Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (8 page)

Missing foster girls. Van Gogh.

Becca’s pulse kicked up and she schooled her voice not to give away her anxiety. “Do you still have the info on the girls you found?”

“Sure, but their pictures don’t match the ones we have.” A look of frustration flashed over her face. “They could still have been recruited for the credit card ring, though, and Connor didn’t get pics of them.”

“Agreed. I’d like the information so I can follow up.”

“I’ll email it to you in the morning.”

“Can you do it now?”

“Now?” Her gaze locked on Becca’s. “It’s that important to you?”

Becca nodded and kept her mouth shut before she inadvertently mentioned something about the Van Gogh investigation.

“Sure, okay.” Taylor leaned over her computer and sent the email. “One more thing I should mention. Since Danny’s still not giving his name, I collected his DNA so we can run a search.”

“Resourceful.” Becca picked up her backpack. “But if Sulyard approves the DNA request, which I doubt he will, I’m betting Danny will give up his name long before the test gets through the lab’s backlog.”

“We could use a private lab to get it done sooner.”

“Sulyard would never spring for such a high cost in a simple fraud investigation.”

“I could pay for it myself or try a few of my contacts in the forensic world to see if I can come up with someone who can—”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Becca interrupted. “I’ve got someone local who might be able to help. He’s a weapons expert, but he shares leased office space with a lab. Maybe he could get them to run the test for free. I’ll give him a call and get it to him if he agrees.”

Taylor frowned. “I’d like to see this through myself. Would it be okay if I took it to him?”

“Sure. Fine,” Becca said and started down the hall.

Taylor caught up, and they headed for the parking garage together. A cool wind blew through the space, but the air was waterlogged and the fall temperatures were unusually warm. That meant she’d find fog on the run she planned to take the minute she got home.

Once they reached her car, Taylor turned to Becca. “Thanks for not getting mad at me.”

“Honestly,” Becca said. “We’ve all done something like this in the past. But it didn’t take long for us to wise up and realize teamwork is a better option. You’re part of the team, Taylor, and we have your back. Now go home and get some sleep. If Jack agrees to help with the DNA, you’re going to need it to deal with him.”

Taylor cast Becca a quizzical look, but there was no way she’d be able to explain Jack Rains, so Becca went to her car. Taylor would just have to experience him for herself. Even with her fatigue, the thought of rookie Taylor coming eye to eye with world-weary Jack made Becca smile. He just might be the best lesson Taylor could get on why going rogue wasn’t a good idea.

Becca stopped to pick up a turkey burger and salad on her way home and shoved them in her refrigerator. She dressed in moisture-wicking running clothes before heading back outside for a long run to clear her mind. By the time she returned home, she was drenched in sweat, but she didn’t take the time to change. She could cool down while digging out boxes of Van Gogh records.

She’d accumulated twelve file boxes of information over the years. Reports, forms, sketches, and crime-scene photos. She’d neatly organized it all in labeled folders by date. The once-crisp folders were now worn from her semi-annual review of the information. She’d practically memorized it all, but that, in itself, could be a problem. She might skim or skip over something important. Hence the need for a clear mind.

She pulled out the main folders to create a murder board on the long wall above her sofa. First up was a sketch of Van Gogh created from her description in the nineties. Next to it, she added an age progression sketch that she commissioned every year on the anniversary of her abduction. Then she added Molly’s picture, as well as the photo of the girl whose body was discovered in the nineties. She’d been buried two weeks longer than the girl found today so it had been a gruesome sight. Next to that, she put up blank white poster boards where she noted the main case leads that didn’t pan out and the reasons why.

On her dining table, she set her copy of Detective Orman’s case murder book. She’d had the chance to interview him several times before he passed away this past year. He’d not been happy to see her at first. He’d said she reminded him of the most important case of his career, the one he’d never solved. He’d continued to investigate, but he didn’t like the thought of her getting involved. He feared she’d get close to Van Gogh, and he’d somehow figure out that she was alive. But that hadn’t happened, and on her last visit to Orman, he gave in and handed over a copy of his murder book. Actually, it was a copy of a copy. The original had to remain in PPB’s files. He shouldn’t have taken copies of the files either, but when he retired and the case remained unsolved, he couldn’t let it rest.

She got out colored pens, sticky notes in various sizes, and colored flags to mark report pages. She added two sizes of notepads, a stapler, and paper clips to the table.

Standing back, she assessed the room. Perfect. Just the way she organized her investigations at work. Her next step would be to post everything she knew about today’s Jane Doe to the board.

She printed out a map of the park and surrounding area, then highlighted nearby residential areas. Multi-unit homes in yellow. Single family homes in orange. On the computer, she panned the map out far enough to include the site where the girl had been found in the nineties. She printed it and marked the addresses on both maps. She tacked them up and studied them.

On the surface, no correlation appeared for the two locations. They weren’t even on the same side of town. The first burial site had been a vacant lot in an undeveloped area of town that now held an apartment complex.

So what did the two locations have in common? Had Van Gogh lived near the first site in the nineties and moved nearer the current burial site during that time? Or had he, in both cases, simply searched for an isolated location to dump the bodies?

She needed a more detailed map of the area surrounding today’s discovery to draw any kind of working hypothesis. She headed back to her computer, and her phone rang on the table. The sound startled her and sent her heart rate soaring.

Was it Connor? Had they found another body?

She quickly grabbed her phone and eyed the screen. Elise, her foster mother.

Okay, good. Not another body. Likely a foster kid in trouble.

Becca sighed out a breath.

“Since when has a foster kid in trouble become something to take lightly,” she mumbled as she decided if she would answer.

She wanted to help this kid, whoever it might be—she’d never said no to kids in trouble—but tonight was different. Tonight, she was dealing with Van Gogh, and she didn’t have the emotional strength left to talk about another suffering child.

Before she could make a decision, the call went to voicemail. Fine. Decision made for her. She went back to work, printed out the new map and highlighted it, then hung it on her wall. Her phone rang again.

The same jolt of adrenaline shot through her, abating only when she spotted Elise’s name again. Elise had been the one who had taken Becca in after her name change. She’d been told about Van Gogh and the danger that could follow Becca. Still, she’d said yes, and it was her tender care that had kept Becca sane. Becca couldn’t continue to ignore Elise, no matter what was going on in her own life.

“Elise,” Becca answered but kept her gaze on the map in hopes of finding the clue she was missing.

“I need you.” Elise’s voice was barely loud enough to hear. “I’m at the ER.”

“Are you hurt? Sick?”
Please don’t say you’re dying. Please.

“It’s not me, it’s Frankie.”

Frankie.
A sweet teen and one of Elise’s current foster kids.

“She’s dead, murdered, and it’s all my fault.” The words came out on a choked sob.

Van Gogh.
Had he found out Becca had lived with Elise? Was he punishing Becca for running from him by going after one of Elise’s girls?

“How?” Becca held her breath for the answer.

“That’s why I need to see you. Please come. Hurry. Before it happens to another one of my precious kids.”

The line went dead, and a grim certainty settled over Becca. Van Gogh had struck and once again, it was close to home.

Chapter Nine

IT WAS ONLY TEN P.M. and Connor was dog-tired. Despite the time, he should be falling into bed instead of pulling up to Becca’s apartment, but there was no point in turning in yet. All he’d see when he closed his eyes would be the faces of murdered girls. Jane Doe number one, her face nearly decimated by decay. Jane Doe number two, now a skeleton, her face totally missing. And the third and fourth girls located by the cadaver dogs? It was still too early to see their faces. Dr. Williams had to take her time unearthing the bodies so they didn’t miss any possible leads. She couldn’t even determine a time of death yet . . . and might not be able to. Ever. She’d just have to wait and see what she located.

Which meant Connor had to wait, too. At least until tomorrow. Maybe longer.

He wasn’t good at waiting, and after spending time with Becca today, he wasn’t good with being alone, either. He hated to admit it, but that was his real reason for coming here.

He parked his truck and looked up to see her lights filtering through blinds. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. Good because she was awake and he really wanted to talk to her. Bad because of the potential consequences of violating every kind of protocol by sharing information with her before Vance cleared her.

Too dang bad.
Connor needed her help on the investigation, and if this was what he had to do to find closure for these girls, then he would.

He slammed his truck door and crossed the lot to the main stairway leading to her second floor apartment. He’d barely planted a foot on the first step when her door suddenly opened. She was wearing serviceable running shorts and an Under Armor T-shirt. Her outfit should have made her look like a tomboy, but the shirt hugged her curves and the shorts gave him a nice view of her long legs. She carried a small backpack, and her face glistened with sweat, as if she’d already been running.

“Going for a run?” he asked.

She dropped to the ground, her hand going to an ankle holster, before meeting his gaze. “You scared me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“For your information—though I’m not sure why you need to know—I just came back from a run.”

“Kind of dangerous to go running alone at this time of night, isn’t it?”

“My neighborhood is safe.” She patted her ankle. “And as you can see, I don’t go out unprotected.” She stood and jogged down the stairs, stopping a few risers above him

He looked up at her. This close, he could see how tightly the fabric clung to her curves, firing his imagination. His heart gave a kick, and he regretted coming here. He should have known, in his exhausted state, that she would get to him even more.

He’d crack a few jokes then get out of there. “Guess I’m destined to find you all hot and sweaty from now on.”

She eyed him. “It’s late, Connor, and I’m not doing this whole witty banter thing with you.” She crossed her arms. “Either tell me why you’re here or take off.”

“Crabby much?”

“Goodnight, Connor.” She moved to push past him.

He stepped in front of her. “I was hoping you’d give me a rundown on Van Gogh.”

“It’s late. Read the case files.” She dug her keys from her pack and tried to maneuver around him.

“I plan to.” He widened his stance to make a solid wall in front of her. “But I thought we could get going on the investigation faster if you gave me a quick summary of what transpired in the nineties.”

Her eyes narrowed into tense little slits. “You’re really something, you know that? Expecting me to help you after your boss tossed me off the crime scene.”

“Oh, that? That was just Vance. He’s kind of a control freak, the same as Sulyard is.”

“I’d have to have been deaf and blind not to figure that out.” She eyed him. “But what I’m talking about is the fact that not a word came out of your or Sam’s mouth in our defense. Not a single word.”

“Hey, wait . . . what? You’re mad about that?”

She crossed her arms. “You’re darn right I am.”

“I’m sorry, Bex. Honest. But if I’d spoken up, it would have made things worse. Vance would have zoned in on you even more.”

“Right.”

“Think about it. If you questioned or contradicted Sulyard in front of PPB officers, what would he do?”

“Get mad and let me have it when we were alone.” She relaxed her arms. “Okay, fine. I see your point.”

“So you’ll help me?”

She stared right through him. “In the morning. Right now, I have somewhere I have to be.”

He gaped at her. “Now? Dressed like that?”

“I really have to go, Connor.”

His failure to move elicited another sigh from her. “I have to get to the hospital.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s my foster mother, Elise. She called. One of her kids, Frankie, was murdered tonight. She needs me
now
, so I didn’t take the time to change.”

“Murdered.” He let her pronouncement settle in. “In the Portland city limits?”

Becca shrugged. “Elise lives in the city and the hospital’s within the city limits, so likely.”

He dug out his phone and thumbed through it. “I didn’t get notification of a homicide.”

“She just called from the hospital. Maybe the responding patrol officer hasn’t requested a detective yet.”

“Maybe,” Connor said, his mind running through the possibilities. “You think this is related to Van Gogh?”

She shrugged again, but her eyes gave away her fear.

He wasn’t leaving her alone when she was feeling this way. And if the murder was related to Van Gogh, he had to know as soon as possible. “I’ll go to the hospital with you.”

Becca shook her head. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got enough on your plate right now. If this ends up being connected to Van Gogh, I’ll give you a call.”

“Not happening,” he said firmly. “I’ll come with you. If the murder occurred in my jurisdiction and it’s not related to Van Gogh, then I’ll take Elise’s statement, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”

“Fine,” she said, but her tone told him otherwise. Apparently, spending any time with him was unpalatable.

He jingled his keys. “I’ll drive.”

Her chin jutted out. “I’ll drive my own car, and we can meet up at the hospital.”

Everything between them was always such a struggle. At the moment, he was tired of it, but if he was honest, he also liked the sparring. His brothers had all married easy-going women, but he found the challenge Becca presented interesting.

Just right now, he wished she’d give it up so they could get going. “I was hoping to talk to you about Van Gogh on the drive over.”

“Fine,” she grumbled.

He was starting to hate hearing that one word from her, but he’d take it as long as she didn’t drive off alone into the night.

He gestured for her to precede him, and then followed her to his truck. He opened the door for her and stepped back. She gave him a look that told him she could get herself settled, so he took the hint and jogged around the front of the truck and got in.

Once on the road, he glanced at her. She’d taken a moist wipe from her backpack and was running it over her face and neck. Her eyes were narrowed in worry, it seemed, not in anger or frustration as they had been with him. She was probably thinking about her foster mother. He’d been so focused on Van Gogh and the way Becca made him feel, he’d completely forgotten that Becca had a connection to the murdered girl.

“Tell me about Elise,” he said gently. “And Frankie.”

Becca gnawed on her bottom lip. “I thought you wanted to talk about Van Gogh.”

“I do, but it’d be good to get some background on your foster mother before I arrive.”

Becca appeared lost in thought for a moment, but then a tremulous smile broke free. “Elise’s a mom, through and through. You know, the one you’d always imagine you would have. The type who stayed home and was waiting for you each day after school with fresh-baked cookies. Who was there for every event in your life, cheering you on.”

“Sounds like my stepmom. Except when all of us kids would fight, which was often. There were four boys in the family.”

“You have three brothers?”

“Not only three brothers, but a sister, too. Poor Beth. She’s the youngest, and she had it rough. We picked on her all the time.” Happy family memories assaulted him for the first time in a long time, making him question all the reasons he’d left his past behind when he left home. “Of course, she had four brothers to defend her, too. And as we got older, we learned to appreciate her.”

“You sound like you’re close.”

“Close?” Were they? All of the others were tight, but him? Not so much anymore. Not that they wouldn’t want him to come around more often. “I suppose we’re as close as we can be, with me living three hours away.” He knew the words weren’t true as soon as they came out of his mouth.

He could make more of an effort to visit—to want to visit—but the same smothering feeling he always got when he thought about his family came rushing back. His mother had walked out when he was fifteen, and as the oldest, he’d had to keep things running while their dad worked. He’d taken on all the responsibility while his siblings got to live their lives, and he had to admit, he grew to resent them. As soon as he’d been free to leave, he’d done so.

“Where do they live?” Becca asked, completely oblivious to the civil war going on in his gut.

“My dad and stepmom own a retreat center in central Oregon. Everyone in the family works there except me.”

She swiveled to face him, fear gone from her eyes and sincere interest there instead. “Why did you leave?”

That was a loaded question. He wanted to tell her about his overwhelming childhood. About how his mother had bailed on them. But he didn’t know Becca well enough to trust her with that information. The only other person who knew about his past was Sam, and the bro code kept him from telling anyone. Even Kait. Connor would give Becca the story he told people. It was true after all.

“When I was a kid, there was a rash of burglaries and vandalism in the area,” he said, already feeling bad for not sharing the whole truth. “Our place was hit hard. I found the investigation fascinating and decided to be a detective right then and there. Since there wasn’t much chance for that in the boonies, I moved here.”

“Do you miss the country life?”

“Sometimes, but I really like what I do.” Guilt had him focusing on the road when what he really wanted was to look at her. “Of course, my family doesn’t understand why I’d rather hunt down lowlife murderers instead of being with them, but . . .” He shrugged. “I make it a point to get back there now and then. Especially to see my nieces and nephews.”

“Sounds like there are a few of them,” she said.

He detected longing in her tone. She was the last woman he took for wanting a house filled with kids. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.

“What’s the matter?” she said, her eyes lit with humor. “Can’t remember how many there are?”

“There’s eight. No, wait. Nine, now. My sister just had a girl.” He smiled at the memory of his four-week-old niece. “Everyone has a minimum of two kids, except me.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her lips, her very kissable lips. “No wife. No kids. You live in the city. You really are the black sheep of the family aren’t you?” She laughed. “Any prospects?” She acted like she was simply making small talk, but he heard the sincere question in her voice.

They’d spent far too much time talking about him. He wasn’t about to discuss why he was still single and would remain so for the foreseeable future.

“Not at the moment,” he replied, making sure she knew he was done talking.

He could feel her watching him, and he wanted to face her. To tell her something that would make her think he hadn’t clammed up, but he wasn’t going to reveal how his mother’s infidelity and abandonment had affected his ability to trust. Or his hideously bad breakup that had sealed the deal. No way was he going there. Not ever.