albinos could be wandering around Oregon? Or with blood on their hands in Eastern Oregon? He was about to do a Google search to find albino numbers compared to the rest of the population. Either way, the window was narrowing on their suspect.
He shared the info with Hove and Sheriff Spencer.
“White skin? Don’t they have red eyes?” asked Spencer. His expression was perplexed.
“Sounds like he wears contacts.” Michael bit his lip to keep from laughing. Spencer looked like he was thinking about a zombie wandering around his county.
“The tattoos are probably the more noticeable flag,” said Hove. “He can cover up his hair and eye color, but he’s gonna be wearing long sleeves in this heat unless he wants everyone to perfectly remember the man with the colored arms.”
“No luck on Chris’s truck?” Jamie spoke up. She’d been listening intently to the men speak, but Michael noticed her body language stiffen when Hove started talking about the tattoos. No doubt the images were still sharp in her mind.
Spencer shook his head. “I put out a description and the license plate. Frankly, there just isn’t a lot of law enforcement patrolling the roads on this side of the state. But the traffic’s lighter too. We’ll find him.”
Two of the state’s crime scene investigators continually passed the group, going back and forth between the bakery and their Suburban. Hove had called in the state’s team to take evidence at Spencer’s request. Spencer’s tiny evidence kit was in a fishing tackle box in his trunk, consisting of fingerprint powder, lift cards, evidence collection envelopes, a special light, and ancient gloves. For this murder and its connections to the large number of murders on the west side of the state, no one wanted to miss anything.
“Chris’ll turn up,” Michael stated. He pulled Jamie against him and rubbed her back. He knew she was thinking of Brian, too. It wasn’t just about Chris. Jamie was passionate about protecting children and especially this nephew she’d never met. She knew the boy was out of her reach and incredibly close to danger.
“Can we go back home now?” she asked into Michael’s chest. “They don’t need us here, do they? And Chris has clearly left. Maybe he’s going to Portland. I’m worried about him.”
Michael looked to Spencer and Hove. The two cops exchanged a glance.
“Yeah, I don’t see any need for you two to stick around,” answered Hove. “We’ll call if we have more questions.”
Spencer’s cell phone buzzed, and he left the circle to answer.
“What about the baker’s family?” asked Jamie, before she turned around and wiped at her eyes. Even in the supreme heat, the sudden absence of her head left a cold spot on Michael’s chest. He hadn’t seen tears, but her eyes were definitely red. “Has someone notified his relatives?”
“We haven’t found any family yet,” Hove replied with a swipe at the sweat on his forehead. “Spencer has someone looking into it, but they’re coming up empty so far.”
“Say what?” Spencer exclaimed into his cell, pulling the attention of the group. He turned to make eye contact with Hove but kept listening on the phone. “Where’d they find him?”
Spencer clenched his jaw, and his chest expanded. Michael saw his hand tighten around the cell. Every cop in the area perked up as if a strong scent had entered the air. Michael felt the hair rise on his arms. Jamie’s hand gripped his arm, and he stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, feeling her tremble, her breathing escalating.
Chris?
Spencer shoved his phone in a pocket. “A kid’s been killed. His mom found him in their garage a few minutes ago. Looks like he was shot.”
“A kid?” Jamie gasped. Michael held on tighter to her shoulders.
“A teenager. Ethan Buell.”
Michael felt Jamie deflate. Thank God. But that poor mother.
“Ethan works at the gas station. He was on duty yesterday when you two got to town.” Spencer gave Michael a hard look.
“We didn’t fill up here,” Michael said. What was Spencer getting at? Was he implying—
“Ethan’s a good kid. Friendly and outgoing. Has a tendency to talk a lot.”
Something clicked in Michael’s brain. “You think he got a good look at our suspect? Maybe asked him too many questions?”
“I’ve got two dead people in twenty-four hours in a town where no one has been murdered in almost a decade. Do I think there’s a connection? You bet your ass I do. Now I’m changing my mind on you two leaving town today. Plan to stick around a bit.” Spencer looked at Hove, who was dialing his phone. “Looks like we’ve got a murder weapon left at the Buell scene. A Ruger revolver. Damn thing’s like twelve inches long.” He paused and looked at Michael and Jamie.
“Don’t look at me, I don’t like revolvers,” Michael muttered.
“No, my officer on the scene is saying it looks like one that Chris Jacobs has used for practice on the firing range.”
“That’s bullshit!” Jamie yanked out of Michael’s grasp and stepped forward. “You can’t say it looks like someone’s gun. This is Hicksville out here. Everyone owns a gun or five. Don’t even think about Chris for that boy’s death without better evidence.”
“I didn’t say that.” Spencer stepped back, startled by Jamie’s vehemence.
“You just did!”
Michael kept his mouth shut. Spencer had just stuck his foot in his own mouth, and Jamie was efficiently taking him to town for it.
“If he was working at the gas station, shouldn’t there be video from yesterday? Can’t you see who he talked with? Maybe even see license plates?”
Spencer cleared his throat. “Like you said, ma’am. This is Hicksville. And I doubt Jim Graham ever put video surveillance up at his gas station. But I will definitely find out.”
Jamie stepped back. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m a bit protective when it comes to my brother, and I’m tired and—”
“It’s been a long morning,” added Michael.
“God, yes,” sighed Jamie.
Sheriff Spencer touched the brim of his hat at Jamie. “Not a problem. I need to get over to the Buell home. Sergeant? Can I get another evidence team? Or should I just wait on these guys?”
Hove headed into the bakery. “I’ll see how things are coming here and let you know,” he said over his shoulder.
Spencer touched his hat again and left. Jamie leaned against Michael. She was worn out. He was worn out. It was damned hot, dry, and dusty, and all he wanted to do was crawl into a cool bed with Jamie and hold her.
“Hungry, princess?”
Jamie shook her head. “I can’t believe that boy was killed. When he first said a kid, I thought—”
“I thought the same thing. I thought for sure it was Brian. Although, before he got off the phone, I thought they’d found Chris. And not found him in a good way.”
“He’s still alive. I can feel it,” said Jamie. “That man hasn’t gotten to him yet. Do you think that boy saw the tattooed man at the gas station? And told him how to find Chris?”
“I don’t know. Somehow Tattoo found Chris before us. He might have followed us from Portland, but we didn’t lead him directly to Chris. I have to think he asked somebody.”
“We have to find him first. Where do we start?”
“That’s the magic question.”
“I’m ready to go back to the hotel. Actually, I’m ready to go home and see if Chris has turned up there, but—”
“Hey, Brody.” Hove stepped out of the bakery. He had on purple nitrile gloves and held a few papers in his hands. “Can you two look at these real quick?”
Hove held a child’s drawings. Without touching them, Michael and Jamie studied the crayon pictures as Hove shuffled through them. There were pictures of animals, not certain what types of animals, but Michael guessed dogs by the ears and tails. A picture of Chris’s home, obvious by the tan paint and tall fir trees. Another picture was a man, woman, and boy all holding hands. The woman had wings.
“Oh,” gasped Jamie. “It’s his mother. Chris must tell him she’s an angel. How lovely.” Her voice cracked.
Hove flipped over the family drawing. On the back, in faint pencil, was another drawing. But it was a quick sketch by an adult. A woman’s face. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes.
Jamie sucked in her breath. “Elena.”
Michael’s chest tightened. Chris had sketched the boy’s mother for him. The lines were sure and true and smooth. A drawing that had probably been done many times in the past. It conveyed a gentle personality, a calmness in the woman’s eyes. Chris had talent or else he’d drawn the same sketch a million times and could do it perfectly. Michael figured it was both.
“Turn them all over,” Jamie begged. Michael knew she was hoping for a sketch of Brian or perhaps Chris. The back sides of the papers were blank. Disappointment rippled across Jamie’s face.
“I want them,” Jamie said. “When you’re done with them, I want them.”
Hove nodded. “I’ll make sure you get them.”
Chris continued to dial Jamie’s phone numbers every hour. Her cell wouldn’t even ring. It kept going straight to voice mail, which told him her phone was dead, off, or out of range. Scenarios kept dancing through his head, and none of them were pleasant. Several times, he’d pushed his old truck past the speed limit on his return toward Portland but then brought it back down. The last thing he needed was a ticket. He was a firm believer in staying off of the radar. Everyone’s radar.
But how had the Ghostman found him?
Please let his sister be okay.
“Dad, I need to go to the bathroom,” Brian spoke up.
Chris glanced at his watch. It was past lunchtime, and they needed to grab a bite to eat. “Okay. Next exit that has food.”
“McDonald’s?” Brian’s eyes lit up. “Please?”
“We’ll see.” Every parent’s fallback; every kid’s most hated reply. “Depends what we find.” Chris tried to stretch his legs in the truck. He was tired of driving. A place where he could sit back and relax for a bit would be nice. Preferably not McDonald’s. He took the next exit, which promised Food, Gas, and Lodging.
“McDonald’s!” Every kid’s reaction to spotting the golden arches.
“Umm.” Chris eyed the brick diner next to the fast-food restaurant. It looked cozy, like someone’s grandma was the owner. “How about that place next door? It looks like the type of place that has grilled cheese on the menu.” Brian’s all-time favorite.
And beer.
“You think so?” Brian twisted up his mouth in deep consideration.
“Let’s check their menu.” If not, Chris would beg them to make one. Surely they’d throw one together for a kid.
They parked. Brian cast one wistful glance at the golden M and pushed open the door to the diner. Cool air rushed by them from the nearly empty dining room. Chris sighed. Perfect. A waitress with a coffeepot in one hand and two cups in the other scooted by them.
“Seat yourself. I’ll be right with ya.”
Chris steered Brian toward a large booth in the back, near the bar, and plopped down on the overstuffed bench. The other five people in the restaurant barely glanced their way, and the only sound came from the television screen behind the bar. Menus were on the table. Brian immediately found the kids’ selections.
“Grilled cheese. And fries,” he announced. He pulled crayons and a coloring book out of his backpack and focused on Iron Man, his current obsession.
Thank you, God.
Chris scanned the menu and stopped at a bacon and bleu cheeseburger. He set the menu down, leaned his head back, and briefly closed his eyes. Parenting was a twenty-four-hour job. A job he was thankful for, but he often wished he had help. After Elena’s death, focusing on Brian had helped him get through her loss. At times, he’d considered moving back to Portland and enlisting Jamie’s help with his son. But that would mean placing his son where he could be easily found.
Wasn’t going to happen.
They were safest away from everyone. Away from society, crowds, reporters, sick men.
“What can I get for ya?”
Chris’s head came up, his eyes flew open, and he double blinked. The waitress was darn cute. She couldn’t have been much over twenty years old. She tilted her head and repeated her question, with a knowing smile that said she was used to second looks from men.
Chris pointed at Brian. “Grilled cheese, fries, and milk. I’ll take the bleu burger and a Coors Light.”
“Gotcha. Be right back.” She bounced away, stopped behind the bar, poured his beer, grabbed Brian’s milk, and was back to them in under a minute with a cheery smile. He sipped at the cold beer and appreciated the iciness on the back of his throat. Brian kept his head down, concentrating on his coloring. His son didn’t talk continually like some kids. Like Chris had…before. He’d been one of those kids who gave a running commentary on everything he saw to anyone around him. After he came back, he spoke as little as possible. He still watched his surroundings closely but kept his words to himself.
“Bathroom?”
Brian was staring at his father, his hazel eyes confused, and Chris had the impression Brian had asked the question twice. Chris spotted the bathroom sign past the bar and stood up.
“I can go alone,” Brian whined, but he stood and started to follow his father.
“I’ll just walk you in.” Chris pushed open the men’s room door and checked the stalls. All empty. “I’ll be back at the table. And wash your hands good.”
Brian nodded.
Chris slid back into his booth. Sure his son could use a public restroom alone. After he checked the inside and watched the door after. That wasn’t overprotective. That was smart parenting. He shuddered as he remembered how he used to run wild around his neighborhood when he was growing up. One dinner he’d been late and his father had been furious. Looking back now, his father hadn’t been worried about Chris; he’d been upset that his mom had been worried.
His son being snatched by a pedophile hadn’t crossed his father’s mind.
Chris didn’t look away from the men’s room door.
The waitress set a skinny basket of saltines on the table. “In case he’s got the munchies,” she said with a perky smile. Chris thanked her. And watched the door.
The door swung open, and Chris relaxed. He took a packet of cellophane-wrapped crackers and ripped it open, setting it on Brian’s coloring book.
“Awesome!” Brian proceeded to munch down on the crumbliest crackers ever created. Chris never bought them. They required too much clean-up.
A word from the television caught his attention, and his focus swiveled toward the bar.
…murdered…
A female reporter was standing in a city Chris knew all too well, a serious look on her face. Across the bottom of the screen, it said, “Murder in Demming.” He couldn’t make out her words.
Chris stood up, moving toward the bar, his gaze fixed on the screen. The waitress crossed his path with two plates.
“Your lunch is ready.”
He gestured in the direction of the table, attention on the television. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry. Closer, he could make out the reporter’s words.
“…deceased is the owner of the bakery, Juan Rios, who was killed during a break-in of the bakery overnight…”
Juan. Chris’s knees wobbled. He reached the bar and rested his hands on it, leaning heavily.
“Police haven’t revealed the exact cause of death but say it appears to be a result of homicidal violence.”
Juan.
What if Chris hadn’t been watching his house and hadn’t seen the Ghostman and decided to leave? Would she be reporting three deaths?
How had the Ghostman gone from his house to Juan’s?
He had no doubt who’d killed Juan. Chris thought hard. There’d been no evidence at his home that could have led anyone to Juan. But people knew he often visited old Juan. People knew he took Brian to play with Juan’s dog. The Ghostman must have talked to someone in town who mentioned his habits.
He glanced over his shoulder at Brian, who was busy devouring his grilled cheese. The boy hadn’t noticed the television story.
“…so far no suspects…”
Of course not. He’s a ghost.
The camera switched views to Juan’s bakery, a group of cops and onlookers milling outside. Chris recognized Sheriff Spencer from a distance. The cop was okay. He’d kept out of Chris’s business for the most part and had delivered the news of Elena’s death with a lot of tact and concern. The camera zoomed closer, and the back of a woman with long black hair caught Chris’s attention.
Elena.
He immediately shook that thought from his head. Elena was dead. The instant confusion happened frequently to him. Eastern Oregon had a large percentage of Native American and Hispanic women, many of whom wore their hair long like Elena had. From the back, they often resembled his dead wife, making him catch his breath and his heart stop. The woman turned to the tall man at her side, exposing her profile.
Jamie.
What the hell? His sister, who he’d been worried sick over, was standing on the street in his town? Christ. Chris blew out a breath. Holy crap. First Juan and now a glimpse of Jamie. He wanted to cry and laugh in relief at the same time.
The camera shot moved in on the group, and Chris soaked up the sight of his sister, healthy and whole. The stress he’d held in about her safety evaporated, giving him a release-activated, instant throbbing headache in his skull. He rubbed at a spot near his temple. Jamie spoke to the man at her side, and Chris felt his heart skip a beat. The man turned his head to the side the tiniest bit.
Chris stared.
The man turned more, and Chris felt all the veins in his skull swell.
Michael Brody. The man placed his arm about Jamie’s shoulders. Chris’s world shuddered, spun off kilter, and he grabbed at the bar. This wasn’t happening.
Why in the hell was Michael Brody with his sister?
Jamie flopped on the bed at the bed-and-breakfast. It had to be twenty degrees warmer in their room than the first floor. She’d felt the temperature rise as they’d climbed the old stairs. The bed-and-breakfast was charmingly quaint, but there were times when quaint didn’t cut it and you wanted modern hotel results. Like instant cold air, immediate coffee, and fast room service with cheesecake. “I’m beat,” she said. “And it’s too damned hot in here.”
“Trying to avoid sex with me already?” Michael asked as he cranked up the air-conditioning. “I thought that didn’t come till later in a relationship. Isn’t this where you say you have a headache?”
A deep laugh bubbled out of Jamie. She couldn’t help it. He was so damned frank. “To tell you the truth, knowing two people were just killed has my mind on other things right now. I really don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling. Chris and Brian are missing. There are two people dead…possibly by the same man who attacked me yesterday. Should I be terrified, worried, or angry?”
“You need to be told how to feel right now? I think every one of those emotions is right on ticket with what you’ve been through. You don’t need to pick one, you know. Or write in your planner how many minutes to spend on each one.”
Choking on her laughter, Jamie wiped tears from her eyes. He was right. And he’d nailed exactly how she handled stress. “You are very good for me. Did you know that?”
“Of course. I took one look at you and thought, ‘There’s a woman who needs more laughter and adventure in her life.’ I made it my personal goal to help you be spontaneous. Not everything in life needs to be planned.”
“I like order. I like to know what will happen next. I’m not fond of surprises. Even surprise birthday parties upset me as a kid.”
Michael’s head jerked in surprise. “Who doesn’t like surprise parties?”
“Me!” She was dead serious. “They made me want to hide. Still do. I don’t like being the center of attention. Especially if I’m not expecting it.”
“But you deserve to be the center of attention. All the time.”
Michael did an expert belly flop onto the bed next to her. He reached over and pulled her tight into his arms and simply held her. She inhaled deeply, seeking his scent to calm her. He smelled like sunshine; his usual smell. With a tint of sweaty, salty male included that made her hormones wake up and stretch. He nuzzled against her cheek.
“Just don’t be throwing me any surprise parties, okay?”
“Agreed. I’ll always check with you before I surprise you.”
“Well, little surprises are okay. Like chocolate. You can bring me chocolate anytime.”
“Noted.” His face pressed against hers as he kissed his way up her jawbone to her ear.
He hasn’t heard a word I said.
“I don’t care if we’re in the middle of Hicksville right now. Anywhere you are is where I want to be,” he said, moving his lips to her mouth.
God, Michael knew how to kiss. His lips were strong and soft at the same time. His manner was authoritative and caring. He was impulsive but smart. The man was a walking contradiction in too many ways, and Jamie knew she was falling hard. He was so unlike the staid, steady men she’d dated in the past. Michael knew how to bring excitement and the unexpected into her life. But how long could that last?
Doesn’t matter. Enjoy the ride.
“Speaking of chocolate, are you hungry?” he asked with his lips against the back of her neck. He’d found a place just below her hairline that was sending pleasant chills down her spine and cooling her off quicker than the old air-conditioning unit.
“Starving.”
He pulled back. “Me too. I can’t even think straight, I’m so hungry.”
Jamie wanted his mouth back on her neck. “Eat first?”
He nodded reluctantly. “Sucks. But we’ll be happier later. I don’t want to get started on something and discover the damned town rolled up its sidewalks at sundown, leaving us to get food at the mini-mart.”
Jamie’s stomach growled. Noisily.
He chuckled. “My stomach’s complaining, too. And it’s not the only thing.” He disentangled their limbs. “F*ck. I don’t want to move.”
“Those enchiladas last night were heavenly,” Jamie stated, blinking innocently.
“You are evil.” Michael stood and then leaned over the bed, his hands resting on both sides of her face. “You relax. I’ll go get you some food, and then you can take care of me, agreed?”
Jamie looked at the green eyes so close to her face and felt her heart expand two notches. This man was growing very dear to her. “You’re not getting anything for you to eat?” she teased.
“I might get something for me since I’ll be there anyway.”
She stretched off the pillow to kiss him in response. “You’re incredible, did you know that?”
“Yep. I’m awesome that way,” he said, kissing her deeply.
Jamie’s bones melted into the soft bed at the touch of his mouth.
He slowly pulled away, holding eye contact. “I’ll be right back.” Extreme reluctance to leave shone from his eyes. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Jamie watched the door close behind him. She sank back into the pillow and stared at the ceiling, and sighed. One of the bleakest moments of her life had brought this man to help her cope. Lord, she was getting in deep. Deep with a type of man she’d never known before. But she didn’t care. It felt fabulous.
Michael inhaled as he strode back to the tiny bed-and-breakfast and felt his saliva try to drown him. The scents wafting from the food containers in his hands were incredible. Holy crap, his stomach was complaining big time. He’d ordered the exact same thing they’d eaten the day before. Memories of melted cheese and spicy meat…and then the night spent with Jamie.
Jamie Jacobs was turning out to be that once-in-a-lifetime woman. He hadn’t thought such a thing existed. He’d been head over heels for Lacey Campbell for years, but looking back now, it seemed like puppy love. He’d trotted around after her in total infatuation. She loved him, he knew that, but Lacey loved him like a brother. And that echoed his feelings for her now.
Then there’d been Sam. Actually, Samantha didn’t live too far from Demming, he suddenly noted. Probably another hour or two away. They’d had a good run for a few weeks, but Sam had responsibilities with her business that sucked up all her time. She knew she’d never leave her small-town life. Michael knew he wasn’t suited to live in a town with a single-screen movie theater that was only open on Fridays and Saturdays, showing six-month-old releases. Looking back, he realized Sam had been his rebound woman after discovering Lacey was in love with Jack Harper.
Now there was Jamie.
Smart, sexy, and learning to come out of her shell. He was the one poking away at that shell, because he could see the woman underneath waiting to explode. He liked the buttoned-up Jamie, the strict school principal. If he saw her with her hair up in a librarian’s bun, reading glasses, and a high-necked blouse, he’d want to tear into it, revealing the Jamie he’d seen before in that smoking thong and bra. Last night had been hormone and lustdriven on both their parts. He suspected that wasn’t something she gave in to very often, but damn, he was glad she had. It’d totally opened her up to him, exposing soft parts that he’d suspected were under that principal shell. And sexy, hot, roaring parts that a guy could only dream about.
Jamie Jacobs was a keeper.
Chuck waved at him, and Michael tossed back a greeting as he strode through the lobby and pounded up the creaking wood stairs. He didn’t want to stop to chat. He had one thing on his mind. Well, food and then one thing. Mouth watering, he fumbled to get his room key out of his shorts pocket and balance the food in one hand.
The door swung inward as he pushed his key into the keyhole.
Every sensor in his brain shot to high alert as he shoved the door completely open and stepped into the room. The empty room. He tossed the to-go boxes on the bed, scanning the small room. “Jamie?” The door to the bathroom was open. He checked the quiet shower.
“Jamie?”
Sweat started on the small of his back. She just stepped out for a minute.
He pushed aside the lace curtains of their window and scanned the hedged backyard. The rear gate in the hedge was open from the yard to the back alley, but the tables and chairs on the patio were empty. No tall women with long hair. All quiet.
Too quiet.
Michael thundered back down the stairs and into the lobby.
“You seen Jamie?” He shot the question at Chuck, who was straightening a shelf of books. Michael’s chest heaved like he’d run a sprint. He slowed his breathing. Christ. Keep your head on straight.
Chuck stiffly turned his head. “No, she hasn’t come down that I’ve seen. She got a phone call a while back. I put it through to her room, and it didn’t ring back, so I assume someone answered up there.”
“A call? Who was it? How long ago?” Michael barked.
Chuck looked thoughtful. “Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe a little more. I can only tell you that it was a male voice, and he asked specifically for Jamie Jacobs.”
“Young voice? Old?” Michael’s heart was doing flip-flops.
Chuck shrugged. “Neither?”
“Where’s your phone system? It’ll show the number of who called.” Michael started for the man’s office.
Chuck chortled. “I ain’t got one of those fancy phone systems. Just the basics.”
Michael froze. “No caller ID?” Seriously?
“Nope. None of that call-waiting stuff either. Always thought that was kinda rude.”
Michael exhaled. “And she hasn’t been downstairs?”
“I’ve been in and out of the back. I mighta missed her if she went through.”
“You were here when I left twenty minutes ago.”
Chuck nodded. “I’ve been doing some paperwork in the office. I try to keep an ear out for people coming through, but I don’t hear footsteps so well these days. That’s why I’ve got the bell on the desk.”
Michael swallowed hard and scanned the room. The lobby was the old living room and dining room of the former house, with the reception desk tucked in the corner farthest from the front door. A small kitchen and Chuck’s office were through the swinging door across the room. Horses could have pranced through the lobby and Chuck would have missed it if he’d been in the office.
“Mind if I look in the kitchen?” Michael pushed through the swinging door before Chuck could reply. A quick look in the adjacent office and the neat kitchen confirmed no Jamie. Sure enough, Chuck’s phone looked straight out of the 1970s. Michael strode out the front door and stood on the wide wraparound porch, seeking any sign of her. Nothing. He stepped back inside and nearly ran over Chuck.
“What’s wrong, son? You look like you’re ready to strangle a cat.”
“I can’t find her.” Understatement.
“Well. She can’t have gone far. There’s nowhere to go,” Chuck said reasonably.
Michael shook his head. “No. She was waiting for me. She wouldn’t have left.” He checked the time. “I need to call Sheriff Spencer. This isn’t right.” He left Chuck standing in the lobby and pounded up the stairs. “Would you ask your first-floor guests if they’ve seen her?” he shouted back to Chuck.
Michael’s bedroom door was still open. He looked inside again, hoping…still empty. He whirled around, moved into the hallway, and pounded on the other three doors in the hall, not waiting for someone to answer each one. One door opened and a middle-aged woman with thick eyeglasses glanced out. She reminded Michael of an owl.
“Chuck?” she asked.
“Chuck’s downstairs.” Michael gestured at his open door. “I’m staying next door, and I’m looking for my girlfriend. Have you seen her?”
Annoyance crossed the owl’s face, and her nose lifted into the air. “No. Not today. Last night, I heard her though. Last night…I heard both of you. I would have called Chuck, but I assumed he was asleep, and I figured it’d be rude to disturb his sleep.” She shut the door.
“Ah…sorry about that,” he said to the closed door. He pounded again on the other two doors. No answer.
“F*ck.” He dashed back down the stairs. His heart was doing a serious drumbeat in his chest, and it wasn’t from all the stairmastering.
Chuck stood in the center of the lobby. “I asked. No one’s seen her.”
“How the hell can she just leave and no one notice?” Michael yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed Sheriff Spencer.
“Well…both rooms down here were watching TV. Usually folks don’t pay much attention to what other people are doing around here.”
Bullshit. The townspeople had watched every step he and Jamie had made since getting to town. Someone had to have seen her.
“Spencer,” the sheriff answered his call.
“Sheriff, this is Michael Brody. Jamie is missing.” No point in mincing words.
“What?”
“We’re at Chuck’s place. I left to get dinner, I came back, and she’s gone. Chuck said she got a phone call a while back from a man. F*ck! I think he’s got her.” Michael’s brain screamed as he voiced the thought. He’d been holding off, not giving credence to the theory, but now he’d said it out loud, and he couldn’t think of anything else.
“Our tattoo man? Are you sure? Maybe she walked to the store. She’s got to be somewhere. Did his phone show who called?”
“Guess how old the phone system is.” Michael jogged out the front door and down the street to the little grocery, holding the phone to his ear. “I’m going to check the store, but I’m telling you, she wouldn’t leave.”
“I’m still at the Buell house. Somebody did a number on this kid. A f*cking execution. One bullet to the back of the head. I’ve got a sobbing mama who wants to know why her son was killed, and I can’t tell her I think he said the wrong thing to a stranger. I’ve got a female deputy on hug-the-mother duty, and she’s starting to wear down from this woman’s hysterics. State is still taking evidence from the garage, but it looks like a clean scene to me.”
“Christ.” Michael didn’t want to think about a teenager collapsed on his garage floor and his frantic mother. He had Jamie on the brain, and there wasn’t room for anything else. He threw open the door to the market and searched the few aisles for Jamie’s black head.
Nothing.
“Help you?” asked a clerk as she leaned against the counter. She held a nail-polish brush in one hand, ready for action with her other hand in painting position on the counter. Her eyebrows had shot up as Michael abruptly entered the store. He didn’t recognize the young woman from the day before.
“Seen a woman with long black hair come in during the last twenty minutes or so?”
The woman shook her head. “No one’s been in for over an hour.” Her hand still held the brush in midair. “You buying anything?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She focused on her nails and applied the brush.
Michael left. “She’s not in there,” he said into his phone. He looked up and down the street, pacing the sidewalk. He jogged across the road to get a better look to the south. The sun had just started to set on the late-summer night, and the dimming light made him strain his eyes to see into the gray shadows.
Where was she?
Spencer was speaking to someone in the background.
“Spencer.”
“Yeah.” The sheriff’s distracted voice rang clear through the line.
“She’s not at the store. I don’t see her anywhere on the street.”
“Did you call her cell?”
F*ck! Why hadn’t he done that? Michael jogged back toward Chuck’s. “I will.”
“Okay,” said Spencer. “I’ll send someone your way as soon as I have a free pair of hands.”
Michael didn’t want to pull help away from the teenager’s murder. A few country deputies couldn’t help him. “Just spread the word, tell Hove to have his guys keep an eye out.”
“Done.”
Michael hit End and immediately called Jamie’s cell. The phone rang five times and dumped into voice mail. He hung up, disappointed that her voice mail was computerized instead of her own voice. He took Chuck’s porch steps three at a time, flew through the door, and across the lobby. He raced up to the second floor. His door was still open from earlier. Stepping through the doorway, he nearly knocked over Chuck for the second time that day.
“I could hear a phone in here ringing a minute ago,” Chuck said.
Jamie’s phone?
Michael hit Send on his phone again. A delicate melody sounded from the nightstand. He yanked open the drawer and stared at a familiar iPhone.
She’d left her phone. Right next to her wallet.
Michael ended his call and dialed Mason Callahan.
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?
F*ck 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 a*sholes 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 f*ck’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.
“F*ck.”
“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 f*cking 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 f*cking late. Damn it!
“He’s putting the word out and contacting Hove. I shouldn’t have left her alone! That sick a*shole’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 f*ck,” 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 f*cking 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!”