Snapped

by Laura Griffin

“What?” she demanded.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed so hard, she thought he was going to cry. “You’re worried about my father?”

  “Yes! What is wrong with you? He’s elderly, Jonah! How can you ask him to go out to some deer lease in the hundred-degree heat and sit around guarding me from a hit man? It’s a terrible plan! I can’t believe you thought of it!”

  “Sophie.” He pulled her against him. “Let me tell you about my dad, okay? First off, he’s a cop. He’s retired now, but he’ll always be a cop. Second, he’s a lifelong gun collector and a crack shot to boot.” He grinned down at her. “I can’t believe you called him ‘sweet,’ though. Don’t say that to his face.”

  “Jonah—”

  “Anyway, I trust him.” The smile faded, and he looked serious now. “There’s no better person to keep an eye on you while I work on this case—with the help of the suspect sketch that you’re going to provide for us”—he jerked his phone out of his pocket and checked the clock—“in about four hours.” He slapped her butt. “Better get a move on if you want a shower. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  She stared up at him, frustrated beyond words. They were leaving. She was going with him. She was going to do the exact thing she’d told him she wouldn’t do at least half a dozen times.

  The task force wanted her help. They needed it. Instead of treating her like a crazy woman, they actually believed her and wanted her input.

  And Jonah had known all along this was his ace in the hole. She cared about those victims. She’d been a victim herself, and he knew she’d do anything to find the man who’d helped take three innocent lives.

  He swatted her butt again, and she caught the glint of triumph in his eyes. “Hop to it, Sophie. We don’t want to be late for your appointment.”

  “Fine.” She shrugged. “I’ll meet with the artist. You mind getting out of here? I’d like to shower, please.”

  “So you’ll come?” He looked wary as he stepped out of the bathroom.

  “I said I would.” She shut the door almost all the way but then poked her head out. “Oh, but I should tell you up front. You’ll be pulling up to the self-serve from now on, because there is no way I’m having sex with you at some deer lease while your father’s just a stone’s throw away.”

  She slammed the door on his startled expression and stepped into the shower.

  The forensic artist lived in Austin, and Sophie wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to waste her Saturday afternoon driving down to San Marcos to do a sketch with someone who’d barely seen anything.

  But when she walked into the interview room and introduced herself, Sophie got a big hint about her motives.

  “Sorry I’m late. Didn’t expect traffic on a Saturday.” Fiona Glass smiled and plopped a bottle of v8 Juice on the table, then began unfolding a portable metal easel.

  Sophie rushed forward to help. “You need a hand?”

  “I got it.” She waved Sophie off, setting the easel up with fluid efficiency and then clipping a sheet of gray paper to the front of it. She pulled up a chair and settled her hugely pregnant body into it.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I sit today,” she said. “My feet are killing me. Everyone tells you about the baby showers and the first kicks. No one mentions the cankles.”

  She glanced down at the woman’s feet. Her ankles looked painfully swollen, and Sophie felt a wave of guilt.

  “You know, I’m not sure how much they told you,” Sophie said, “but I’m really not certain I can do this.”

  Fiona smiled pleasantly as she took out an array of pencils and erasers.

  “I only got a glimpse,” Sophie continued. “very fleeting. I can’t imagine how I’m going to be able to do a picture.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Sophie. You don’t have to. That’s my job.” She adjusted her paper and tossed a lock of wavy, strawberry-blond hair over her shoulder. “All you have to do is relax and tell me what you saw.”

  “But that’s just it. I only saw him for a second. I mostly saw the car.”

  Fiona opened her juice and took a swig. Then she set the bottle on the floor beside her puffy feet.

  “I’ve interviewed all sorts of witnesses—children who have been sexually assaulted, elderly people who have been robbed at gunpoint, cops who have been shot in the chest. The one thing they all have in common is that they never think they can do this.”

  Sophie watched her skeptically. This woman was being overly optimistic here, and Sophie had a feeling she knew why. She surveyed her glowing complexion and her loose, hippie-style maternity dress, and she couldn’t help but be reminded of Jodi Kincaid.

  “I really want to help this investigation, but—”

  “Listen, Sophie.” Fiona leaned forward, suddenly serious. “I’m going to cut to the chase with you because my husband’s at home right now, trying to assemble a crib with instructions that are entirely in Swedish, and he could really use my help.”

  Sophie sat back in her chair.

  “Let me tell you what I hear all the time, all right? I hear ‘It happened too quick.’ Or ‘All I saw was the gun.’ Or ‘It was too dark.’ I understand your reservations, but we can still do this. We don’t have to get a perfect sketch. We just have to get a sketch. I’ve seen it over and over again—even an imperfect likeness can spark recognition and lead to an ID.”

  Sophie bit her lip.

  “And you know what? I’m eight months pregnant, just like Jodi Kincaid, and I’d really, really like to help these cops nail the bastards who killed her. You want to help me do that?”

  Sophie took a deep breath. “I’ll try. What do I need to do?”

  Fiona shifted the easel so that it was across from Sophie but not facing her directly. Strangely, the minor adjustment put her at ease. She didn’t feel as though she was being stared at.

  “Just relax and close your eyes,” Fiona said. “We want to activate your visual memory.”

  Sophie closed her eyes.

  “Now, take a deep breath.”

  She did.

  “And describe what happened.”

  “Well … his face was in shadow at first.”

  “Why don’t we get to the face in a minute? Just tell me everything you saw.”

  Sophie took a few moments to collect her thoughts. Then she started with the car. She remembered it well. She remembered thinking about how rare those old VWs were and getting sputtering mad when it stole her space.

  “And he was tall,” Sophie said. “I remember that. He seemed too big for that little car. Like somehow it didn’t fit.”

  “That’s good.”

  Sophie heard the pencil moving over the paper, but she didn’t open her eyes.

  “What about hair color? Most people notice that first.”

  “Brown,” Sophie said, surprised by her level of certainty.

  “And skin?”

  “Light. He was definitely Caucasian. I’m remembering his arm on the door now. I guess the window was open? I hadn’t even thought of that until just now.”

  “Keep going.”

  Sophie did. She just sat back and talked. And in about an hour, Fiona was putting the finishing touches on an amazingly detailed drawing.

  Sophie stood behind the easel and stared at it, astonished. “How did you do that? It’s … God, it’s so real.”

  “Practice,” Fiona said. “Men between the ages of eighteen and forty are my specialty. They commit the most crimes.”

  Sophie glanced at her. Something in Fiona’s tone struck a chord with her. Had she been the victim of a crime herself? She had a certain empathy that Sophie had just begun to recognize in other women. It was like a club, only there was no secret handshake—just a silent understanding.

  She looked at the drawing again. “There’s something off with his eyes.”

  “Okay.”

  “They need to be … I don’t know. Meaner? does that make sense?”

  “Maybe a furrowed brow?” Fiona was open to
suggestions. “Or maybe narrower?”

  “That’s it—narrower. More predatory, I guess. He had this look. I mean, I only saw it for a moment, but it was like he was on a mission.”

  Fiona took a charcoal pencil and added some shadows. “I hear that a lot, actually. Sometimes that’s exactly what you’re seeing. They’ve got a laser-sharp focus on what they’re about to do. Sometimes it makes them slip up, forget the little things—like the woman walking her dog who might witness something, or the security camera mounted in the corner of the room.”

  Sophie studied the drawing. “Wow, that’s him. That’s the guy. Whatever was missing, you fixed it.”

  “Glad you’re happy with it.”

  “I’d be even happier if we could get an ID. Do the police need help circulating this? Because I know a reporter who would be very eager to put this on the news.”

  Sean entered the conference room and immediately picked up on the grim mood.

  “This smells more and more like a conspiracy,” Reynolds was saying, as if this were a new insight.

  Sean glanced at Jonah as he took an empty seat. The man had his arms folded over his chest and looked like he was grinding his teeth to nubs. No doubt he was pissed. He’d floated the conspiracy theory over a week ago, and the lieutenant had blown him off.

  “Question is, who was the target?” Reynolds asked the room at large. His gaze scanned the people convened around the table and came to rest on Sean. “You checked up on that life insurance lead, didn’t you? Is it the professor?”

  Sean suddenly felt like he was in a game of Clue. “I think we can scratch off Graham,” he said. “Allison and I talked to the widow, and it doesn’t gel.”

  “Two million dollars is a lot of insurance money,” Ric observed.

  “Have you met the woman?” Sean asked him.

  “Just briefly at the funeral.”

  “Well, Allison and I interviewed her. She heads a Bible study at her church. She organizes fund-raisers for cancer kids. I don’t see her taking a hit out on her husband of forty-two years. Not to mention, we checked out her financials and she’s independently wealthy. Her family owns a string of car dealerships.”

  “I don’t think Graham’s our real target,” Jonah said. “I’m pretty convinced the professor was collateral damage, that he was shot just to make it seem more like a rampage than a hit, same as all those wounded students.”

  “What about the Kincaid woman?” Reynolds asked.

  “Jodi,” Ric said.

  “She was hit by accident,” Jonah put in. “Ricochet bullet. I confirmed it with ballistics just the other day.” His gaze swung to Sean. “Which leaves Eric Emrick. Where’s Allison? I thought you two had a lead on him.”

  “We do,” Sean said. “And she’s following up. She’s meeting with the reporter who first gave her the tip about it. Thinks he’s holding out on her.”

  “Holding out on her how?” Reynolds asked.

  Sean wasn’t sure how much Reynolds was in the loop, so he decided just to dive in. “This reporter’s convinced there’s something going on over at d-Systems.”

  “d-Systems?” Reynolds looked blank.

  “Tech company where Eric interned,” Jonah said. “What’d you get on it?”

  “Nothing solid, just an off feeling during the interview. They used to do projects for the defense department. Their CEO claims Eric Emrick was never working on anything that sensitive, and anyway, the government contracts have dried up. But still, this military connection keeps cropping up.” Sean looked at Reynolds. “Himmel’s ex says before their divorce, he was contacted by an old army buddy, possibly to do some contract work.”

  “You know the name of the outfit?” Jonah had gone from Code Yellow to Code Orange.

  “No.”

  He muttered a curse.

  “What?” Sean asked.

  “A second K-9 team just went over the crash scene,” Jonah said, and Sean knew he was talking about the site where Sophie Barrett had nearly been killed. Probably that explained his extra-unhappy mood today. “The original dog was trained to pick up a group of commonly used explosives. He didn’t alert on anything.”

  The door swung open, and Allison blew into the room, looking frazzled. She took the empty chair beside Jonah.

  “Today we got another dog over there—a newer one trained to detect a broader range of chemicals—and he picked up PETN.”

  “PETN?” Sean asked.

  “Military-grade plastic explosive,” Jonah said.

  “You’re saying someone ran this woman off the road and then blew up her car?” Sean asked.

  “Probably used a remote detonator,” Jonah said. “A cell phone, something like that. Given her rate of speed and the skid marks, it would have looked like an accident except that she walked away and was able to tell us what happened.”

  The room got quiet as the weight of Jonah’s information seemed to press down on everyone. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t playing around.

  “Where is she now?” Reynolds asked. “The Barrett girl.”

  “In an interview room talking to Fiona Glass,” Jonah said.

  “Fiona Glass?” Allison asked.

  “A forensic artist. We’ve used her before.”

  “What did you get from the reporter?” Sean asked Allison now. He doubted it was good, based on her frustrated look when she’d walked in here.

  “I got zip,” she said. “He didn’t show for the interview. He’s not answering his phone, either. I think he’s dodging me.”

  “Is this CNN or one of the locals?” Reynolds asked, obviously worried about controlling the spin.

  “Neither,” Allison said. “dorion is a blogger who’s written a few articles for the Bee. But I can tell he has more of the story than he’s letting on. I think he’s holding out so he can get a big headline somewhere.”

  “You said dorion?” Ric leaned forward on his elbows.

  “The reporter who first handed me this tip.”

  “We just got a call from the Blanco County Sheriff about a dorion.”

  Allison stiffened. “What happened?”

  “There was a fire early this morning at the Rolling Hills Motel out Highway Twelve.”

  “Did anyone—”

  “One fatality. No positive ID yet,” Ric said, “but the room was registered to a Tyler P. Dorion.”

  Jonah crossed paths with Fiona in the bullpen.

  “You finished already?” he asked.

  She held out a thick piece of paper about the size of a legal pad. It had a protective flap over it, and Jonah flipped it open.

  “This is him?”

  “It’s the man she described.”

  “Damn, it’s so detailed.” He glanced at Fiona. “I was worried you might not get much. It’s been ten days.”

  “My average lag time is three weeks,” Fiona said. “Unfortunately, many investigators think of forensic artists as a last resort. Ten days is nothing.”

  Jonah studied the face of the mystery accomplice no one but Sophie had even believed existed. The man looked to be mid-thirties, medium build. He had slightly shaggy hair, but no distinctive scars or tattoos. It was his eyes that stood out. They looked cold. Focused. And Jonah would bet money this was the shadow warrior who’d recruited Jim Himmel for his suicide mission.

  He glanced up. “You think this is an accurate sketch? I mean, was she pretty confident?”

  “Actually, witness confidence has very little bearing on accuracy,” Fiona said. “Some of the most reluctant, insecure witnesses can provide loads of details. And the timing’s not an issue here, either. Studies have shown that whatever details are still with you seventy-two hours after an incident will stay with you for a long, long time. So, yes, I’d say it’s good.” She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “Anyway, it’s yours now. I hope it leads to an ID for you.”

  “You ready?”

  Jonah turned to see Allison standing at his elbow, looking anxious. They were heading out to the
Delphi Center to learn more about the victim of last night’s motel fire. Even the medical examiner’s office didn’t keep a forensic anthropologist on staff.

  “I’m coming,” he told her. “Just need to talk to Sophie.” He glanced at Fiona. “She still in the interview room, I take it?”

  “Not anymore. She left about ten minutes ago. Said she had to run an errand.”

  Sophie combed the aisles looking for anything that could remotely qualify as health food. Or at least health y. She settled for a box of shredded wheat and a bunch of bananas. She fully expected the deer lease to have either an empty pantry or one stocked with beef jerky and Beanie Weenies.

  She plunked her groceries on the counter, along with a six-pack of diet soda.

  “And pump number two, please,” she told the clerk.

  The man rattled off her total, and Sophie sighed as she handed over her twenties. At this rate, she was going to be out of cash in no time. But she’d promised Scott a full tank of gas, and she intended to deliver.

  After leaving the store, Sophie tossed her grocery bags in the cab of the pickup, then cleared out the cup holders. They’d dropped off Jonah’s rental car in Corpus on the way back, and he’d insisted on driving the remainder of the three-hour journey. Sophie suspected he’d been worried she’d make a dash for it if he didn’t personally escort her back here.

  She replaced the fuel pump and slid behind the wheel, then pulled out of the parking lot. She checked her watch. Jonah had been stuck in a meeting when she’d left. If she could get Scott to take her to the police station right away, she could probably make it back before Jonah even noticed she was gone. But she’d have to hurry. She pulled into traffic and calculated the shortest route to Scott’s house.

  A siren sounded behind her.

  She checked the mirror and felt a jolt of alarm at the flashing lights. She glanced around and confirmed that, yes, the cruiser was after her.

  “Damn hell,” she said, pulling into a parking lot. This was not good. She didn’t even have a license with her. It had burned up in the explosion.

  She glanced in the side mirror as the officer made a call on his radio. Then he climbed out and approached.

  Woods, thank God. Her shoulders sagged with relief, and she rolled down her window.