Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  “Sounds good to me. We weren’t expecting you. We could have come down to Blue Ridge if you needed us.”

  “I was on my way home for the day, so I thought I’d swing by and touch base.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Come on in. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee is on, or there’s soda or juice.”

  “Coffee sounds good. I take it with cream, if you have it.” Torres followed Meg and Brian into the great room and from there into the kitchen. “Great place.”

  “We can thank our SAC for that.” Meg pulled three mugs down from a cupboard. “Do you live nearby?”

  “Just north of Atlanta, in Marietta. It’s only about an hour and a quarter from here. But you’re making me regret living so close or else I could be put up in a place like this.” He ran a hand down Lacey’s back where she stood beside him. “Not that I don’t want to see my own boys.”

  “You have dogs?” Meg asked.

  “Two Bernese mountain dogs. I love them, but, my God, can they shed.”

  Meg laughed as she poured the coffee. “Ah, there’s a story we’re both familiar with. At home every day we vacuum up at least one new dog.” She fixed Torres’s coffee and handed him the mug, then fixed her own and Brian’s. “Why don’t we take this into the great room. I’d suggest the porch, but at this time of day it’s starting to get a little cool out there.”

  They settled on the couch and in chairs. Torres opened his briefcase and pulled out a file folder. “I wanted to show you the suspect list I’ve been working on so you have an idea of what we’re up against.” He pulled out a pad of paper and dropped it on the coffee table between them. Two columns of names ran from the top of the page to the bottom. Only a few were struck out.

  “Whoa,” Brian breathed. “That’s the list we’re starting with?”

  “Not quite.” Torres flipped over the top sheet to reveal another single-column half-page of names, and then a third sheet with a shorter list. “That’s the rest. That I have so far. By no means is this a closed list.”

  “That’s already a lot.”

  “I’m hoping it will be an advantage to have you here in town to start searches right away. But in the meantime, it’s good old-fashioned, shoe-leather detective work.” He flipped the pad back to page one and tapped it with his index finger. “And a lot of it.”

  “Speaking of a lot of detective work, can I make a recommendation?”

  Torres pulled his gaze from the list of names. “Sure.”

  “I have a contact who could help in this case. He’s a whiz with research and one hundred percent trustworthy. And... what?” Taking her cue from Torres, who was staring at her with narrowed, calculating eyes, she ground to a halt.

  “When I heard you and Foster were coming to do the searches, I looked you both up so I had a feel for who I’d be dealing with. Then I went deeper into agency scuttlebutt and touched base with a buddy who works out of the Hoover Building. Foster, you have a great record and have a fantastic rep. But you”—he turned to Meg—“you have the rep of someone who bends the rules occasionally when it suits her. You’ve ignored directives and brought in people who had no right being on a case. And one of those people is a reporter. Is that your great contact?”

  Meg didn’t look away, making it clear she wasn’t embarrassed by her record. She always stayed firmly inside the law, but she had no regrets about doing what needed to be done to get a case solved successfully and to bring justice to the victims. “Yes, his name is Clay McCord. He’s with the Washington Post.”

  “Why would I be stupid enough to bring a reporter into my case? I know reporters—they can’t be trusted not to twist their knowledge to fit an agenda, which they all have. Or not to blow that story wide open, making us look bad and giving suspects the opportunity to rabbit, but also giving them a headline breaking news story.”

  Meg sat back and took a second to bring her mug to her lips and take a slow sip as her mind whirled, trying to decide the best way to handle the discussion. “It sounds to me like you’ve been personally burned.” She kept her tone mild.

  “By a reporter? Hell, yes.” He put his cup down and a little coffee sloshed over the rim to run down the side of the mug in rivulets. But Torres never noticed. “At the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. She had an agenda and used her podium at the paper to shill it.”

  “What was her agenda?”

  “That dirty spics like me have no right going after established good ol’ boy politicians, even if they’re on the take.” Torres’s voice cracked like a whip. “It’s an opinion a lot of people have in Georgia. They think all Latinos are involved in the local drug trade and are lazy leeches on top of that. I don’t need to be called incompetent in twenty-point font by the biggest paper in the state. And I definitely don’t need it in a national paper like the Washington Post. I don’t care about my greater reputation as long as my colleagues know I’m solid, but she nearly cost me my case and nearly lost justice for a victim and his family, which was all I could do for them at that point. It wasn’t like I could bring him back. If we hadn’t gotten him justice, an already devastated family would have been even more lost.” Looking away, Torres raised a palm toward Meg and then sucked in a breath before slowly blowing it out. He dropped his hand limply in his lap and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, snapping at you was uncalled for.”

  “It’s okay. It sounds like you have a history there that goes deeper than one reporter.”

  “Yeah, it does. In this neck of the woods, if you have a name like Torres and you look Hispanic, assumptions are made before you even open your mouth.”

  “Does your ethnic background interfere in your cases?” Brian asked.

  “It can. Not so much in Atlanta, and that’s where the majority of my work is done. But out here, out in the country, there’s definitely a difference in attitude. It can make things . . . challenging.” He picked up his coffee and took a long sip.

  “Do your superiors know?”

  “If they read the Journal-Constitution they do. But they never hear a word of it from me.”

  “McCord wouldn’t do that to you,” Brian said. Torres’s head jerked toward him, but Brian’s expression remained relaxed. “I know McCord personally, though not as well as Meg. I’ve worked with him on multiple cases. He has the nose of a bloodhound and the work ethic of a shepherd.” He dropped his hand into Lacey’s fur where she lay at his feet and massaged his fingers through it. Lacey let out a deep sigh of contentment. Brian looked up to meet Torres’s gaze head-on. “He’s saved lives.”

  “He saved victims. He saved my sister.” Meg paused, letting those words sink in. “But more than that, he’s a good man and a damned good investigator. He’d be a good addition to the team, would share whatever he knew, and would sit on any and all information until you released him to publish it. And if you had concerns, I bet he’d let you see the article before he submitted it, so you’d feel secure it would do no damage. But I can tell you now, it wouldn’t. McCord’s only agenda is to tell the story as it happened. He doesn’t lie, or embroider. He just reports truthfully. Being inside the story gives him a Technicolor view of the case, so he doesn’t need to blow it up. I can also provide FBI references for you—SAC Craig Beaumont, SSA Rutherford from the BAU, and Special Agent Kate Moore. What I can tell you is if McCord doesn’t write it, someone else who wants a clickbait headline will. And it’s quite possible that person won’t be as honest as McCord. Something to think about.” Meg sat back on the couch, cradling her mug. “Back to the case . . . who’s on this list and who have you talked to?”

  “It might be better to say who isn’t on this list.” Torres picked up the pad of paper and scanned it. “I’ve tried to break the list into groups, and I’ve outlined the affected people on this map.” He pulled a document out of the folder and then spread it out to lie flat on the table, revealing a large satellite image. Relevant data points were marked on the map. The town of Blue Ridge was a small break in the green patchwork of
the hills and valleys west of Blue Ridge Lake. McCaysville and Copperhill were at the top of the map. In between, the Toccoa River meandered through the green valley. Dotted around the valley, Torres had marked cabin rentals and lodges, river-rafting facilities, churches, restaurants, and various businesses, including a tanning salon, a marine repair shop, and a storage facility. “What’s not added here is the land the Cherokee are contesting. It centers around the river, so it’s essentially included. But so far, they don’t have possession of any of the land. They’re just arguing for it.”

  “Are you going to go up to North Carolina to talk to their principal chief?”

  “That’s definitely on the agenda.”

  “How far away are they?”

  “About two hours.”

  “So it’s not inconceivable one of them could be the killer.”

  “Not based on geography, no. And I have a parallel line of investigation going as well.” He flipped over the first two pages to a much shorter list. “These are the known, skilled bowhunters in the area that I’ve compiled so far. Not just bowhunters, but elite bowhunters, so it’s a slightly shorter list. Granted, there are going to be people with this skill that may not be as well-known. If I was preparing to use my skills to murder someone and it wasn’t common knowledge, I’d keep it that way. So, this list is a work in progress.”

  “Any commonalities between those two lists?”

  “Actually, quite a few.” At Meg’s raised eyebrows, he continued. “You’re city folk, so you may not understand how rural people live, but hunting for many of them is a way of life. Depending on where you’re hunting in the area, you can’t use firearms at certain times of the year. Like now, for instance, in North Carolina. It’s turkey season, so bowhunt all you like, but no firearms are allowed.”

  “I take it that’s not a new law?”

  “No, these are the rules the locals have lived with for a long time and they’ve learned to adapt to them. If guns aren’t allowed and bows are, then they learned how to use the bow, especially this close to the state line because lots of people cross state lines to hunt. So it’s going to be a big pool.”

  “We’re here with time on our hands. We’ve both got our laptops now and have time to meet the townsfolk and can still be available for a search at a moment’s notice. Let us help with these suspect lists.”

  “I admit I’m hitting a wall with some of the townsfolk. Some of that is the badge, so you may have the same problem, but some of that is me. I’m really feeling the pressure to winnow these lists as quickly as possible, so help would be appreciated. Before he strikes again.”

  “I hear you.” Meg rose and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “I’m going to grab photos of your list. We can start looking into some of these names.” She took pictures of each page, then the map, checked to make sure her pictures were clear, and slid the papers toward him.

  “Thanks. And there’s one other thing I wanted to let you know about. After three deaths, there’s been some local concern about safety, so the mayor of Blue Ridge is going to hold a town hall on Sunday.”

  “In town?”

  “No, there’s no place in town big enough to hold the expected crowd and the potential media circus this could attract. It’s going to be at a local vineyard with banquet facilities. She wanted to do it tomorrow, but there’s a wedding there, so it’s going to be Sunday at seven. I’d like you both to come if it’s possible.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. You’re hoping the suspect will attend,” Brian stated.

  “I would bet three months’ salary on him being there. Getting lost in a big crowd of people, watching the chaos and hysteria. Any serial offender would find it satisfying.”

  “And hard to resist,” Meg said. “Part of them would want to stay away, not risk being seen. But a larger part would want to bask in the panicked glow of his efforts. Yeah, he’ll be there. And so will we. Text us the details, time and place.”

  “Will do.” Torres packed all the paperwork into his bag and stood. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

  Brian and Meg followed him to the door, said their good-byes, and then Brian took the dogs outside.

  Meg met McCord on the landing as he was coming down. “I tried. I’m not sure if I made any headway, but I tried.”

  “I know, I heard every word. Thanks.”

  “Eavesdropping, McCord?”

  “Didn’t have to. Cathedral ceilings and an open balcony to the second floor did all the work for me. I never left my room.” He cast thoughtful eyes at the ceiling. “I may have made notes. I may have made quite a lot of notes.”

  “I’d have been shocked if you didn’t. I took some photos of his initial lists of names. Do you want to see it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Up to now, you’ve been forced into working with me because a bomber was using me as his conduit. Or you talked Beaumont into using me. Or Beaumont talked another agent into using me. This time you hit a wall. I need to show your Agent Torres I’m not only trustworthy, but can be useful to him.”

  “And you’re going to do it without his lists?”

  “Absolutely. I’m not dragging you into the middle of this so he knew you gave me the info. I need to find something on my own. Something invaluable. Something he can’t find because the locals won’t talk to him. If you present him with that kind of information, maybe he’ll realize you were right about my agenda.” He grinned at Meg. “I’m going to knock his socks off. This case isn’t going to have a chance.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Plott Hound: A scent hound with a brindle or black coat and long, drooping ears, developed specifically for hunting big game (bear and boar) in western North Carolina. This large coonhound—the state dog of North Carolina—is one of only four breeds of American origin.

  Friday, April 12, 3:21 PM

  Blue Ridge Police Department

  Blue Ridge, Georgia

  “Hey, it’s me.” McCord’s voice came down the line.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Blue Ridge. Brian and I just parked and we’re heading in to see Torres at the police department.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Meg shot a warning glance at Brian as they crossed the parking lot behind the police station. She mouthed McCord in response to his questioning look.

  “Trust me, it is a good idea. I’m onto something.”

  Meg stopped walking, and Brian and the dogs immediately followed suit. “Onto what?”

  “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? I think I have information Torres doesn’t.”

  “We’ve all been investigating. Not sitting at the computer but walking the streets. Torres has, too. I know we have new info. He must as well.”

  “But did he go to Suches?”

  “To where?”

  “Suches. Suches, Georgia. It’s about a half hour away. I’m coming in now and I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Wait for me. But if he hasn’t been there, and hasn’t spent time talking to Beverley, who is a peach, by the way, then he may not have what I have. And he needs it, whether he likes reporters or not. Wait for me.”

  “Fine. The police station is at 301 Church Street. We’re in the parking lot behind the building. I’ll stall Torres and we’ll meet you here.” She hung up.

  “We’re waiting on McCord?” Brian asked.

  “Apparently he has something Torres needs. It sounds like he’s been sweet-talking some gal who gave him some good leads.”

  Brian laughed. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. In he strolls, tall, blond, and blue-eyed, and opens up a charm offensive. McCord’s a smart guy, but he doesn’t mind leaning on his looks when it gets him what he’s digging for.” He pulled out his phone, checked the time. “Instead of being ten minutes early, we’re going to be ten minutes late. You better tell Torres.”

  “I’ll text him, that way we won’t have to make excuses.�
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  “Until you walk in the door with McCord.”

  “Then I’ll have no excuses. And Torres is not going to be pleased.”

  “I would think not. You worried about that? Makes you look like you’re blatantly going against his wishes.”

  “Me? The handler with the rep of bending the rules to suit her and the case?” Meg rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not worried. McCord does the work and has the results to show it. It’s just a matter of convincing Torres of that. We’ll give him the chance to hear what McCord has to say and then let him make the call. McCord better have something solid, though, or he’ll be finished after a stunt like this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, McCord pulled into the parking lot in his rental SUV. He got out, grabbed his laptop bag, and then jogged across the lot to the grassy hill, where they waited for him in the sun. “Thanks for waiting. I came as fast as I could.”

  Meg shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked up at him from where she sat with her legs stretched out in front of her. “This better be good, McCord.”

  “I think it is. I think it will complement the information he’s gathering. How did you guys do?”

  “Not bad, but we got a definite vibe from residents and government workers.”

  “What kind of vibe?”

  “The ‘federal law enforcement isn’t welcome here’ kind of vibe. I think the dogs helped because most people love dogs, but it gave me some insight into what Torres is dealing with.” She held out her hand to him and he grabbed it, hauling her to her feet. She looked down at Brian, who lay in the sun, his eyes closed, his hands behind his head. “Brian.” She nudged him with her boot. “Wake up.”

  “I’m not asleep; I’m just enjoying the warmth.” His eyes opened, then squeezed shut in the brightness. He sat up and then pushed to stand before bending to pat his dog. “Sorry, Lacey, you too. Up.” The German shepherd bounced to her feet.

  Meg watched McCord as he scanned the area around them. They stood on an invisible border where local businesses merged seamlessly with the adjacent residential area as the town climbed the hillside. Down below, the main street ran from east to west, with glimpses of the classic, flat-fronted, two-story buildings that graced so many small-town American main thoroughfares. At the far end, the tall white spire of a church broke from the tree line to pierce the cloud-scattered blue sky. To their left, the old fieldstone police station was backed by a row of white Blue Ridge Police Department cruisers. Up the hill, a mix of smaller, older homes was scattered between larger, modern dwellings, all set deep into trees and shrubbery revitalized with spring.