Cold Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 3) (31 page)

“Rachel, what are you up to?” he said aloud.

Now he couldn’t stop the thoughts.

She was here in Santa Cruz last night when Cranston was killed. She was out all night the night DeShawn Butler was killed. And
. . . He was jolted by the next thought.
Jade was at the Belvedere House with her for two weeks. Jade could have given her the razor that Cara used to kill Danny Ramirez.

Could she kill though? Rachel?

The thought was nearly overwhelming. But then that train of thought derailed as his phone buzzed.

Not Rachel. Detective Williams. There was a lilt of excitement in the lawman’s voice.

“Think I found your girl.”

Chapter 66

T
he Santa Cruz police department had ninety-four sworn officers, but the station on Center Street looked more like an industrial garage than a police headquarters.

Williams met Roarke and Epps in his cubicle. After all they’d tried, the detective had found Jade with one phone call.

“I have a teacher friend at Santa Cruz High. Emailed her a scan of your girl. She remembers Susannah Collins. A sophomore, smart kid, but wild.”

Roarke and Epps locked eyes.
Jade all over. Finally. A break.

“She stopped going to class back in May, ’fore the end of the school term,” Williams continued. “School hasn’t seen her since.”

But the detective was able to fill them in on Jade’s mother. He handed over a file. “Alison Collins. Couple busts over the years for possession, growing ’shrooms.” The agents looked down at a mug shot of a petulantly attractive woman in her thirties with Jade’s wild hair.

“Collins was brought in for questioning six months ago about a real bad guy she was hooked up with. Darrell Sawyer. Ran a biker gang. Rap sheet out the door. Drugs, guns, all kinds of bad news.”

Drugs, guns, and people
, Roarke thought.
It’s always the same
. He stared down at Sawyer’s mug shot: a rail-thin man in his thirties, thickly tattooed, a face hardened by drugs, alcohol, and vice.

“Can we get that sheet from you?”

The detective pulled up the record on his computer and printed it out for them. Roarke scanned it quickly, glanced up at Epps.

“Sawyer was living with Alison.”

“With Jade—Susannah—in the house,” Epps finished.

The agents stared at each other with the same thought.
Runaway kids are always running away
from
something.

And if Jade has a list . . .

Roarke looked at Williams. “You have an address on this guy?”

The detective shook his head. “Nothing. He vamoosed ’fore we could bring him in. Alison claimed no knowledge of his whereabouts.”

He knew Alison’s, though.

Jade’s mother lived in a rustic bungalow—little more than a shack—in the woods a bit outside town. Monterey pines surrounded the structure, shielding it from any neighboring houses, and the windows were covered, swaths of fabric completely obscuring the glass. Never a good sign.

Roarke and Epps stood beside the car, looking at the house, then at each other. Epps shook his head in resignation, and without speaking, the men unbuttoned their suit coats and unsnapped their shoulder holsters. Against whom was another question. But they were after a killer, and there was no telling what was waiting for them inside the decrepit little house.

The steps and porch were buckled with age. The warped boards creaked under their weight as they mounted the steps.

Epps moved to the side of the door, a hand on his weapon, as Roarke stood in front of the door and knocked.

The door swung open to reveal a woman with a wild mane of blond hair. Roarke knew from her file that Alison Collins was not much past thirty, but drugs had taken a toll. Her too-thin body was wrapped in a silk kimono, and she had a languid detachment—which disappeared as soon as she got a glimpse of Roarke. Dismay flashed across her face, then anger, as if she’d been expecting someone else and felt tricked.

She tried to shove the door closed but Roarke got a foot in and held it open with his left hand.

“FBI, Ms. Collins. Special Agent Roarke, Special Agent Epps. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Susannah.”

“Let’s see the warrant,” she snapped.

“We’re just here for a friendly chat.”

She snorted. “Friendly. The Feds. That’s a new one.”

She tried again to shove the door closed and Roarke stopped it with the flat of his hand. “We’re here to talk about your daughter. Now be a good mother and give us a few minutes.”

Her eyes flashed fire, but then she lifted her shoulders with exaggerated nonchalance and stepped back. “Of course. Anything for my government.”

She was unmistakably related to Jade; there were hints of the girl in her bone structure, in her easy sensuality, and of course in her wild, thick hair. No doubt where Jade had gotten her
fuck you
brashness, either.

Roarke and Epps moved through the doorway and inside, hands hovering beside their weapons, eyes scanning the premises.

Inside was hippie décor, shabby chic, emphasis on shabby. Velvet pillows and zebra-patterned throws, everything tattered. No Christmas decorations here, or even much attempt at basic hygiene. There seemed to be a layer of dust on everything.

Alison stepped to a table that had the remains of several drinks on it and picked out a pack of Camels. The bravado was largely put on; Roarke could see she was nervous. Whether those nerves were about Jade or about the drugs that he would have bet money were in the house, he couldn’t be sure. She tapped out a cigarette, lit up, exhaled.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of trouble Suze is in, but it’s got nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen her for six, seven months.”

Wonderful
, Roarke thought bleakly.
A sixteen-year-old kid on the street and
all her mother cares about is keeping herself out of trouble.

“So you haven’t seen her since she was, what, fifteen?”

Alison’s eyes narrowed. “Something like that.”

While Roarke spoke, Epps was casually circling the room, glancing into doors, taking note of everything that could be seen. She watched both men at once, like a cat watching birds.

“Do you know where she lives?” Roarke queried.

She took a drag of smoke before she answered. “We don’t talk.”

Roarke felt a quick anger. He could see Alison caught it. She stroked a hand through her hair, and even through the obvious hostility he could feel the come-on underneath the gesture. “Suze made her own choices. You can’t stop a girl who wants to go.”

“When was the last time you heard from her?”

“I can’t remember.”

Roarke kept his face impassive. “So she was fifteen when she made this ‘choice’? Kind of young to be out there on her own, isn’t it?”

Alison gave him a slow, cold smile. “As old as I was when I left home. So?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Five years.”

“And Jade . . . Susannah was with you for four of those years.”

Alison looked offended. “Of course she was with me. Where else would she be?”

“Was anyone else living with you at the time?”

The woman’s gaze narrowed. “In four years? Sometimes there was, sometimes there wasn’t.”

Classic evasion.

Roarke recalled his conversation with Shauna. “We heard something about a stepfather.”

Alison gave him a lofty look. “You heard wrong.”

“A boyfriend, though, surely,” Roarke said, making it a compliment. He saw a flash of a preening smile, quickly suppressed.

“What, I’m supposed to be celibate?”

“We’d never expect that,” Epps said dryly.

She shot a sharp look at him, smoothed her hair back. “I like to keep it simple. I don’t need a man to be happy.”

“What about Darrell Sawyer?”

An angry, furtive look crossed her face. “Who?”

Roarke shook his head. “Come on, Ms. Collins, it’s all there in your record. The SCPD questioned you about Mr. Sawyer.”

“So?” she challenged him.

“So we’d like to talk to him. Do you have a phone number? An address?”

She flipped her hair back. “Like I told the cops. I don’t have a fuckin’ clue. It’s ancient history now.”

“It was six months ago,” Roarke pointed out. “That’s when you talked to the police. Not long after you say Susannah left home. Sawyer was living with you while she was still here. So what I want to know is, what made her leave?” He caught the fleeting, guilty look in her eyes and felt anger flare again. “Did Sawyer ever touch your daughter? Did she ever ask you for help?”

Alison turned on him. “Is that what she told you? It’s a lie. You don’t know what it’s like, having a girl like that little—”

Before he could even process what he was doing, Roarke was stepping forward, backing Alison against the wall. Just as instantly, Epps had a hand on his arm, holding him back.

Roarke spoke into Alison’s face. “Here’s how I think it went, Ms. Collins. Your scumbag boyfriend raped your daughter, and you didn’t want to lose the gravy train, so you kicked her out of the house. That sound about right?”

She snarled back at him. “You don’t have a clue, you Federal motherfuckers—”

“All right, now. All right.” Epps’ hand was on Roarke’s shoulder, pulling him away from the woman.

“Coming into
my
house and accusing
me
. . .” Alison raged.

Roarke fought down his fury and allowed Epps to hustle him out the door, while Alison screamed behind them. “You
better
get him out of here. I’ll sue. I have rights. I’ll sue—”

Her voice was cut off by the slamming of the front door.

On the porch, Epps turned Roarke loose. Roarke walked in a circle on the worn boards to control himself. “Sorry,” he managed.

Epps stood on the sagging steps below him, waiting. “No worries.”

“I could have killed her,” Roarke said through a sinking feeling.

“I doubt it,” Epps said.

“I wanted to,” Roarke said.

“Well now. You’re not exactly alone with that.”

Roarke nodded, and they moved down the steps, both dropping it. When they were out of earshot, Epps looked back at the front door. “So, we bring her in? Try to sweat her?”

Roarke had already been thinking on it. “To find Jade? I don’t think she knows.”

“Or find Sawyer,” Epps said tightly. “I know what you’re thinking. If Jade’s got a list, sounds like Sawyer’s on it.”

“If she even knows how to find him.” It was a big
If.
He glanced back at the house himself. “But I can’t see her going to that one for anything.”

Epps shook his head. “No. No help there.” He looked at Roarke. “You do think it was Jade’s kill last night?”

Roarke felt an acid rush to his stomach. He’d been so focused on the trail to Jade he’d been able to block out the other glaring revelation of the day. He answered evasively, to buy himself time to think.

“I think we’re here for the night. These kills have been in pairs all along. Chances are if there’s a second, it’s going to be close. And soon.”

The sun managed to burn through the fog as Epps drove them to a hotel he’d spotted on Beach Street, the road running parallel to the boardwalk. The Moroccan-style building wasn’t exactly four-star, but it clung to the side of a small, steep cliff right across from the wharf, overlooking the bay.

After checking in and settling themselves, the agents met in Roarke’s third-floor room and sat on the couch and armchair beside the wide window as sunset streaked the sky outside.

Roarke had made all the calls he could. No word from Rachel. So he looked across at Epps, and finally said what he had been avoiding.

“Jade isn’t the only problem we have, now. We don’t know that she was here last night. But Rachel was.”

Epps stared at him.

“One of the street kids described her. She was asking around about Jade. She was on Pacific an hour before Cranston was killed.”

Epps stood, ran a hand over his head. “What the fuck, now . . . ?”

Roarke looked automatically down at his phone, as if a text or call would suddenly appear. “I’ve left messages. No response. She didn’t go in to work today, either. Took a personal day.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t get it, either. But I don’t like it. She’s been strange.”

“Strange how?”

Roarke had a sudden, clear memory of Rachel’s outburst about DeShawn Butler.
“Someone should just take a blowtorch to all of them. Pimps, johns, the whole fucking lot of them.”

“This thing is getting to her,” he said aloud.

“Getting to her
how bad
?” Epps demanded. Roarke looked at him. He didn’t have to break down the implications; Epps was already there. Rachel was political. She was angry. In her own way she was as angry as Cara about the same kinds of abuse.

“Jesus Christ,” Epps said, walking the room. “Jesus Christ.”

Roarke took a breath and tried to think. “We grab some sleep and hit the streets tonight. This isn’t that big a town. If the local cops are out on Ocean, we can cover Pacific Avenue, and maybe the boardwalk.”

Epps stopped and looked across the room at Roarke. “Looking for what?”

“Looking for Jade . . . and Rachel.”

“And Cara?”

Roarke looked out the wide window into the twilight. The moon was rising from the water, leaving a shimmering trail of white across the bay.

One night from full.

Cold Moon.

“And Cara,” he said.