by Jeff Buick
They hustled back to the car where Sarah and Lizzie were waiting and he gave them one more big hug. Bobby watched until the taillights disappeared, then trudged back to his car, found a towel in the trunk and threw it on the driver’s seat to protect the leather. He climbed in and sat, staring at nothing, the only sound the drumming of raindrops on the roof.
chapter seven
Something was eating away at Bobby. He had a lingering feeling
that he’d missed some detail on the NamUs site when he was searching for Molly Vaughn. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the moment he got back from Sarah’s game he fired up his computer and went online.
He logged into the NamUs site and started again with Alabama, the names and faces now vaguely familiar. When he reached Arizona, a file popped out. Chelsea Tanner, age 28, white female. She and her eight-month old daughter had disappeared on their way home from Sunday dinner at her parents’ house. He enlarged her picture and stared hard at her face.
There was a team photo on his cell and Bobby pulled it up and zoomed in on Molly Vaughn. He switched his gaze back and forth between her and Chelsea Tanner, taking in their facial features. They had the same high forehead and widely spaced eyes, and there was no mistaking Chelsea Tanner’s quirky smile. It was like someone had cut and pasted it on Molly. He scrolled over to the Scottsdale team investigating the case—Annette Carter was the lead detective. Bobby tapped her number into his phone and sat back as it rang.
“Carter.” Her tone was all business.
“Detective Carter, this is Bobby Greco, Orlando Homicide.”
“How can I help you?”
“Your name came up on NamUs as the detective working the Chelsea Tanner file.”
“I was working it, we found her body about eight months ago. Her daughter is still missing, so the file’s open but it’s gone cold.”
“Chelsea Tanner is dead?” Bobby asked. “NamUs shows her as missing.”
“They probably haven’t updated the file.”
“What happened to her?”
“Hang on,” she said. There was some tapping on a keyboard, then she said, “What’s your badge number, Detective Greco?”
“1703.”
More tapping, then, “Okay, just checking. Chelsea turned up in a shallow grave about two miles south of Phoenix. An axe in her head.”
“You mean she was killed by an axe blow.”
“No, I mean whoever killed her left the axe embedded in her skull.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, holy shit. We had our suspicions she and her daughter were dead, but that was a shocker.”
“No kidding. What about the daughter?” He checked the file for her name. “Olivia. Any idea what happened to her?”
“Nope.” There was a pause, then, “We worked it hard, detective. A missing mother and baby, it was all over the news. The family was fairly well off and they offered a substantial reward. We were swamped with calls, but none of them went anywhere. It was a very frustrating case.”
Bobby could only imagine. Murder and kids was a horrible combination.
“Why are you asking?” Carter said.
“It’s a long shot, but I might have found the daughter. Do you have a DNA profile on her?”
“We do.” A slight pause, then, “Is she all right?”
“If it’s her, then yes, for now. The faster we can move on establishing her ID the better.”
“I’ll send you the DNA profile within the hour.”
They exchanged email addresses and cell phone numbers, then Bobby hung up. He fished the evidence bag with Molly’s hair out of his pocket and made a beeline for the forensics lab. Marlene Zebiak, a senior tech, flashed him a huge grin as he hustled up to the counter and he smiled back, relieved to see a familiar face. She came over and watched as he logged in the hair samples, and when he was done he pulled her aside.
“The samples I just handed in, can you get me a basic profile sometime today?”
It was an outrageous request, but she didn’t balk. “A marker or two, maybe,” she said slowly. “Is that enough?”
“Should be. I’m expecting a DNA profile this afternoon from a detective in Phoenix. If we could match a couple of definitive markers, that would be good enough for now.”
“Send over the Phoenix profile when you get it. I’ll concentrate on the markers that will give me the best match.” She gave him a this-better-be-good-look and said, “If it’s important I could stay late and have something for you, if you get it to me in the next couple of hours.”
“Yeah, it is, and that would be fantastic. You’re the best, Marlene.”
“I know.” She sighed and headed back into the lab, grabbing the evidence bag on the way.
An email with the DNA profile on Olivia Tanner was waiting on his computer when he returned to his desk and he forwarded it to Marlene. The bullpen had emptied and he glanced at his watch—it was after six. He hadn’t eaten for hours and he headed to a nearby restaurant. The rain had tapered off to a mist and there was a sheen on the road that reflected the streetlights as he passed by. The colors were beautiful and Bobby felt a tiny surge of hope—that maybe there was some good news coming. In his world, where people violently murdered other people, it was the small stuff that helped to keep him going.
The café was open and doing a brisk business. His regular server spotted him in the foyer and waved him in. He was polite as he slipped through the crowd at the door and followed her to the very back where there was an open deuce.
“Hi, hon.” She flipped over a water glass and filled it.
“Hi, Bea,” he said, sitting. “Thanks for that.”
She winked. “The usual?”
“Sure, why not.”
He watched her spin and hurry to the kitchen. He didn’t tip that well, and decided Bea was a sweetie. By the time his dinner arrived he was back to thinking about Hanna Van Warner and what a total piece of shit she was. Which led to the bigger picture of women as violent, sadistic killers.
It was sort of new, but happening more often all the time. For centuries men had been the killers—the violent ones. Women murdered people now and then, but they usually used more subtle means, like poison. Things that weren’t messy and didn’t require cleaving someone’s head in half with an axe. Hanna Van Warner was a new breed, living in a new age.
High frequency trader. Multimillionaire. Kidnapper. Murderer.
How did anyone acquire a net worth of a hundred million dollars from something most people didn’t even know existed? His blood pressure shot up when he thought of the money he’d lost when the market crashed and he forced himself to focus on something else. As he finished his meal, a couple with four kids were being seated a few tables away and he wondered what their bill would come to. Bobby figured they could buy a lot of groceries for that. Janis had done the shopping when they were married and knew where all the deals were. She was a real pro and kept their bills to around the same amount every month.
He froze, his mind racing back to the stack of printouts on his desk at the office. He closed his eyes and saw the pages, all filled with numbers. There it was. He could see it.
The amounts were different.
He threw a twenty on the table, raced to his car and cranked the key. The engine roared to life and he hit the gas hard. As he drove, the pieces started falling in place—he’d been looking at things all wrong. He dialed Stacey Daniels on hands free.
“She’s alive,” he said when she answered. “White’s got her hidden somewhere.”
“How do you know that?” Stacey asked.
“Meet me at the station.”
“Okay, Bobby, I’m on my way.” A palpable excitement coursed through every word.
He hung up and a shiver shot down his spine. Jocelyn Buchanan was alive, he could feel it. He pushed hard on the gas pedal, wishing to heaven he had lights and a siren.
chapter eight
The bullpen was dark and Bobby flipped on some lights. He sa
t at his desk and thumbed through the pile of printouts. There it was. He was right.
A few minutes later Stacey Daniels appeared, hovering over his shoulder. “What have you got?”
“Cedric White is the most methodical person I’ve ever seen. He has a routine and doesn’t vary from it. Ever. I’ve gone back months and he does the same thing every week.” He poked a finger at a solitary line among thousands. “Except last week. Last Wednesday, he went to the grocery store.”
“So?”
“In six months, he never went to the grocery store more than once a week, and never on a Wednesday. While he was there, he spent over a hundred dollars. A hundred and eleven, to be precise. It was his second trip for groceries in a week.” Bobby tapped the page with his pen. “He’s off his routine.”
Stacey was nodding and said, “You think he’s feeding another person.”
“Damn right.”
Stacey stared at him. “Jocelyn Buchanan.”
Bobby smiled. “This guy would never go outside his routine. She’s alive, LT. No doubt.”
Daniels was on her cell phone texting Vern Foster and another detective plus support staff. Jocelyn Buchanan could be anywhere in Orlando, or outside the city for that matter, and now the job was finding her before White figured they were onto him and killed her.
“Any ideas?” Stacey asked as she finished calling in the staff.
“Not really. We had surveillance on him for the first week, but only a few hours a day. We need to go back over the notes and see where he went and how long he spent in each place.”
“We didn’t have the manpower to put a car on him all night,” she said.
Bobby saw the emotion on her face. Guilt and remorse mixed with a tinge of panic. She’d let budget concerns dictate the level of surveillance and that decision might end up costing Jocelyn Buchanan her life. Bobby was beginning to wonder if Stacey’s promotion was a blessing or a curse.
“Well, you’ve called in the crew now.” He pointed to the stacks of printouts on his desk. “Somewhere in here is the clue that will lead us to her. We’re going to find her and nail his ass.”
The hard edge returned to her eyes. “Yeah, Bobby, we’ll find her.”
Noise filtered in from down the hall and a minute later Vern Foster barged in. “We got something?” He was breathing hard.
“We’re thinking Jocelyn Buchanan’s alive,” Bobby said.
“What the hell?” Foster thumped his fist on the desk. “That’s good news.”
“Yeah,” Stacey said. “Now we need to find her.”
There were more footsteps and a second detective appeared, followed by a uniform and two support staff. Stacey had one of them open an Incident Room and they moved all Bobby’s files into the larger space. Two whiteboards were set up and key dates written in dry erase ink. Notes from the surveillance team on White’s movements were added, including driving times, distances and destinations. Someone pinned a large map of Orlando to a corkboard and the newly formed team started sticking color-coded pins in strategic places. Orange for the stores where he shopped on a regular basis, blue for his client’s offices, yellow for restaurants and bars he’d visited since Jocelyn Buchanan’s disappearance and pink for the gas station where he filled up. White was mostly a loner, but Bobby had managed to identify a few of his acquaintances from cell phone records, and their houses were given black pins. The map was filling up quickly.
Three pairs of eyes were pouring over the stacks of printouts, searching for the thread that would lead to Jocelyn Buchanan, while Stacey focused on getting approval for a twenty-four hour tail. Bobby’s phone rang and he stepped into the hall to answer it.
“It’s Marlene. I ran a handful of markers on the DNA.
“And…”
“I need more to be sure, but right now I would say there’s an 85% to 90% chance Molly Vaughn is Olivia Tanner.”
“Shit,” Bobby whispered. “That high?”
“Between you and me, Bobby?”
“Yup, goes no further.”
“It’s her.”
“Marlene, you rock. Love ya.”
She laughed. “I don’t think you’re allowed to say that these days.”
“Thanks so much.”
“No problem, glad to help. I’ll finish up in the next couple of days and get a definitive match, something that would hold up in court.”
“Okay, call me.”
Bobby hung up and went looking for Stacey. He found her giving instructions to two plainclothes cops from Vice.
“We’ve got surveillance on Cedric White,” she said after they were out the door.
“Good work.” Bobby caught her eye before she could head back to the Incident Room. “The Van Warner case, we need to talk.”
She stopped and her eyes narrowed slightly. “So it’s a case now, is it?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“What’s going on?”
“I found a missing mother and daughter on the NamUs site and I think Molly Van Warner might be the girl. The woman’s body showed up in a shallow grave near Phoenix, but the child is still missing. Van Warner’s daughter looks like the murdered woman and the girl would be about the right age. I had Scottsdale PD send over the girl’s DNA and Marlene ran a profile on a few strands of Molly’s hair.”
“And they match,” Stacey said.
“Marlene gave it 85 to 90%. She’s running additional markers.”
“So how did Hanna Van Warner get her hands on this girl?”
Bobby shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe she wanted a kid, but didn’t want the hassle of childbirth, or…she wasn’t able to have kids.”
“So she went and found one.”
Bobby nodded. “She’s wealthy, highly intelligent and has all the markings of a sociopath. Maybe even a psychopath.” He thought back to the details in Carter’s file. “The dead woman had an axe embedded in her skull.”
“Jesus, Bobby.” There was no denying the shock in her eyes. “What else?”
Bobby raked his hands through his hair. “I’m thinking something bad could happen to Molly. I talked to Van Warner’s assistant from her New York days, and she painted a pretty dark picture. LT, she was being really rough and short tempered with the girl at the soccer field yesterday. I think she’s getting tired of being a mother.”
“You think she might kill her and leg it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Stacey looked down the hallway toward the busy Incident Room. “Great timing.”
Bobby didn’t respond.
She let out a heavy sigh. “Open a case file on Hanna Van Warner. Cooperate fully with Scottsdale—share everything we have—see if you can find anything useful in their murder book. Get everything you can on Van Warner—her financial status, whether she has a plane or a boat, any other real estate she owns. Don’t spook her, but let’s be ready to pick her up once we have our match on the girl’s DNA.”
“Thanks, LT.”
She started down the hall, then turned and said, “See what happens when I trust you, Greco. We get really fucking busy.”
Yeah, Bobby thought as Stacey stomped off, they made the right choice promoting you.
chapter nine
“Wherever White’s keeping Jocelyn, it has to be close to his place,” Bobby said.
The Incident Room fell quiet as the team stopped to listen.
“I’ve gone over his gas purchases for the last few months and there’s no deviation. On average he fills up every ten days, give or take, and his car takes the same amount of fuel. He’s not burning any extra gas.”
“He could be topping up and paying cash,” Vern Foster said.
Bobby nodded. “He could, but think about the planning and foresight that would take. First off, he’d have to figure that we would look at his gas consumption. Chances are he’s not quite that smart. If he did think it through and come up with that angle, he’d have to be extremely precise on ho
w much he put in the car and when. Again, most people aren’t either that smart or that focused.”
Stacey stepped in. “It could go either way, but I agree with Bobby, she’s likely nearby. She needs food and water, and he’s keeping her alive for a reason. He’s visiting her and I think we all know why.” She looked at the exhausted faces around her and checked her watch. “It’s 11:00. Let’s break for the night and get back at it first thing in the morning.”
The team filed out, several of them carrying a stack of printouts to go over at home. Bobby was the last to leave and drove to his house slowly with the radio off and the window open. There was a fresh after-the-rain smell to the night air that had a cleansing effect on his tired mind and helped him unwind. When he arrived home he cracked a beer and sat on the back patio, alone with his thoughts drifting between Cedric White and Hanna Van Warner.
Bad people, he thought. Mostly, the world was composed of good, decent folk who didn’t want to get hurt or hurt anyone else. Then along came the exceptions—the ones who acted without empathy or compassion. The ones who killed. Jocelyn Buchanan was still a kid, seventeen and filled with dreams. White had stolen all that—even if they found her the damage was done.
Then there was Hanna Van Warner. Total psychopath. If he was right, she’d killed another woman for her infant and was now tiring of her possession. He needed the hard evidence, but in his gut he knew he’d found little Olivia Tanner.
Bobby finished his beer and crumpled the can in his fist. He sat staring at the night sky wondering how the parents of abducted and murdered kids coped. How would he feel? His gun was still in its holster and for a moment he questioned if that’s how he would handle things. He wasn’t sure.
“Dark thoughts come from overtired minds,” he said to himself as he headed off to bed.
Sleep did not come easy and he felt drained when he woke. A quick shower revitalized him somewhat, coffee helped a bit more, and the drive to the office sharpened things to a point where he was functional. The rest of the crew was already in and working to establish a timeline for Cedric White’s every move. Bobby walked over to the whiteboard where notes from the new surveillance team had been added, detailing White’s activities the previous evening. He had dined out with a friend at a nearby restaurant, then driven home and stayed in the rest of the night. Nothing of value.
