Elaina’s stomach pitched. Her gaze veered to the white car on the other side of the lot, and her feet started moving. A man in an LIPD uniform was standing guard beside the still-open door. Elaina ducked her head down and looked into the vehicle.
A red two-piece swimsuit. Identical to the one Jamie Ingram had been wearing last night.
“Jamie called it in.”
She turned to see Cinco walking up behind her.
“Who—”
“Friend of hers on the volleyball team.” His eyes were solemn. “You remember the tall one?”
“Brunette?”
“Her name’s Angela Martinez. She’s twenty-four.”
“You know her?” she asked, somehow reading the answer right there on his face.
“We went to high school together.”
“McCord? Chavez?”
They turned around, and Loomis gestured them over. “McCord, you’re with me, covering the wildlife park. Chavez, go with Maynard. You two know this coastline better than we do. He’s gassing up the patrol boat.”
Elaina glanced around. “Is this everyone? It feels thin.”
“It is,” Loomis said. “We’ve got a few agents on their way from Brownsville, plus a couple at the apartment
complex. They’ll join the foot search when they wrap up there. Hopefully, we’ll get a canine unit out here before too long.”
“And Chief Breck?”
“He’s on the bay already, with the sheriff and a couple deputies. Okay, people.” Loomis raised his voice to address the group. “Angela Martinez has brown hair, brown eyes. Five-ten, one-forty. She was last seen less than five hours ago at Coconuts bar. This girl’s tall and athletic, so let’s hope she puts up a fight. Now, everyone get moving. She might still be alive.”
Troy dropped the boxes at his feet and used his key card to unlock Elaina’s door. No sooner had he pushed it open than a man stood in the doorway, glowering at him.
And holding a Glock in his right hand.
“Ric Santos?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Troy,” he said, and the glower intensified. “Wanna give me a hand?”
Troy picked up the first box and shoved it at the detective. The man paused briefly, then returned his gun to his holster and took the load.
“What is this?”
Troy picked up the second box and followed him deep into Elaina’s suite. It was just as messy as it had been last night—more so, actually, given the unmade bed. Noon, and the maid clearly hadn’t been by yet. Or maybe she had, but the detective had sent her away.
“I’m bringing you two boxes’ worth of research into the Mary Beth Cooper murder.” Troy deposited his carton
on the floor beside the sofa. Ric did the same. “Consider it a donation to the cause.”
“You’ve investigated the case?”
“You could say that. Elaina tells me you guys have set up shop in here, comparing notes. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to go through this stuff, too.”
The detective regarded Troy skeptically. “How come you’re not out beating the bushes with the rest of the task force?”
“I would be,” Troy said, “but the entire marina’s been declared a crime scene, so I couldn’t get my boat out. And the wildlife park is off-limits to civilians today.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“I’m a writer.”
The detective’s brows arched in surprise.
“True crime books,” he added. “These boxes represent eight months’ worth of research into Mary Beth Cooper, including crime-scene photos, autopsy reports, and jailhouse interviews with the man who confessed to killing her but turned out to be full of shit. Do you want this or not?”
Ric gazed down at the boxes and rested his hands on his hips. He looked exhausted, frustrated, wrung out. “I want it,” he said anyway.
“Thought so.” Troy peeled the lids off the boxes and tossed them on the sofa. “So what about you?”
The detective pulled the first manila folder from one of the boxes and glanced up. “What’s that?”
“Why aren’t you out beating the bushes with the rest of them?”
“They’ve got plenty of boots on the ground. Figured
I might be more help doing brain work instead of leg work.”
“Feds wouldn’t let you onto their task force, huh?”
His eyes darkened, and Troy knew he’d guessed right. “Hey, you planning to help here? Or you just dropping off?”
“I can help.” Troy’s gaze skimmed over the ocean of files and paperwork. “Lotta information spread out in here. Is it as bad as it looks, or you and Elaina got some kind of system?”
The detective picked up a yellow legal pad from the coffee table and tossed it at him like a Frisbee. Troy caught it.
“Yeah, we’ve got a system. And it’s worse than it looks.”
N 26° 12.375 W 097° 10.701
Elaina plowed her way through the cattails, ignoring the blisters and the scratches and the merciless sun. The first two she pushed out of her mind by concentrating on the ever-changing terrain and devising a path. The last was harder to ignore, especially when her jaw muscles went slack and her scalp grew cool and tingly with sweat. She was approaching heat exhaustion. With every shiver, she knew it. And yet she felt completely incapable of a rational response. She needed water, yes. And shade. But Loomis and Callahan were just ten feet ahead, and she’d be damned if she prevented her team from scouring its designated quadrant of swamp.
“Tell me about Cinco Chavez.”
Elaina’s gaze cut up and to the right, where the task force leader was forging ahead through the tall reeds.
“What about him?”
He tossed a look at her over his shoulder. “What’s your read there?”
Elaina’s poached brain somehow caught his implication. “You mean my read on him as an officer?” No, that wasn’t what he’d meant.
“Your read on him as a suspect.”
She flicked a glance at Callahan, who’d taken on the role of pace setter for their little expedition. He didn’t react to the question from Loomis, but he was much too close not to have heard him. Evidently, the team leader’s theory didn’t come as a surprise to him. They were grasping at straws now, and she guessed it was because their prime suspect had an alibi for last night. An agent had tailed Noah Neely home from his interrogation and surveilled his apartment until the call came in about Angela. A quick check had revealed Neely to be asleep in his bed at the time, which pretty much eliminated him from their suspect list, provided Angela’s disappearance couldn’t be attributed to a copycat.
So now the latest and greatest suspect was
Cinco
?
“I think…” Elaina struggled for a response. “Frankly, I think that’s crap. Sir.”
“He knows Martinez,” Loomis countered. “He knew the Cooper girl, too. They grew up in the same neighborhood in Bay Port.” He glanced back at her. “You aware of that?”
“Yes, but he would have been six
teen
at the time of Mary Beth Cooper’s murder. That’s much younger than the profile—”
“He lives on the island, just like you said. Likes to hunt and fish, has access to boats. He’s got the law
enforcement background, plus the inside skinny on everything happening around here. And the kicker—he supposedly took that phone tip with the GPS coordinates from Noah Neely’s girlfriend.”
“You think he lied about—”
“I think he’s been up to his eyeballs in this thing from the get-go. More than any other cop here, including his boss. You aware he was the first responder to the Gina Calvert crime scene?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”
“And he’s been at Coconuts bar almost every night for the past two weeks?”
Elaina’s legs were Jell-O, her skin clammy. “You’re suggesting he’s been trolling? Under the guise of searching for the killer?”
“I’m suggesting he’s always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place, however you want to look at it.”
Elaina stepped into a hole, and lukewarm water filled her right boot. She took a few steps back and veered toward Callahan, who seemed adept at finding what little firm footing there was in this mud pit. The tide had gone out since last night, leaving acres and acres of soggy marshland that would have been accessible by boat at three o’clock this morning.
“You’ve spent more time with Chavez than any of the rest of us,” Loomis pressed. “Tell me what you think.”
Elaina took a deep breath. She needed to be objective. After all, she’d shared her geocaching lead with him, and he hadn’t outright laughed. Yes, he’d looked at her like she was crazy, but at least he’d heard her out.
It had been Callahan who’d smiled. Smugly. While
looking away. And she’d known her theory was going to be the topic of much discussion among members of the task force later.
Let them tear into her. At least they’d be giving her theory some thought.
“Well?”
Rivulets of sweat slid down her spine. She cleared her parched throat. “I think Officer Chavez is solid. Dedicated. Eager to lend a hand, but there’s nothing more to it than his devotion to the job.” She sounded like a sappy toast at some retirement dinner. “Anyway, his age doesn’t fit the profile, and I’ve seen nothing to make me think he’d be capable of this level of violence.”
The men fell silent in front of her. The sun’s rays beat down, and the chorus of cicadas surrounding them escalated to a deafening buzz. Elaina tipped her head back. Noon had come and gone, and the sky was nearly bleached white by the unyielding sun.
A distant bird caught her eye.
She knew that bird. She knew its swirling, circling pattern. She stopped short, just as the buzzard swooped down and disappeared behind some foliage.
“There,” she said, and her lungs constricted.
“What? Where?” Loomis turned to look at her.
“A buzzard. There.” She pointed at the distant clump of cattails. “It’s feeding.”
Troy had a crick in his neck and a renewed sense of loathing for the sick bastard who’d killed all these women.
He glanced across the room at Ric Santos, who was buried in old police reports.
“I covered the Woodlawn murders up in San Antonio years ago,”
Troy said, and the detective looked up from his paperwork. “Crossed paths with a special agent Rey Santos with the VICMO squad up there. Any relation?”
“He’s my brother.”
Troy thought he’d seen a resemblance. “Elaina’s got a theory this unsub may have applied to the FBI,” he said. “I know the applications in this region go through the San Antonio field office. Could your brother—”
“She already asked,” Ric said. “He’s checking it out, said he’d probably have something by tomorrow.”
The door to the suite opened, and Weaver trudged in, looking battered and fried. Elaina followed. Her glassy-eyed gaze drifted over the room, paused briefly on Troy, then moved to the minibar, where an unopened bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket. She crossed the room, plunked the bottle onto the counter, and walked out with the bucket.
Weaver dropped into an armchair.
“What happened to you two?” Ric asked.
“Heat index of ninety-nine-point-nine million.” He tossed his shades on the coffee table, revealing pasty white circles above lobster-red cheeks.
“You guys ever heard of sunblock?” Ric asked as Elaina slammed back into the room. She went straight into the bathroom and closed the door.
Troy looked at Weaver. “What’s wrong with her?”
The agent’s worried, bloodshot gaze settled on the door, and Troy heard the shower go on.
“She found the body.” Weaver sighed heavily. “It wasn’t pretty.”
Ric cursed. “Time of death?”
“
Early this morning, they think. We missed her by a few hours.”
Another curse from Ric.
Troy got up and snagged Elaina’s duffel bag from the floor. It felt empty. He pulled open dresser drawers and gathered up clothes, then grabbed an Evian from the mini-fridge.
“God, I’m whipped,” Weaver said. “Anyone up for a burger? All I’ve eaten today is a granola bar.”
“You guys should hit the diner across the street.” Troy crossed to the bathroom and tapped his knuckles on the door. “We’ll catch up with you there.”
He opened the door and slipped inside. Elaina was on the floor of the shower, her knees hugged to her chest as the water pelted her back. Beside her was the ice bucket.
Troy dropped her clothes in the sink and pulled open the glass door. He crouched down next to her, and she turned her head just enough to see him.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
He pried the ice cube out of her hand and replaced it with the bottle of water. “Drink this.” Then he moved her hair aside and rubbed the ice cube over her neck. Her back was pale, in sharp contrast to her neck and arms, which were brick red.
“Please go away.” She rested her forehead on her knees and hunched into a tighter ball.
His jeans and boots grew damp from spray. At least she’d had the sense to take a cool shower instead of a hot one. He grabbed another ice cube and rubbed it between her shoulder blades. She didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, she turned to look at him. Her face was pink,
her lips chapped. Scratches marred the skin of her arms.
“We were too late,” she said.
“I know.”
Her gaze held his, and he read a world of emotions he knew she’d never talk about. At least not right now. And it was all he could do not to pull her into his lap. But she’d shut down if he did that. She’d shrink into her shell, like a hermit crab, and never come out.
She closed her eyes and turned her head away. “I need to be alone.”
He stood up and stepped out of the shower. “Five minutes, Elaina. Then we’re meeting everyone across the street for dinner. Finish that water.”
She didn’t argue, and he wouldn’t have listened to her if she had. He slipped out of the bathroom and found the suite empty. He sat on the bed to wait, resisting the urge to go out on the balcony for a cigarette. Ten minutes ticked by, but he heard movement behind the door, so he didn’t hassle her. Finally, she stepped out of the bathroom in the shorts and T-shirt he’d selected. Her freshly combed hair hung damp and loose around her shoulders.
“Ready.”
He held the door open for her and followed her down the hall. Her gait this evening was stiff, her shoulders slumped. She looked like a casualty of the Boston Marathon, and he half expected her to sway into the wall as they walked down the corridor.