Hold on to Me (27 page)

A pause. Frustration twisted her mouth. “No, it’s not the same thing. Not even in the same ballpark.”

Tick dropped into the chair in front of his desk, crossed one ankle over his knee and opened the topmost folder, skimming the dispatcher’s report from the night before.

“Vinnie, I have to go. Because I have a job. Because…goodbye, Vince.”

She slapped the laptop closed and jerked the earpiece free. With her elbows on his desk, she covered her face and blew out an audible breath.

An unwilling smile tugged at Tick’s mouth. “Problems?”

“He’s an ass. An overprotective ass who makes you look like an uninvolved bystander in Tori’s life. I should talk to Troupe and get him cut out of the will.”

Surprised, he stopped with his mug halfway to his lips. “What?”

“It’s a regular thing. I’ve been disinherited more times than I can count.”

His spurt of rusty laughter felt good, even if it did make his chest hurt. “For what?”

“Most recently?” She stretched and slipped from the chair. “A girls’ night at Lingerlongs that went horribly wrong. It was all my cousin Lanie’s fault. She’s always been the rowdiest of us, although maybe I shouldn’t have worn the hooker dress.”

Tick sputtered on a mouthful of coffee. “The hooker dress?”

“That’s Vince’s name for it. I wear it when I really want to piss him off.” She skirted his desk and leaned on the top. A pretty smile of reminiscence lit her face. “We were all right as long as it was just the Marines involved, but then the SEALs showed up and things just went downhill from there.”

“The SEALS. I really don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not.” She lifted the mug from his easy hold and sipped. “That was before Lanie settled down to be a wife and mom. And before you.”

Her voice softened with the words. She extended the cup in his direction, and when he shook his head, set it aside. Leaning down, she touched his jaw, her eyes warm and gentle. “I didn’t sleep very much last night. I was worried about you.”

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep either.” He’d spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling and when he did doze off, weird dreams had invaded his head. He stood, resting his hands at her waist. “I’m glad to see you this morning.”

“Me, too.” Her gaze clung to his. She’d never looked at him this way before, without the shuttered mistrust she turned on the world. Warmth suffused his chest, melting some of the cold grief still knotted there.

Sometimes you have to look for your joy, Lamar Eugene.

He lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers. She lifted her arms to embrace him, her lips moving under his in a soft kiss of renewal. The promise in that exchange washed over him like a steady rain on a parched cornfield.

He pulled back with a shaky exhale. “We’ve got work to do.”

With great caution, Caitlin picked her way across Bobby Gene Butler’s overgrown yard, her gaze peeled for the first sign of a slithering reptile. “Did I mention I’m deathly afraid of snakes?”

“Snake’s more scared of you than you are of it.” Tick loosened his tie, having left his suit jacket in the truck.

“Thank you, Lamar Eugene, for that kernel of farm-boy wisdom. I feel so comforted.” She watched him move, concern lingering in her. He seemed to be his normal easy-going self, yet she sensed a brewing tension in him that matched the low storm clouds gathering in the eastern sky.

He laughed softly, hands tucked in his pockets as they walked to the metal shed that housed Butler’s wrecker. Vehicles in varying states of repair lined the rusted chain-link fence.

Tick slapped the side of the shed. “Bobby Gene!”

Butler waddled from the tiny office in the back of the shed, wiping his grease-stained hands on an even greasier rag. He offered Tick his hand. “What you know good, Tick?”

“It’s hot. Bobby Gene, this is Agent Falconetti. We need to talk to you about Sharon’s car.”

His face closed. “I already told Schaefer everything I saw. I told you that.”

Tick turned his shirt cuffs back a couple of times. “Yeah, but Jeff doesn’t take the best notes, and I just want to make sure he didn’t forget to write anything down.”

Butler huffed a heavy sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Just run through what you told Jeff.”

He turned away, lifting a wrench from the workbench and rubbing it with the rag. “I’d been to the auction, and I was bringing the parts car I’d bought back. I came down Long Lonesome Road about ten, turned off on 112 and there’s the car, sitting off on the shoulder. The hazards weren’t on or anything.”

Tick rocked back slightly on his heels. “Where was that again?”

“Twenty-third-mile marker. I made a note of it so I could circle around, in case they needed help or something.”

“So you could beat Lawson out of a tow, you mean.”

“Aw, hell, Tick, a man’s got to make a living.”

“I know. You didn’t see Sharon? Not walking on the road or anything?”

Butler replaced the wrench and picked up a screwdriver, giving it the same treatment. “I didn’t see nobody. And I didn’t see the car again until Chris Parker called me out to tow it in. That was about one in the morning. But you know that. You was there.”

“And the car had been moved?”

“Yeah. It was almost to the twenty-five then.”

Tick nodded, rubbing his chin with a finger. “Listen, what have you got out back? My brother’s looking for something he can fix up for my nephew.”

Butler’s eyes lit with the prospect of a sale. “Come on back. We’ll take a look.”

Tick tossed Caitlin a quick smile. “I won’t be long.”

No way he was car-shopping in the middle of an investigation. Caitlin watched him walk away with Butler. He wanted a look at the junk lot, and Butler had just fallen for the slow country boy act, swallowing not just the hook, line and sinker, but the whole damn rod. From the front of the shed, she eyed the vehicles lining the fence. Curiosity rising, she walked to the closest one, a beige late-model sedan missing the hood and front quarter panel.

She leaned over, checking the lower corner of the windshield on the driver’s side. No small metal plate with the required vehicle identification number.

A quick survey of the other vehicles found three more with the VIN removed. She shot a speculative glance at the lot behind the shed, packed with vehicles. Butler ran more than a wrecker service. Looked like he also traded in stolen cars. Sharon’s car didn’t move on its own, and Vontressa’s car had yet to be located. Kimberly Johnson’s vehicle remained missing as well. Maybe Butler was involved.

Only the girls’ deaths didn’t fit the whole stolen-cars-as-motive scenario.

“You ready?” Tick strode out of the shed. He waved at Butler and pulled his sunglasses from his pocket, sliding them on against the sun.

Caitlin didn’t glance back at the shed as they walked to his truck. “He’s lying.”

“Hell, yeah, he’s lying.” He opened the passenger door for her.

“I don’t think he killed her, though. But he knows something.”

“Yeah.” He slid behind the wheel. “What kind of car did Johnson drive again?”

“White Nissan Altima. Early nineties model.”

“That’s what I thought. Guess what’s sitting way at the back of his junk lot?”

“A white Altima. I bet the VIN plate is missing.”

“I couldn’t get close enough to see without spooking him. He thinks I’m a dumb ol’ country boy, and right now, I want to keep it that way.”

“We need a warrant for that car. Add Vontressa’s to it.”

Steering with one hand, he fished his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Lydia. She can handle the warrant, and we’ll have Cookie and Schaefer bring in the car. They can toss Bobby Gene in holding for possessing stolen property—there’s got to be a stolen car somewhere in that mess. He sits there a couple of hours while we run to Tallahassee, and believe me, he’ll be ready to talk when we get back.”

She reached over and shut off the radio, stopping Kenny Chesney midnote. “If you were going to Panama City, would you come this way?”

He didn’t take his gaze from the white SUV in front of them. “No. And I wouldn’t have sent Kimberly Johnson through here, either. I’d have sent her through Chattahoochee. He killed her, panicked and thought using the credit card here would cover his tracks. Or at least keep the focus off Chandler County.”

“And it worked, temporarily at least. He’d killed, and he’d gotten away with it. He comes across Sharon on the road and can’t resist the challenge of trying again. Same thing with Vontressa and your Jane Doe. Victims of opportunity. But he’d had time to think after Kim. To regroup, to plan for the next opportunity.”

“Explaining the lack of physical evidence. But you left out Amy.”

“I didn’t leave Amy out. Amy’s different, Tick, she always has been. She’s a victim of purpose. He planned to kill her. She was prey, and he went after her.”

He slammed on the brakes, muttering curses at the SUV’s driver. “Because of the pregnancy.”

“I don’t know. It could be. He’s a narcissist—he cares about his public persona, and he’ll protect that persona at all costs. But he could have just married her and become a state senator’s son-in-law. Amy was pushing for that; it’s in the last couple of entries in her diary. Except that being forced into a shotgun marriage would have taken away his sense of control, and he’s not going to let that happen.”

He turned into the crowded parking lot of a colorful fast-food restaurant. “She never knew what hit her.”

Caitlin shivered, pushing aside the mental images his words invoked. “No, she knew. He made sure of it.”

Eyeing the bank of clouds building over the cityscape, she walked with him into the restaurant and let him take the lead in talking with the cooperative manager, who produced the tape and offered his office for immediate viewing.

In the tiny office, Caitlin pushed the tape into the VCR. Tick leaned against the metal desk and waited while the television flickered to life. A split screen appeared, showing the views from four separate security cameras.

They watched the flow of customers on the tape—families with kids in soccer or baseball uniforms, teenagers, young couples. White numbers at the bottom corner ticked off the time. Caitlin frowned. None of the customers remotely resembled Kimberly Johnson.

Tick blew out a long breath. “What time was the card used?”

“Eleven thirteen.”

“We should be getting close—”

“Oh, my God.” The shocked whisper slid past Caitlin’s lips. She stared at the blonde who’d entered the restaurant, disbelief shivering in her mind. Her gaze jerked to Tick’s stunned face. “That’s—”

“Yeah. Oh, holy hell.”

On the screen, Amy Gillabeaux brushed back her long blonde hair and swiped a credit card through the point-of-sale terminal. She slid the card into the pocket of her tight hip-hugger jeans, gathered her purchases and sashayed out.

Tick leaned forward, eyeing the portions of the screen that showed the parking lot views. “She didn’t go to a car. She walked in the direction of the street.”

“To a hotel maybe?” Caitlin frowned. “Do you think she knew what she was doing?”

“I don’t think so. She’s too relaxed, too natural.”

“Didn’t she even look at that credit card?”

“I doubt it. If he gave it to her…she trusted him. Why should she question him?”

“Let’s go see if there’s a hotel nearby.”

The first two hotels, both well-known, moderately priced chains, offered nothing. As they approached the third, Caitlin eyed the cracked asphalt and peeling paint. A pool, the water thick and green, sat in the middle of the horseshoe created by the low, squatty buildings.

She sidestepped a puddle of indeterminate origin on the sidewalk. “It’s a dump. They probably rent by the hour.”

“So he has lousy taste. You can add that to your profile.” He pulled open the office door, jingling the cheap wind chimes attached.

Over the desk, Elvis stared down at them from a black velvet painting. An oscillating fan stirred air saturated with cigarette smoke.

Tick leaned down. “Does it count against me if I inhale deeply?”

A college-aged boy emerged from the small room behind the office. Curly dark hair surrounded a bored face sporting a scraggly goatee. “Y’all need a room?”

Nice to know customer courtesy was still alive and well. Caitlin produced her FBI credentials and held out Amy’s snapshot. “Actually, we’re looking for information on this young lady. She may have stayed here a few weeks ago.”

He studied the photo and looked up, suspicion replacing the boredom. “Don’t remember her.”

“She was murdered,” Tick said. “Do you remember her now?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she was here. Changed rooms three times—kept finding things wrong.”

Tick glanced around the office. “Imagine that.”

Caitlin glared at him before turning another polite bureau smile on the clerk. “Do you remember if anyone was with her?”

“Yeah. There was a guy with her. I thought maybe he was her brother or her dad—he looked old enough. You know, in his thirties. She registered for the room, though, instead of him, which I thought was kinda weird.”

Tick scratched his jaw. “What did he look like?”

He shrugged. “Tall, dark hair. I don’t remember too well—I was looking at her, you know?”

Caitlin leaned forward. “We need to see her registration.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not supposed to. Privacy and all that. I guess you could get a warrant.”

She glanced at Tick and he sighed, reaching for his wallet. He pulled a twenty and laid it on the counter. The kid pocketed the bill and produced a cardboard box from under the counter, flipping through the cards. “Here it is.”

Tick lifted the card. “Amy Smith. Original, wasn’t she? You don’t ask for ID?”

The young man laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Caitlin tapped a fingernail on the highlighted asterisk at the top of the card. “What does this mean?”

“They left something in the room.” He picked up a red ledger, turning back several pages. “A bag.”

“Do you still have it?” Caitlin asked.

“Just a minute.” The clerk disappeared into the back room.

“I could have called Helen over at the PD and saved twenty bucks,” Tick muttered.

She rapped her fingers on the desk, anticipation flaring. What kind of bag? What was in it? “Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Really? I have suggestions.”

The clerk reappeared, small black fanny pack in hand. “Here you go.”

He set it on the desk. Caitlin took the handkerchief Tick proffered and used it to cover her fingers as she unzipped the bag. She spread the sides to peer inside. A twenty-dollar bill, a small pad, an ink pen. “Well, it wasn’t Amy’s.”

Tick leaned closer. “Why not?”

“Other than it’s hideously ugly and completely unfashionable? No lipstick, no mirror, no tampons. Any questions?”

“I guess not.”

“Look.” She separated a strip of hook-and-loop fastening to reveal a compartment at the back of the bag. “To conceal a gun.”

A triangle of white cardstock peeked out from the edge of the opening. Grasping it with the handkerchief, Caitlin pulled it free. Her stomach clenched, even as excitement bubbled in her throat. A lead. An honest-to-God lead.

Tick swore.

She smiled at the clerk, who stared at Tick. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Yeah.”

Back at the truck, Tick pointed at the card in her hand. “I did not need to see that.”

Caitlin glanced down at the business card, bearing the logo and phone number of the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department, but no name. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s one of you. He could have gotten it at any time. It could be a coincidence.”

He tugged a hand through his hair, swearing again. “Do you believe that?”

“Well, no, but anything to get that look off your face. Get me an evidence bag, would you? Maybe we’ll luck out and get prints, hair or fibers from it.” She tucked the fanny pack and its contents in the bag he held out. “Hmm…tall, dark hair, thirties…sounds like Reed to me. Let’s question him. I want to be the bad cop.”

“That is not funny.”

“Look on the bright side—the kid didn’t finger you.”

“Does that mean my name is coming off the damn board?”

“No. It stays there until we make an arrest. So how many deputies fit that description?”

He grimaced. “About half the department. Cookie, Jeff, Chris, Monroe…want me to keep going?”

“Not Cookie. He’s not socially competent enough.” A memory of icy blue eyes filtered through her mind, bringing a shiver with it. “Chris is Parker, right?”

“Yeah, the K-9 officer. We stole him from Tifton’s PD.”

She stretched against the seat. “We could put together a photo lineup and bring it back down for the kid to look at.”

“A lineup full of cops. Lord, Ray over at the paper will have a field day when this gets out. His circulation will triple.”

“Cheer up. Maybe Bobby Gene Butler will tell us something earthshaking, and we’ll make a quick arrest.”

“Sure. Only one problem with that.”

“What?”

“This ain’t television.”

Back in traffic, he lapsed into silence, thumping a hand against the steering wheel as he drove.

“Tick, stop it.” She reached over, rubbing at his shoulder, the muscles tense under her touch. “Stop blaming yourself.”

“Stan and I handpicked these guys. We went through applications with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. We interviewed and I ran the damn background checks myself.” He slammed the flat of his hand against the steering column. “Son of a bitch! How did he get by us?”

“It happens, even to the bureau. Remember the agent prosecuted last year for spying?”

“It’s not the same thing.” He spit the words out, grinding his teeth. “It’s just not the same.”

“He wouldn’t be that easy to spot. He’s of above-average intelligence, very socially competent—”

“You don’t get it, Cait.” His mood matched the thunderclouds gathering ahead of them. “We cleaned that department out and started all over again. We were supposed to be wiping out years of corruption. We promised the people in that county they’d be safe—we were there to serve and protect. And instead we turned a killer loose on them.
I
turned a killer loose on them.”

The storm broke when they were forty-five minutes south of Chandler County. Rain slammed into the windshield in sheets, and wind pushed at the truck like a child’s toy. Even on high, the windshield wipers were useless and Tick struggled to keep the truck between the yellow lines.

Caitlin tightened her seat belt. “Tick, the guy behind us almost slid into the guard rail.”

“I know. I’m trying to find a place to stop.”

With a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, he pulled to the shoulder, flipping on the emergency flashers and leaving the engine running. He turned the wipers off and stared at the windshield, jaw set in a tight line.

Wind battered the vehicle, whistling around it. Caitlin watched the water stream down the window.

With a sudden movement, he twisted in his seat, grasping her headrest. “Last night, you said you’d lost
him
.”

The haunting pain in his dark eyes took her breath and the remembered loss swept her. She’d expected more of his tension about their case, but not this. She studied him for a long, silent moment, taking in the weariness and stress straining his features. “Oh, Tick, let’s not…are you sure you want to hear this now?”

“I have to.” The raw words seemed ripped from somewhere deep inside him. “I need to know, need you to share him with me, Cait.”

She understood, simply because she needed to share her memories with him, had always needed to share this child with this man. “I’d had a sonogram at eighteen weeks, a few days before Fuller…it was a boy.” A wash of tears clogged her throat. “Things were going well; he was growing, thriving. I tried to get in touch with you then. I wanted you to know. I knew…I knew you’d be thrilled.”

“I would have been.” The low whisper emerged rough and grating.

She brushed a stray tear from her cheek. “I have those photos, from the sonogram, and the video, back home at Troupe’s with some other things. I put them away…after… Because it hurt too much to look at them.”

He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. He didn’t speak and rain drummed down around them, creating an intimate curtain of sound. She flexed her fingers, curved them around his.

“Did you see him?” He lifted his head, his eyes glittering and damp. “After, I mean…what did he look like?”

“No, I didn’t…” Pain fluttered in her chest. “I was in ICU for more than a week, so hysterical the first time I came to and Vince told me about him, that they sedated me. I was out of it almost completely for several of those days.”