A Tracers Trilogy

by Laura Griffin

Shit, when Cinco wanted a woman, he had to work for it. All Troy had to do was show up someplace in faded jeans.

  “Man, I need some ribs.” Cinco said again. “You want to come hear about the fed or what?”

  Troy shrugged. “What’s to hear? Maynard said she’s a stiff.”

  “Maybe a little.” Cinco recalled the suit, the shoes. But he also remembered the slender body and the clear blue eyes. “Smart, though.”

  They elbowed their way through the crowd and pushed open the wooden doors at the front of the bar. The air outside smelled like fish and diesel from the shrimp boats that chugged past this stretch of bulkhead all day long.

  Troy’s car was parked in its usual spot up front. He jerked the keys from his pocket and unlocked it with a chirp. “I gotta work tonight.”

  Cinco sighed. Very few people knew that behind Troy’s laid-back attitude was a workaholic. Cinco had never met anyone who could spend so many hours pounding away on a computer.

  “Same book?” Cinco asked.

  “Nah, this is something else.”

  He gave his friend the once-over, noticing the tension in his face for the first time. And suddenly he got it. “You’re worried, aren’t you?” Cinco asked.

  “Why should I be worried?”

  Cinco just looked at him.

  “Hey, call me after the autopsy.” Troy stepped over to the low-slung black Ferrari and pulled open the door.

  Cinco shook his head. The man was in denial. “You got problems, bro. Breck blew her off, but Cisernos was listening. I could tell.”

  “I’m not worried.” Troy slid behind the wheel, and the engine purred to life.

  He backed out of the space, shifted gears, and roared off.

  Elaina stared down at the flat tire.

  A blowout. Not a gunshot.

  She knew what gunshots sounded like, and this had definitely been a blowout.

  So why had she nearly jumped out of her skin?

  Elaina yanked open the passenger’s-side door and leaned inside the car to switch on the hazards. It was fine. No big deal. She’d never changed a tire before, but there was a first time for everything. If she could handle the Academy, she could handle a freaking flat tire.

  She grabbed the owner’s manual from the glove box and looked up “Tire, Changing.” She flipped to the correct page as the traffic whizzed past her. Stepping away from the road into the weeds lining the highway, she skimmed the instructions. Eight simple steps. Pictures, even. She glanced around at the dimming sky. She’d be out of here in no time.

  She walked around to the trunk and popped it open with her key chain. After shoving aside all the gear—flak jacket, evidence kit, emergency flares—she peeled back the carpet.

  And stared at the empty, tire-shaped space.

  Of course. This was a Bucar—a Bureau car—and someone had obviously made use of the spare already without bothering to replace it.

  Sirens sounded behind her, and she felt a rush of panic, followed by relief. Followed by panic again.

  Blue and red strobe lights reflected off the Taurus as Elaina slammed the trunk shut. She turned to face her rescuer, who was almost certain to be one of the stony-faced cops who’d witnessed her humiliation in front of Breck earlier.

  The police unit rolled to a stop on the shoulder. The driver’s-side door opened, and Elaina could just make out a man’s silhouette in the white glare of the headlights. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he approached her.

  “Ma’am.” He stepped out of the headlight beam, and finally she saw his face.

  Maynard. Just her luck.

  And interesting that he should happen along at this particular moment. Had Breck told him to tail her off the island?

  “Looks like you got car trouble.”

  “A blowout,” Elaina said. “I was about to change it, but the spare is missing.”

  One of his eyebrows tipped up, and she could tell he was having trouble envisioning her changing anything in a suit and heels.

  “Go ahead and pop the trunk,” he said. “We’ll have a look-see.”

  “Trust me, it’s empty. Is there a service station around here?” She glanced back toward town, but the fading light made it difficult to read the signs along the highway.

  “Lemme make a call for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maynard turned around and went back to the unit. He got inside, and she watched him pull out his radio.

  Elaina jerked open the driver’s-side door as she adjusted her plans for the evening. She was stuck on Lito Island for the next few hours, if not longer. She retrieved her briefcase, her cell phone, and the gym bag containing her brand-new iPod. She grabbed her purse, where she’d stashed a small paper evidence bag containing a cigarette butt. She thought of Troy Stockton. Was he watching? She glanced up and down the road again.

  “Truck’s on the way.” Maynard trudged toward her car again. “Guy’s name’s Don, with Don’s Automotive. He can get you fixed up and on your way within the hour.”

  Elaina felt a prick of annoyance. She studied Maynard’s face and made a snap decision. “Thank you, but I’m staying.”

  He frowned. “Staying?”

  “Yes.” She hitched her purse up on her shoulder. “I’ll just need a lift to my hotel.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “The Sandhill Inn.”

  • • •

  Gina Calvert spent the final four days of her life in Room 132, known to hotel staffers as the Sand Dollar Suite. Elaina slipped the key card in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped into the darkened room. She smelled mildew and lemon furniture polish as she ran her hand over the wall and located the light switch.

  The room flooded with a yellowish glow. Elaina took in the simple decor: wrought-iron bed, blue-and-white quilt, bleached oak nightstands. She pulled the door shut behind her and secured the bolt, then the latch. She dropped her bags on the blue chintz armchair and glanced around. On the closest nightstand sat a white princess phone.

  Elaina stared at it and felt a wave of dread. She owed her boss an update. Maybe she’d shoot him an e-mail and hope he didn’t get it until Monday. That would give her two days to recover from this afternoon’s disaster.

  She’d underestimated the politics down here. It wasn’t just about jurisdiction or expertise. It was about stroking the right egos, playing the game. She should have presented herself as a helpful federal agent, here to observe and lend a hand. Instead, she’d come across as a know-it-all, and Breck had been more than happy to put her in her place.

  She pulled out her cell and called her best friend.

  “Weaver.”

  She sighed. Just the familiar sound of his voice made her feel better.

  “I’m at the Sandhill Inn,” she told him.

  Pause. “Didn’t they release that crime scene, like, three months ago?”

  “I’m spending the night here.” She sat down on the bed and started unbuttoning her shirt. Even the room felt humid. “I got a flat tire.”

  “So call a tow truck,” he said in a low voice. “You’re only what, fifty miles from here?”

  “Forty.”

  “Why are you staying, then?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m in the surveillance van with Scarborough and Garcia,” he said. “Southwest Bank branch office.”

  “I shouldn’t keep you.”

  “Forget it. They’re both on the phone.”

  But she felt guilty, anyway. Elaina’s partner was possibly the only agent Scarborough liked less than he liked her. It was probably the magenta ties. Her boss was of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell-don’t-advertise persuasion.

  “So what happened? Why’d you decide to stay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess because they wanted me to leave.”

  “Atta girl. Hey, you need a ride tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be fine. I think I’ll spend the weekend here, see if I can get anything.”

&n
bsp; “Good luck. See you in the office Monday.”

  She felt bolstered, like she always did after talking to Weaver.

  Hanging up, she scanned the room again with a fresh eye. It was quaint. Charming, actually. With the right man, the place might even pass for romantic.

  Had Gina brought a man back to this room during her brief vacation? Did she pick up strangers at bars? Was she a loner? Most profilers focused their attention on the perpetrator. Elaina—possibly because she was a woman—believed it was just as important to study the victim. If she understood the victim, she had a much better chance of figuring out how she’d crossed paths with her attacker.

  Elaina walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. The tiny room had a black-and-white-checkered floor and a claw-footed tub. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Strands of hair had come loose from her bun, and mascara smudges darkened the skin beneath her eyes. How did women wear makeup in this climate? It practically melted off as soon as she left her apartment every morning.

  She unwrapped the soap and scrubbed her face clean. Then she returned to the bedroom and snatched up the carryout menu from the nightstand. She gave it a brief perusal, then called in an order for pepperoni pizza and a two-liter bottle of Coke.

  After hanging up the clunky phone, she crossed the suite to the sliding glass door. This room had a view of the beach, according to the hotel clerk. Elaina pulled back the curtains, gazed down at the lock, and sighed. Whatever she’d been, Gina Calvert hadn’t been very security conscious.

  Elaina slipped off her heels and stepped outside. The sound of breaking waves lured her toward the edge of the patio. A half moon had risen in the east, and she gazed at it for a moment, then turned back to face the suite.

  The slider’s lock was flimsy but had shown no sign of damage, according to police reports. Ditto the lock on the bathroom window.

  Had he come in through the hallway? If so, no one on staff had seen him. Or if they had, they hadn’t reported it. So how had the killer entered her room?

  “He came in off the beach.”

  Elaina gasped and reached for her gun.

  CHAPTER 3

  He stepped into the light, and suddenly she remembered.

  “Troy Stockton,” she said accusingly.

  “In the flesh.” His gaze dropped to her Glock. “Long as you don’t blow me away with that thing.”

  She jammed the weapon back into her holster. “I know who you are. You wrote about the Woodlawn murders up in San Antonio.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and slouched against the wall beside the doorway. He was half in shadow now, while she was standing in a pool of light.

  With her shirt unbuttoned.

  “You followed me here,” she said, rebuttoning the blouse.

  “Nope.” He hooked his thumb through his belt loop and watched her.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  He shrugged.

  Either he was following her or someone was feeding him information. Given his line of work, she guessed it was a contact on the police force. Probably Maynard.

  She stared at him and hoped he’d shift under the scrutiny, but he didn’t. He just stood there, looking nothing like a writer, all tall and broad-shouldered with muscles that bulged beneath his black T-shirt. Where was the pasty skin? Where were the horn-rimmed glasses from his book jacket photo? Must have been a prop, selected to create the illusion of scholarship.

  “You decided to stay,” he said.

  “I’m here for the autopsy.”

  “You weren’t invited.”

  She crossed her arms, and he shifted his attention out toward the water.

  “This beach gets pretty quiet ’long about midnight,” he said. “Just couples, mainly. No bonfires anymore, not since the burn ban.”

  She followed his gaze to the shoreline, where waves churned against the sand. In the moonlight, she could see a cluster of people standing beside a beached kayak. They were sharing a cigarette, and the ember glowed as they passed it around. A few other groups strolled down the beach, probably heading out to the bars.

  “He could have walked up to her door without anyone noticing. Maybe she recognized him from someplace, let him right in.” Troy turned to look at her. “Or maybe he let himself in.”

  “The lock wasn’t damaged.”

  His gaze dropped down to her top button, then drifted back to her face. “That lock’s a joke.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve looked at it.”

  Gina’s girlfriends told police she’d gone back to her room alone on the night of her disappearance. And yet the couple in the suite above Gina’s had heard muffled voices—a man’s and a woman’s—in the room beneath them. Who was the man? It was one of the central questions of the investigation.

  An investigation Troy Stockton seemed to know a whole lot about.

  Elaina pursed her lips. “Are you writing about Gina Calvert now? Another runaway bestseller about slashed-up women?”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “You seem to have all the right contacts around here,” she said. “Plenty of sources. Probably won’t take you too long to crank something out.”

  His gaze on her was steady. “You figure out why you’re here yet, Elaina?”

  “I’m still trying to figure out why you’re here.”

  Another shrug. “Just thought I’d drop by. Tell you to watch your back.”

  “Thanks for the tip. But listen—anything I say, whether you hear it from me or one of your friends, is off the record. I’m not here to talk to reporters, and if you quote me in your book, I’ll slap you with a lawsuit so fast, your head will spin.”

  His lip curled up at the corner. “I don’t doubt it.”

  Inside the suite, her cell phone chimed.

  “You’d better get that.” He straightened away from the wall. “Real nice meeting you, Agent McCord. Good luck with your mission tomorrow.”

  Elaina got up before dawn. By the time the sky’s purple had faded to orange, she’d run four miles on the sand. Her quads burned. Her lungs tingled. She’d passed Public Beach Access One, Two, and Three. She’d passed a sign telling her she’d entered the wildlife park. She’d passed yet another sign—ENDANGERED BIRD HABITAT—and sprinted on.

  All her life, she’d been a runner. No pain, no gain, her dad always said. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Or her favorite—which had taken on new meaning since her thirtieth birthday—use it or lose it. John McCord was an encyclopedia of clichés. As a child, Elaina had collected the shopworn sayings like prizes from a cereal box, hoping to gain some kind of insight into her taciturn father’s personality.

  Elaina let her feet slow as she neared yet another sign: TEXAS BIRDING TRAIL. She glanced around but saw no birds—just steep white sand dunes and the endless line of waves attacking the coast.

  She scaled the nearest dune for a better vantage point. She ended up with sand in her Nikes and grit clinging to her calves, but the view up top was worth it. Dunes stretched out as far as she could see, and marshes and sky and water. Her hotel and the rest of Lito formed a hazy outline on the northern horizon. Between her vantage point and the town, she saw only a lone fisherman wading near shore and a few squat camping tents.

  Solitude.

  At least the best someone was likely to find on this island.

  Not a bad place to dump a body.

  Elaina’s gaze shifted to the bay side of the island, where a vast labyrinth of grasses and waterways rippled in the morning breeze.

  He had to have a boat.

  How else could he transport his immobilized victims to dump sites so far off the road? Like Gina Calvert and yesterday’s victim, Mary Beth Cooper had been found in a remote marsh, albeit across the bay.

  If Elaina had nailed one aspect of the profile, that was it. The killer had a boat.

  And if she could find that boat, she could find him.

  Troy had his eyes shut
and his feet propped on Elaina’s patio table when he heard her jog up from the beach. Those soft panting sounds made his blood stir even before her shadow fell over him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He opened his eyes and saw just what he’d expected: a flushed, pissed-off woman.

  “Waiting for you.”

  She scowled and glanced at her sports watch. An Ironman. It went well with her spandex top and running shorts, both of which were soaked through.

  “How’d you know I was out here?” She leaned a hand flat against the glass door and yanked off a sneaker. Sand cascaded to the concrete.

  “I checked.” He watched as she emptied the other shoe.

  “You checked.”

  “I told you, that lock’s a joke.”

  She eyed him hotly, and he could tell she didn’t believe he’d actually let himself into her room.

  He tipped his chair back to enjoy the view. Long, slender legs. Ebony hair, pulled back in a ponytail. All of it covered by a thin sheen of sweat.

  “Listen, Mr. Stockton—”

  “That’s Troy.”

  “I don’t have time for this. I’m late, and I told you, I’m not talking to reporters, so—”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not late. You already missed it. The autopsy happened last night.”

  He watched the shock come over her face, next the anger.

  “You knew about this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I found out this morning. State pathologist showed up around nine last night. They worked on her for a good four hours. Sent everyone home around one-thirty. Breck and Cisernos are probably still sound asleep, dreaming about all the shit crabs can do to a corpse.”

  Her cheeks flushed redder. “Is this a joke to you?” She flung a shoe across the patio, and he realized that last comment had been a mistake. He’d meant to needle her, not disrespect the victim.

  The second shoe landed with a clop beside the door and Elaina sank into a chair.

  Troy took his feet down from the table and sat up.

  “Great.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose and seemed to be talking to herself. “Scarborough’ll have me piloting a desk Monday morning. How can I contribute to an investigation when the lead detective won’t even talk to me?”