The police chief’s words sent a shiver of foreboding through Peyton as she surveyed the growing crowd.
Is the man who killed Astrid Peterson watching us right now?
It seemed that everyone in Willow Bay had arrived to watch the spectacle. Curious faces peered toward the tent, and onlookers held up cameras. Peyton tried to study each face, knowing that killers sometimes returned to the scene of the crime.
The sick bastard will want to enjoy the show.
Searching the throng for suspicious bystanders and unfamiliar faces, Peyton realized she knew almost everyone in the little square, which had been built up around an ancient willow oak tree in the heart of the town.
Peyton had grown up in Willow Bay, and she was beginning to feel like she belonged again. Her move to Memphis had been an attempt to run away from her mistakes, but after years of self-imposed exile, the little town, and her sick mother, had called her home.
She’d been disappointed to find the warm, small town atmosphere still concealed an undercurrent of discontent and disillusion induced by the corruption and incompetence of the town’s leaders. Perhaps small towns weren’t so different than big cities after all.
The arrival of the crime scene unit caused a ripple of excitement, and Peyton watched as Nessa and Vanzinger waved senior crime scene technician Alma Garcia past the perimeter and into the tent.
Catching sight of Ingram pushing his way through the crowd, Peyton stepped back toward the perimeter, in no mood to deal with her partner’s negative attitude.
“Detective Bell?”
Veronica Lee stood just across the yellow perimeter tape. Her bright green eyes and cheerful red coat seemed out of place in the grim surroundings as Peyton glanced up in dismay.
“I’m not authorized to give any statements or information about the crime scene,” she said automatically, taking a step back.
“I actually wanted to ask you about another case.”
Veronica’s microphone was nowhere to be seen as she rubbed her gloveless hands together in an effort to warm them.
“This may not be the right time, but I’m wondering if you’ve had any luck finding the men who held Ruby Chase?”
It wasn’t a question Peyton had expected, and she hesitated, unsure what she could say, and how much Veronica already knew.
“Has Ruby Chase contacted you? What did she say?”
Holding her breath, Peyton waited for Veronica’s response. Had Ruby mentioned the gang’s rumored connection inside the WBPD? Was that what the reporter really wanted to ask her about?
“She didn’t say much,” Veronica admitted, “But she did mention that she’d seen the gang leader. A man called Diablo. Several other women I’ve interviewed for my trafficking reports have talked about this man as well.”
“I can’t discuss Ruby Chase or reveal anything she told me in the course of the investigation,” Peyton said, relieved that Ruby hadn’t shared the rumor about the WBPD’s connection to the Diablo syndicate with the reporter. “It’s her story to tell.”
Veronica hesitated, then nodded.
“Okay, I can respect that,” she said, sticking her hands into her coat pocket. “But can you tell me what the WBPD or the FBI task force is doing to track down Diablo?”
A nasty laugh alerted Peyton that Ingram had found her. He stood a few feet away staring at Veronica, an amused sneer on his thin face.
“Are you falling for that old Diablo hoax?” he snorted. “Stories about Diablo have floated around ever since I joined the force. You pick up any street kid and they’ll blame this boogey man for everything they’ve ever done.”
Rolling her eyes at Ingram’s remarks, Peyton shook her head.
“Regardless of what my partner says, this guy sounds real to me.”
An angry flush colored Ingram’s face at her words. He looked past her and lifted a skinny arm toward the crowd, pointing to Frankie Dawson, who was heading in their direction.
“Diablo’s no more a real man that that loser’s a real detective.”
Peyton flinched as Ingram’s angry words hung in the air. She met Frankie’s eyes over Veronica’s head, but he didn’t smile or react as he pushed past her toward the front of the crowd.
Had he heard Ingram’s insulting remark? Or was he still mad about the other day at Hope House?
“Frankie Dawson is one of the best investigators in this town, Detective Ingram.” Veronica’s voice was ice cold. “And one of the most decent men I know. Unfortunately, I’ve never heard a single person say the same about you.”
Spinning on her heel, Veronica moved back toward the Channel Ten News crew. Peyton turned to see Ingram staring open-mouthed after her. She couldn’t hold back a smile as she watched her partner stomp away. But her smile faded as she thought about the look on Frankie’s face as he’d passed by.
Veronica’s right. Frankie is a good, decent man. Maybe too good for me.
Chapter Eleven
Frankie looked for Garth Bixby in the crowded square, angry with himself for letting Peyton distract him from the Bixby case again. After he’d snuck off to Hope House earlier in the week, Barker had warned him that Barbie Bixby wouldn’t hesitate to hire another firm if she decided Barker and Dawson Investigations wasn’t up to the job.
Shoving his cold hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, Frankie searched the milling crowd, sure that the subject of his investigation had been in the stream of city workers who’d heard the sirens and swarmed through the doors, eager to witness whatever drama was unfolding in Old Willow Square.
Garth Bixby was Mayor Hadley’s campaign manager, and Frankie had spent the morning shivering at his post outside City Hall, ready to tail Bixby if he left the building.
Glad for a chance to stretch his legs, Frankie had followed the rush of people heading toward Old Willow Square, keeping his eyes on Bixby’s slick, gelled head until Peyton’s slim figure had captured his attention. His feet had instinctively moved in her direction when he’d caught sight of her standing just beyond the yellow crime scene tape.
Only after he’d overheard Ingram’s insult, and seen the look of dismay in Peyton’s eyes, had Frankie remembered that she didn’t want him involved in her investigations. It appeared that her weasel-faced partner Marc Ingram felt the same way.
Approaching the stately willow oak that dominated the square, Frankie circled the huge trunk of the tree that had been planted in the middle of town more than a century earlier.
The tree stretched up fifty feet into the crisp, winter air, while the branches, still bearing a respectable amount of leaves despite the season, cloaked the crowd below in frigid shadows.
A familiar figure suddenly appeared, emerging from the shade of the tree just as he’d started to turn away. Mackenzie Jensen’s long, brown hair and cat-eyed glasses were hard to miss, even in a crowd, and Frankie had seen the Willow Bay Gazette’s star journalist many times during the last week as he’d tailed Garth Bixby.
The sleazy politician had a habit of visiting the shapely young journalist on a daily basis, and she featured in many of the photos and videos Frankie had taken for Barbie Bixby’s growing collection.
Following Mackenzie in the direction of the tent behind the perimeter, Frankie didn’t realize the woman was heading straight for Peyton Bell until she called out a question.
“Can we get a statement, too, Detective Bell?”
Mackenzie raised her voice louder than was necessary to attract Peyton’s attention, and Frankie felt sure the journalist wanted the people in the crowd to hear her.
“Or is Veronica Lee the only one who gets a special briefing? Tell me, is that because her mother’s running for mayor?”
Frankie felt a pang of anger as he took in the startled look on Peyton’s face, but he knew he couldn’t step in and defend her from Mackenzie’s verbal attack without drawing attention to himself.
I won’t be any use on the Bixby case once Mackenzie Jensen notices me.
Suddenly Ne
ssa Ainsley was standing in front of Peyton.
“Ms. Jensen, the WBPD has no official statement to give at this time,” Nessa said in a cold voice. “In future, please address all questions to Tenley Frost, our media relations officer.”
Glaring at Nessa with undisguised contempt, the journalist stood her ground, undaunted by Nessa’s icy demeanor.
“Aren’t you capable of answering my question yourself, Chief Ainsley?” Mackenzie asked. “I simply want to know why Veronica Lee received a private briefing from your detective while the rest of the press has to wait for the city to schedule a press conference.”
Frankie winced at the venom he’d heard in Mackenzie’s voice, but Nessa seemed unruffled by the journalist’s question. She turned and waved to Andy Ford, calling out in a voice that betrayed no anger.
“Get Eddings to help you move the perimeter back a few yards, Officer Ford. I think we need a little more room here.”
Frankie gave a silent nod of satisfaction and looked over to see how Peyton had reacted to Nessa’s intervention, but the spot where she’d been standing was empty.
Catching a glimpse of Peyton’s slim figure and dark cap of hair as she disappeared through the gate leading back to City Hall, Frankie once again found his feet moving in her direction.
Screw Garth Bixby. I need to make sure Peyton’s okay.
He hurried down the path and through the gate. Spotting Peyton standing on the steps of City Hall, he decided to take a shortcut across the lawn. When Marc Ingram appeared behind her, Frankie had just enough time to duck behind a statue of the town’s first mayor.
Peeking around the statue, he saw Peyton’s shoulders slump as she noticed Ingram approaching.
“So, who’s the dead girl?” Ingram asked. “Nessa wouldn’t tell me anything, but I bet she told you.”
“I don’t think the victim’s a local,” Peyton said in a vague voice crossing her arms over her chest. “Vanzinger and Jankowski have caught the case, so it’s not really our business, anyway.”
“Victim? So, it is a homicide?”
“I assume so.” Peyton’s voice tightened in irritation. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have called out the crime scene techs.”
Inching closer to Peyton, Ingram dropped his voice, and Frankie had to strain to hear his next words.
“So, what’s the deal with the street kid?” he muttered. “I heard she left with you the other day, and when you came back to the station you were alone. Where’d you take her?”
Frankie’s body tensed as he waited for Peyton’s response.
Please don’t tell that schmuck where Ruby is. He’ll screw it all up.
Leaning against the cold marble of the statue, Frankie resisted the urge to step out and tell the little weasel just what he thought of him.
If Peyton knew he was hiding there, she’d think he was stalking her. Besides, she was a grown woman, and a seasoned detective. She could handle her partner without any help from an amateur like him.
“Chief Ainsley and Riley Odell decided that Ruby needed to go into treatment,” Peyton finally said. “They want her to be fit to give evidence if needed.”
“Evidence against who?” Ingram snorted. “Don’t tell me they believe the bullshit she was trying to feed us about being force fed drugs by some guy named Diablo.”
Frankie frowned at the scorn in Ingram’s voice. The man was obviously in serious denial.
“You think she just came up with that name out of her head?” Peyton asked. “And how do you explain the other women who have shared the same story.”
“What other women?”
Ingram sounded confused.
“The other women who have talked to Veronica Lee,” Peyton said, suddenly sounding tired. “She’s interviewed women who have gone through the same ordeal as Ruby. Women who’ve named Diablo as the leader. How can you think it’s some sort of coincidence?”
“So, you’re going to believe some two-bit reporter who’s desperate for ratings, and a street kid trying to beat a drug rap over Agent Marlowe and the FBI task force?”
Raising his eyebrows at the mention of the task force, Frankie tried to quiet his breathing. He wanted to hear what the feds were doing to help Ruby and the other women.
“What do you mean? What did Agent Marlowe say?”
“He agrees with me,” Ingram said. “Diablo is a myth, not a man.”
Before Peyton could react, Ingram jogged down the steps toward the sidewalk and the street beyond, his jacket flapping behind him.
“I’m going to check out the convenience store where they picked Ruby Chase up for shoplifting,” he called over his shoulder. “See if I can find out the real story.”
Peyton shook her head in frustration, then started down the stairs after her partner. Frankie wished he could call out and stop her, or maybe follow after her, but instead he only watched her go.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and tapped on Barker’s name, then waited for his partner to answer.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m over by City Hall following Bixby,” Frankie lied, walking back the way he’d come, his gait slow and heavy with disappointment. “Why, where are you?”
“I just got to Old Willow Square. I’m standing in front of the crime scene tent, and I have eyes on Bixby.”
Frankie began to move faster, leaving the quiet grounds of City Hall behind as he plunged back into the throng of concerned citizens and curious onlookers clogging up Old Willow Square.
Weaving his way through the crowd toward the tent, Frankie saw Barker’s wide shoulders and salt and pepper head of hair. His partner was standing only yards away from Garth Bixby.
The political aide wore a black leather jacket that had been tailored to flatter his leanly muscled frame, and expensive aviator sunglasses that concealed his eyes. He stood at the edge of the perimeter tape, chatting up Mackenzie Jensen.
“You been here long?” Frankie asked, slipping up next to Barker.
“Long enough to know you haven’t been here.”
Barker studied Frankie’s downcast expression, then turned his eyes back toward a crime scene technician dressed in white coveralls and protective booties. The tech appeared to be taking soil samples from the area surrounding the bench.
“Lucky for you Bixby’s been hanging around here, so you haven’t missed much,” Barker said, his voice softening.
After a beat of silence, Barker looked over.
“So, any idea who’s in the tent?”
Shaking his head, Frankie leaned closer.
“I heard it’s a woman who’s not from around here. They haven’t released her identity yet.”
“Heard from who?”
Frankie put a hand on Barker’s arm and tugged him toward the old willow oak, needing a break from the jostling crowd.
“I overheard Peyton Bell and Marc Ingram talking,” Frankie admitted. “According to Peyton the woman in the tent isn’t a local.”
Giving Barker a sideways glance, Frankie wondered if he should tell Barker about Ruby Chase, but his partner spoke again before he could make up his mind.
“I’d say if the girl isn’t local, it’s probable her killer isn’t either.”
“I’ve been watching the crowd,” Frankie said, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “You know, to see if I could spot anyone suspicious that may have returned to the scene.”
Barker nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd as he listened.
“I haven’t seen any new faces,” Frankie continued, his mood sinking even lower. “Just the same old suspects.”
“Well, keep your eyes on Bixby,” Barker reminded him. “Barbie Bixby isn’t paying us to find whoever killed the woman in that tent.”
Throwing a resentful glare in Bixby’s direction, Frankie nodded.
“I’ve been sticking to the slimy bastard like glue. Barbie Bixby will get all the evidence she needs, and more than she can stomach.”
“Evidence isn’t
always enough in this town,” Barker murmured.
Frankie followed Barker’s gaze, his eyes drawn to a man who stood a head taller than the rest of the crowd. The man stooped to speak to his companion, and Frankie scowled as he recognized Nick Sargent’s handsome face.
“If evidence were enough to convince Judge Eldredge to make a fair ruling, that crook wouldn’t be walking around like he’s not got a care in the world.”
Barker’s words rekindled the old anger in Frankie’s chest.
Around here the guilty walk free and the innocent get locked up.
Swallowing the bitter words that threatened, Frankie turned his head away. He saw that Channel Ten News was reporting live from the scene again. As Veronica Lee spoke earnestly into the camera, Hunter Hadley approached the crew, a white Labrador retriever close behind him. The newsman’s arrival lessened the weight in Frankie’s chest, and he decided it was time to shake his pessimistic mood.
See, it’s not all bad. We’ve still got a few good men left in this town.
Chapter Twelve
Hunter Hadley tried to keep his eyes on Veronica as she faced the camera and described the scene behind her, but Gracie kept pulling on her leash and pawing at the ground, clearly anxious about being in the midst of such a big crowd.
Kneeling to stroke the Lab’s soft white fur, Hunter looked up to see that the crew had stopped shooting. He tried to calm the big dog, but she backed away and barked loudly, before again pawing at the ground in agitation.
“Gracie’s signaling,” Finn said, walking over to stand next to Hunter. “She must have caught the scent of the body in the tent.”
“Right, I should have thought of that.” Hunter kept a calming hand on the dog’s back. “I’ll take her back to the van.”
Veronica appeared next to Finn and reached out to pet the Lab.
“What’s wrong, girl? You okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” Finn assured her. “Gracie was trained as a cadaver dog by the army, remember? She’s supposed to act like this whenever she’s around a dead body.”
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