Rules of Crime (16 page)

She responded to the kids, then grabbed a stack of envelopes from the breakfast bar. She’d brought the mail home from the department without looking through it. Typically, the personal mail she received at work was from victims who wrote to express gratitude or to ask for help with accessing services.

One return address made her chest tighten:
San Quentin State Prison
. A letter from a convict she’d put away? The name in the center of the envelope made her heart skip a beat:
Carl Barstow-River
.

This will be bad
, she told herself,
don’t even open it.
It was either from her father or possibly someone connected to one of his victims. As a teenager, she’d changed her last name from Barstow to River, feeling like the new identity would carry her away from her past and give her some peace. And it mostly had. But her father had learned of her name change—most likely from her aunt who stayed in touch with both of them—and once someone who knew her connection to Gabriel Barstow had contacted her through the bureau.

River tore open the envelope, which had been forwarded by the Portland FBI office. She hoped it was from her father and not a victim’s relative. Thirteen women had died, all mothers. The anguish in the lives of their families was never far from her heart, even now. The man who’d contacted her years ago wanted to know why Gabriel Barstow had chosen his wife. As though she might have some insight. But her father had never confided his motives to his interrogators, and River’s years in the bureau
had not brought her closer to understanding. Serial killers were inexplicable.

River glanced at the signature:
Your father
. For a second she was relieved, then instantly worried again. He hadn’t written in years, after decades of silence from her. What was this about? Was the old man finally going to be given the death sentence he deserved?

Her hands shook as she started to read the letter.

Dear Carl

Sorry son, but you are in danger. I wanted to be a good inmate but I made some enemies. Darien Ozlo gets out soon and he said he would hurt you to get even with me. He knows you’re the only person I care about and I was stupid to talk about you being an FBI. I hope it’s just talk, but you’d better watch out.

And come see me before I die.—Your father, GB

Good glory. Just when she thought she’d found a little peace.

River dropped the letter, momentarily overwhelmed by the double fuck-you life had given her. She’d been born in the wrong body to a despicable man. Were those things connected? More than one psychiatrist had tried to convince her they weren’t.

Her phone rang as she pushed back from the table. She didn’t recognize the number and was grateful it wasn’t a personal call. She pulled in a breath and cleared her mind. “This is River.”

“Jackie Matthews, Eugene Police. We’ve located the vehicle you’re searching for in the kidnapping case. It’s near the corner of Seventeenth and Patterson. An officer is with the car now.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

River made a quick call to check on Ivan Anderson. “Have you heard from the kidnapper?”

“No. And I haven’t heard from my daughter either. She’s not home and she’s not answering her phone.”

“Could she be at a friend’s?”

“I called her boyfriend and he hasn’t seen her or heard from her either.” Anderson was suddenly distressed. “What if she’s been kidnapped too? I thought you were going to send an agent to the TV station to protect her. What happened?”

“The producer made Dakota leave the building. She was gone when we got there.”

“They fired her?” A new level of panic.

“I don’t know.”
Why was Dakota’s job important at this moment?
“What about a girlfriend she might go stay with?”

“She has some friends from college, but I don’t really keep track of them.”

“Can you find her friends’ phone numbers and make some calls?” River kept her voice light. “We’ll put out an alert for her and her car, but there’s no point in panicking. Most likely she’s with a friend. If the kidnapper has her, he’ll tell us when he calls.” She clicked off before he could unload on her again.

Had she failed to protect Dakota Anderson?

Every decision is correct in that moment.
The mantra echoed in her head. Years of inner conflict in dealing with her own androgyny and her father’s violent legacy had led River to adopt just enough Buddhism to keep herself sane.

She was glad she hadn’t stayed over at Anderson’s house. His drunken anger would have been hard to overcome. She and Agent Fouts had flipped a coin to see who had to stay with the target, and Fouts had lost as usual. She felt a little guilty, since he had a wife at home, but being a single person, she’d spent her whole life accommodating others who had spouses and children. Now that she’d shed her false skin, she wanted to live her life to the fullest. River grabbed her coat and strapped on her Glock, mindful that peaceful thoughts could only protect her soul, not her body.

Renee Jackson’s red Acura had been left unlocked about ten blocks from the University of Oregon.

“It’s a miracle it wasn’t stolen.” The patrol officer looked around at the older homes occupied mostly by students.

“Let’s get some tape around this whole area,” River said. “Who knows what evidence the technicians will find.” She rummaged through the car’s glove box while she called Anderson again.

“River here. Any idea why your fiancée would be parked on the corner of Seventeenth and Patterson?”

A slight pause. “Serenity Lane is nearby. It’s an alcohol treatment center. She might have left the AA meeting and driven there to check herself in.”

“Only she never made it that far.”

“Can you find out for sure? What if she’s in treatment and the kidnapper is conning us?”

How would the perp know?
River thought it was a strange idea. “We may need a subpoena to get that information but I’ll try.”

River hung up and pulled out the registration.
Renee Marie Jackson, 230 Cheshire Street.
That wasn’t Anderson’s address. She’d been led to believe Renee lived with him. Were he and his fiancée on the outs? Was there a layer of deception and fraud going on here?

Further rummaging turned up a flashlight, an AA chapter book with meetings listed, and a half-empty package of Junior Mints.
About as useful as a grocery list
, River thought. She climbed out of the car to search under the front seats and found a thermos. One sniff of the contents told her it was alcohol, probably vodka.

She stood and turned to the officer. “Where’s Serenity Lane?”

“Right around the corner.” He pointed to the left.

River walked over, strode into the treatment center, and showed her badge to the middle-aged woman behind the desk. “Agent River. Renee Jackson is missing. Her car is parked nearby, but we’ve also had a ransom demand. I need one simple piece of information: Is she here in the building?”

Not this time.
The receptionist’s unspoken words popped into River’s head. The thought was soft and hesitant, but unmistakable. Out loud, the woman said, “I’m sorry but I can’t divulge client information.”

“That’s okay.” River smiled and walked away. She had what she needed. Renee had not made it to check in. She’d been grabbed right outside her car. River called her office and asked for evidence technicians.

“One of our techs is out in the field, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Knowing it would take the evidence people at least an hour to arrive, River spent a few minutes searching the street and sidewalk for blood spatters or dropped personal items. The area was mostly clean, netting only a wad of gum and a bus transfer ticket. She bagged both, almost hesitant to send them to the crime lab at Quantico, then hurried back to the victim’s vehicle. She might as well check the backseat and pop the trunk if she could.

In the otherwise clean car with a deep black interior it stood out immediately. A single white glove lay in the middle of the seat.

CHAPTER 21

Tuesday, January 10, 5:46 a.m.

The grumble of an engine woke Jackson from a sound sleep.
Who was in his driveway?
He jumped from bed, pulled on pants, and grabbed his weapon. If Katie had been home, the Sig Sauer would have been locked in a fingerprint-activated case, but he’d left the gun on the nightstand this time.

The front door opened as he rounded the hall corner. His weapon came up, then dropped immediately.

“Jesus, Wade. Someday you’re gonna kill me.”

His brother, Derrick, looked haggard after three weeks on the road in a long-haul truck. But women found his cobalt eyes, wide jaw, and shaggy blond hair appealing even on his worst days. Kera thought he and Derrick looked alike, except for Jackson’s dark eyes and cropped hair, but she was humoring him. His older brother had always been bigger, better looking, and a lot more trouble. Jackson had tried to compensate by always doing the right thing.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you this early.” He tucked his gun in the back of his pants and gave Derrick a high five. “Good to see you.” After an eleven-year falling out, they weren’t up to hugging yet. They might never be.

“I always make good time when my days off are coming up.” Derrick tossed his duffel bag on the floor and stepped into the kitchen. “Join me for some coffee? I’ll brew.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Jackson hurried to put on a shirt and leave his weapon on the nightstand. Back in the kitchen he made toast to soak up their coffee.

“What’s new here?” Derrick asked, taking his cup to the small kitchen table.

“Renee has been kidnapped and held for ransom.”

“What the fuck?” His brother spewed coffee.

Jackson reached for a paper towel. “Her fiancé is a stockbroker and apparently has some money, but it still surprises me that she was targeted.”

“Is she okay? Have you talked to her or seen a video?”

“We don’t have proof of life yet, and the first ransom attempt went badly. It’s not looking good.”

“Where’s Katie?”

“With her aunt Jan. I’m working the case with the FBI, so it’s a good place for Katie to be.”

“What a freaky thing for Katie. What can I do? I’ll be here for a few days if she wants to come home.”

“Thanks. I’ll let her know.” Jackson sipped his coffee, still surprised to be sharing a house, even part-time, with his older brother. He liked it though, since Derrick was gone most of the time. Kera still wanted him to move in with her, but he wasn’t ready to take on her entourage. So this arrangement was good for now.

“I met a woman I really like.” Derrick grinned. “I know, I’ve said that before, but this one’s special. I think it could get serious.”

“Where does she live?”

“Fresno.”

Jackson chewed his toast and pondered the implications. Would Derrick move away or want to sell the house?

“Will you help me build a trike this summer?” Derrick asked, out of the blue. “Every time I see yours sitting in the garage, I think I have to have one, so we can go out riding together.”

“Let’s do it.” Jackson was pleased. He loved his three-wheeled motorcycle. Katie, who’d helped him build it, no longer had time for weekend rides with him. She’d moved into a new phase and was feeling popular at school and attractive to boys. “I’d like to use a different Volkswagen rear end this time.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll just be the helper.”

“Start looking online for old VWs.” Jackson stood and gulped the last of his coffee. “I have to shower and get to work. This case is a round-the-clock operation.”

“I won’t see you much while I’m here this week?”

Jackson shook his head. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

“We were supposed to remodel the bathroom. For starters.”

“We will.”

A little later, Jackson hurried to his car, cursing the cold and early-morning darkness. His phone rang.

“Jackson, it’s Sergeant Lammers. I’m sorry to report that Dakota Anderson was found dead at Wayne Morse Park this morning. I need you to take this case. It could be related to the kidnapping.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Murdered?”

“I don’t know. Dispatch said the woman who called it in was nearly hysterical.” Lammers sounded upset too. “I’ll send Schak
and Quince. Evans is pretty deep into an assault case, so she’s not available.”

“The park is on Crest?” Jackson had never had a reason to visit the area. What was Lammers not telling him?

“Near Twenty-Fifth.”

“Have you told Agent River?”

“I’ll call her next.” Lammers cleared her throat. “I’m scheduling a joint task force meeting this afternoon at four. I need to get up to speed on these cases. As soon as the media gets wind of Dakota’s death, we have to make a public statement.”

“Good luck with that.” Jackson had no intention of dealing with the press. He hung up, his mind reeling. Dakota had gone on TV asking for help with her father’s ransom situation, then was killed in a dog park hours later. It couldn’t be a coincidence, but on the surface, the connection was mystifying.