Lawman (2 page)

“A really nasty one.”

“I'd hoped that the red ribbon would show up in those VICAP postings that matched this homicide. But I had no luck.” Marquez looked up from the BlackBerry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He handed it to Garon.

Garon opened it and looked inside. “A red silk ribbon?”

“The murder weapon,” Marquez said. “The first officers on the scene were San Antonio P.D. They found it tied tight around the neck of the ten-year-old girl. Her body was found in behind a little country church north of here yesterday. We transported the body here to our medical examiner for processing. We haven't released that bit about the red ribbon to the press.”

Garon could guess why. All homicide detectives tried to hold back one or two pieces of evidence so that they could weed out potential suspects who were lying about their involvement in the murder. Every police department had at least one mental case who tried to confess to any violent crime, for reasons best left to a psychiatrist.

He touched the ribbon. “It might have something to do with his fantasy,” Garon mused, having participated in seminars by the FBI's behavioral science department, observing profilers at work. Modus operandi was the method used to kill. Signature was a feature linking all victims of a serial killer in a way that was important only to the killer, and it never changed. Some left victims posed in obscene ways, some used a particular marking of victims, but a number of serial killers left something that identified them as the suspect.

Garon glanced at the detective. “Have you checked the database for similar ribbons at other crime scenes?”

“First thing I did, when I saw the ribbon,” he replied. “But no luck. If there was such a ribbon, maybe it was overlooked or held back from the file. I've tried to contact the police department in West Texas, at Palo Verde, where the last homicide occurred, but they don't answer phone calls or e-mails. It's a tiny little jurisdiction.”

“Good idea. What do you want from us?”

“A profile would be a good start,” he said. “My lieutenant won't like it, but I'll talk to our captain and see if he'll make a formal request for assistance. He mentioned the profiling to me himself.”

Garon smiled. “I'll fill in one of our ASACs, so that he'll expect it.”

“Not the SAC?”

“Our special agent in charge is in Washington, trying to appropriate funds for a new project we're trying to get started, partnering with the local middle schools to discourage kids from using drugs.”

“He might need to ask somebody with more money than our government seems to have,” came the dry reply. “On a local level, our own budget is cut to the bone already. I had to buy a digital camera out of my pocket so that I could get my own crime scene photos.”

Garon laughed shortly. “I know that feeling.”

“Is it true, that a lot of cases never get listed on VICAP?” Marquez said.

“Yes. The forms are shorter than they once were, but it takes about an hour to fill them out. Some police departments just don't have the time. If you could find a second case with a red ribbon involved, I might be able to help you convince your lieutenant that there's a serial killer loose. Before he kills again,” he added somberly.

“Can you spare us an agent, if we put together a task force to hunt this guy?”

“We can spare me. The rest of my squad is trying to run down a mob of bank robbers who use automatic weapons in holdups. I'm not essential personnel to them. My assistant can run the squad in my absence. I've worked serial murder cases, and I know agents in the Behavioral Science Unit I can call on for help. I'll be glad to work with you.”

“Thanks.”

“No sweat. We're all on the same team.”

“Do you have a business card?”

Garon took out his wallet and pulled out a simple white business card with black lettering. “My home phone is at the bottom, along with my cell phone number and my e-mail.”

Marquez's eyebrows lifted. “You live in Jacobsville?”

“Yes. I bought a ranch there.” He laughed. “We're not supposed to be involved in any business outside the job, but I pulled strings. I live on the ranch. The manager takes care of the day-to-day operation, so I have no conflicts.”

“I was born in Jacobsville,” Marquez said, smiling.

“My mother still lives there. She runs a café in town.”

There was only one café in town. Garon had eaten there. “Barbara's Café?” Garon asked.

“The same.”

He frowned. He didn't want to step on the man's toes, but Barbara was a blonde.

“You're thinking I don't look like a man with a blond mother, right?” Marquez smiled. “My parents died in a botched robbery. They owned a small pawn shop in town. I was just six at the time. Barbara never married and had no family. I used to take mom and dad food from the café. After the funeral, Barbara came and got me out of state custody and adopted me. Quite a lady, Barbara.”

“I've heard that.”

Marquez checked his watch. “I have to run. I'll phone you when I've talked to my captain.”

“Better make it an e-mail,” Garon replied. “I expect to be in meetings for most of today. I've got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Okay. See you.”

“Sure.”

 

I
T WAS A GOOD DAY
, Garon thought as he drove himself back to Jacobsville. The squad was working witnesses at the last big bank robbery to find any information that would further the investigation. Men armed with automatic weapons were a danger to the entire community of San Antonio. He'd talked to the senior ASAC about setting up a task force in concert with San Antonio homicide detectives to work on the child murder. He had a green light. The ASAC had a friend in the Texas Rangers. He gave Garon his number. They were going to need all the help they could get.

He glanced toward the Carver place as he drove by. Her car was still sitting in the driveway. He wondered if she could start it again. It was a miracle the piece of junk ran at all.

He pulled into his driveway and almost ran into the back of a silver Mercedes convertible. A familiar brunette with dark eyes got out, dressed in a black power suit with a skirt halfway up her thighs that showed off her pretty legs. He knew her. She was the realtor who'd just gone to work for Andy Webb, the man who'd sold him this ranch. Her aunt was rich; old lady Talbot, who lived in a mansion on Main Street in town.

What was her name? Jaqui. Jaqui Jones. Easy to remember, and her figure was more than enough to make her memorable in addition to her job.

“Hi,” she said, almost purring as he climbed out of the Jaguar. “I just thought I'd stop by and make sure you were still happy with your ranch.”

“Happy enough,” he said, smiling.

“Great!” She moved closer. She was only a little shorter than he was, and he was over six feet tall. “I'm hosting a party at my aunt's a week from Friday night,” she said. “I'd love to have you join us. It would be a nice way to meet Jacobsville's upper social strata.”

“Where and what time?” he asked.

She grinned. “I'll write down the address. Just a sec.” She went back to her car and bent over to give him a good view of her body as she retrieved a pen and pad. It didn't take second sight to know that she was available and interested. So was he. It had been a long, dry spell.

She wrote down the address and handed it to him. “About six,” she said. “That's early, but we can have highballs while we wait for the others to show up.”

“I don't drink,” he said.

She looked startled. He was obviously not joking.

“Well, then, we can have coffee while we wait,” she amended, smiling so that he could see her perfectly capped teeth.

“Suits me. I'll see you then.”

She hesitated, as if she wanted to stay.

“I'm just in from D.C. very early this morning,” he said. “And it's been a full day at the office. I'm tired.”

“Then I'll go, and let you get comfortable,” she said immediately, smiling again. “Don't forget.”

“I won't.”

He'd gone around her car to put the Bucar in front of the house, on the semicircular driveway, so she simply pulled around him to shoot out the driveway, waving a hand out the window as she passed him.

He went inside, almost colliding with Miss Jane. “That fancy woman parked herself in the driveway and said she'd wait for you. I didn't invite her in,” she added with a faint belligerence. “She's only been in town two months and she's already got a reputation. Put her hand down Ben Smith's pants right in his own office!”

Apparently this was akin to blasphemy, he reasoned, waiting for the rest.

“He jerked her hand right back out, opened his office door, and put her right out on the sidewalk. His wife works in the office with him, you know, and when he told her what happened, she walked into Andy Webb's office and told him what he could do with the property they'd planned to buy from him, and how far!”

He pursed his lips. “Fast worker, is she?”

“Tramp, more like,” Miss Jane said coldly. “No decent woman behaves like that!”

“It's the twenty-first century,” he began.

“Would your mother ever have done that?” she asked shortly.

He actually caught his breath. His little mother had been a saint. No, he couldn't have pictured her being available to any man except his father—until his father had cheated on her and hastened her death.

Miss Jane read his reply on his face and her head jerked up and down. “Neither would my mother,” she continued. “A woman who's that easy with men she doesn't even know will be that way all her life, and even if she's married she won't be able to settle. It's the same with men who treat women like disposable toys.”

“So everybody in town is celibate?” he queried.

She glared up at him. It was a long way. “People in small towns mostly get married and have children and raise them. We don't look at life the way people in cities do. Down here, honor and self-respect are a lot more important than closing a business deal and having a martini lunch. We're just simple people, Mr. Grier. But we look deeper than outsiders do. And we judge by what we see.”

“Isn't there a passage about judging?” he retorted.

“There are several about right and wrong as well,” she informed him. “Civilizations fall when the arts and religion become superfluous.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Oh, did you think I was stupid because I keep house for you?” she asked blithely. “I have a Master's Degree in History,” she added with a sweet smile. “I taught school in the big city until one of my students beat me almost to death in front of the class. When I got out of the hospital, I was too shaken to go back to teaching. So now I keep house for people. It's safer. Especially when the people I keep house for work in law enforcement,” she added. “Your supper's on the table.”

“Thanks.”

She was gone before he could say anything else. He was still reeling from her confession. Come to think of it, the Jacobs County Sheriff, Hayes Carson, had recommended Miss Jane. She'd worked for him temporarily until he could get the part-time housekeeper he wanted. No wonder she was afraid of her old job. He shook his head. In his day, teachers ran the classrooms. Apparently a lot of things had changed in the two or so decades since he graduated from high school and went off to college.

He was lying awake, looking at the ceiling, when there was a frantic pounding at the front door.

He got up and threw on a robe, tramping downstairs in his bare feet. Miss Jane was there ahead of him, turning on the porch light before she started to open the door.

“Don't open it until you know who it is!” he shouted at her. His hand was on the .40 caliber Glock that he'd stuffed into his pocket as he joined her.

“I know who it is,” she replied, and opened the door quickly.

Their next-door neighbor, Grace Carver, was standing there in a ratty old bathrobe and tattered shoes, her long blond hair in a frizzed ponytail, her gray eyes wide and frantic.

“Please, may I use your phone?” she panted.

“Granny's gasping for breath and her chest hurts. I'm afraid it's a heart attack. My phone won't work and I can't start the car!” Tears of impotent fury were rolling down her cheeks. “She'll die!”

Before she got the words completely out, Garon had dialed 911 and given the dispatcher the address and condition of the old woman.

“Wait for me,” he told Grace firmly. “I'll be right back.”

He ran up the stairs, threw on jeans and a shirt and dragged on his boots without socks. He grabbed a denim jacket, because it was cold, and was downstairs in less than five minutes.

“You're quick,” Grace managed.