by Joanna Wayne
Now she’d started a disagreement between Tucker and Esther. This wasn’t going to work on any level.
“You’re right,” Tucker said. “Your house, your rules. As it should be.”
That didn’t mean he and his brothers wouldn’t come nosing about to make sure she was acceptable. She’d have limited privacy and that would be a problem.
Once she got into the case, her maps and charts would have to be strung across the walls like huge banners so she could study them. It was the best way to see patterns.
Times and places where Rachel and the others were last seen. Places where they could have come in contact with the perp before the abductions. Any commonly shared links of interest among the women. An extensive study of their social-media habits.
At this point, studying the lifestyles of the missing women was all she’d have to go on.
“Let’s start with the bedrooms,” Esther suggested. “I have several to choose from, a few with their own bathrooms. And I do have wireless now. Pierce bought me one of those fancy tablets.”
“Which she hates,” Riley said.
“I don’t hate it. Just don’t need it. No sense in hanging your wash on someone else’s line, and that’s exactly what that social-media bologna feels like to me. Now, if you guys will excuse us, we’ve got business to take care of.”
* * *
THE HOUSE WAS exactly what Sydney would have needed—if she actually was a freelance writer. The bedrooms were immaculate and, despite Esther’s disclaimer, several of them were a bit fancy, at least when compared to the main living areas of the house. One of them even had sliding glass doors leading to a patio, a perfect place for morning coffee.
“This is my favorite of all the guest rooms,” Esther said. “It wouldn’t give you much room for work, but the room next to it has a writing desk. No reason you couldn’t use both.”
“I’m sure I could make that work.”
Unfortunately, it didn’t solve the privacy issue. On the other hand, the old locks on the door had keys in them, so she could keep that room locked at all times.
Even better, Esther was a delight to be around. Outspoken, glaringly honest, upbeat and witty. And a wealth of information about Winding Creek and the surrounding area.
They wound up the tour in the spacious family room. The grouping of pictures on the wall to the left of the stone fireplace captured her attention. Most appeared to be of Riley, Pierce and Tucker.
Sydney walked over for a closer look. She focused on one of the Lawrence brothers when they were much younger. The three of them on horseback, looking at home in their saddles.
“We have such great memories of those boys,” Esther said. “They brought so much love into this house. I was proud of them then and even prouder now. They turned into such remarkable young men.”
“Exactly how did they come to live with you?”
“Their parents died in a car crash. Tucker was only twelve, just a kid, but he tried so hard to hide all his fears and grief. I just wanted to hold him and let him know it was okay to grieve, but I gave him time to come to me. When he finally did, we cried buckets of tears.”
“He was very lucky to have you,” Sydney said. “All three of them were.”
“I guess so. Social Services couldn’t find any foster parents willing to take all three of them, so they were going to split them up. Charlie heard about that, and the next thing I knew, they were living with us. We had them for ten months before a biological uncle they’d never met before showed up.”
“So, the boys had to go with him?”
“He had legal rights. We didn’t. But Charlie hired a private detective to make sure they were being treated right. Their uncle was a good man.”
“Charlie was your husband?”
“For fifty-three years. I loved that man every day of them. I still do. ’Spect I will till they lay me in the ground beside him.”
“How long has he been dead—unless you’d rather not talk about it?”
“Oh, I’ve done plenty of talking about it. Talked so much people around here are tired of hearing me. They think I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I do.”
“What don’t they believe?”
“That Charlie was murdered. In his own barn. In cold blood. They think Charlie committed suicide. But I know what I know.”
A chill washed over Sydney. She didn’t know Charlie or anything about him, but she knew Esther was convinced he’d been murdered.
Murdered right here on this ranch in the safe little town of Winding Creek, where even Esther didn’t bother with locking her door when she was home alone.
Where Rachel had last been seen. Evil didn’t recognize havens.
“How long has he been dead?”
“A year and six months. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was on the porch, waiting on him to come to lunch. There was a big pot of beans on the stove. I’d cooked up some turnip greens from the garden and an iron skillet of corn bread to go with them. And sliced some sweet onions. All Charlie’s favorites.
“I waited. He didn’t come. He never came.”
One huge tear made its way down Esther’s right cheek, followed by an avalanche.
Sydney put an arm around her. Esther leaned against her and cried until the shoulder of Sydney’s shirt was wet with her tears.
When the last of the sobs played out, Esther pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with her fists.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go there but you’re the only one who’s given any indication you believe me about Charlie’s being murdered. Seemed to tilt me back into the hurt.”
“Was his death investigated?”
“Yes, but without my input. My heart couldn’t take it when I found the body. By the time I recovered from the heart attack, Sheriff Cavazos had declared the death a suicide.”
“And there was no follow-up after your complaints?”
“No. Pierce and Riley both talked to the sheriff but they say there’s no evidence to support murder.”
Sydney knew that wasn’t proof Charlie Kavanaugh hadn’t been murdered. Now another young woman had been murdered and four young women were missing in this idyllic rural community.
Coincidence?
Likely, but unusual enough she couldn’t ignore it.
They said their goodbyes, forgoing any decision about Syd returning as a paying houseguest.
Sydney literally ran into Tucker as she was leaving. He was coming in the front door as she was going out and they bumped against each other. It was awkward and unnerving, though she didn’t know why he had such an unexplainable effect on her. It was time to move past that.
He opened the door for her and moved back. “Sorry. I seem to say that a lot with you.”
“Too much,” she agreed. “How about we call a truce and start over? See if we can move this into a steadier groove.”
“I’m game if you are,” he said. He put out his hand. “I’m Tucker Lawrence. Nice to meet you, Syd Cotton.”
Her fake name. They’d be starting over with a lie between them, but with this much at stake it couldn’t be helped.
She shook his hand, aware of the calluses and the strength in his grip.
“Will you be moving in tonight?” he asked.
“I haven’t made any firm decisions, but I definitely won’t be leaving Winding Creek for a while.”
“Then perhaps you’ll let me buy you dinner tonight at the Caffe Grill. Their steaks don’t come anywhere near measuring up to the ones I can grill with Kavanaugh beef. However, their burgers are still delicious and their fish tacos go down mighty easy with a beer.”
He was serious about starting over. She felt guilty knowing that if she met him in town it would be all business for her. Everything would be until Rachel w
as safe.
She couldn’t think beyond that, but she would like to pick Tucker’s brain and see if he and his brothers’ take on Charlie’s death differed from Esther’s.
“I’ll be working this afternoon. It might be late before I can get away.”
“That’s not a problem for me. I’m a night owl myself.”
“I thought cowboys got up with the sun.”
“Not all of us. I’ll give you my phone number. Call me if you want to get together. If you don’t, no problem.”
“I’ll call you by seven,” she said. “One way or another, I’ll call and let you know.”
She put his number into her phone and walked away. Doubt crept into her mind. Was she being totally honest with herself about why she wanted to see Tucker tonight?
Yes, she assured herself. This was all business as long as Rachel and the others were missing and a madman possibly held all their lives in his hands.
* * *
IT WAS A quarter past one when Sydney finally got to meet with Jackson and three of the agents she’d be working with. She resented the wasted hours in between, time that she could have been chasing down clues.
But she was not the one in control.
The meeting was in a privately owned fishing cabin overlooking Winding Creek. The creek itself was slow-moving but wide and deep enough that it looked more like a river to her.
Jackson met her at the door. He shook her hand and introduced himself. “Hope you didn’t have any trouble finding this place. It’s kind of hidden back in here.”
“No trouble, thanks to your good directions. I did get a little worried crossing that narrow wooden bridge.”
“Know what you mean, but Sheriff Cavazos assured me the bridge was safe.”
“Is this his cabin?”
“Belongs to a friend of his but he said we could use it as long as we need. He would have offered us space at his office but they took in water during the spring floods and the back half of the building is undergoing major repair. Could barely hear myself think with all the racket going on.”
“Other than that, how did the meeting go?” Sydney asked.
“It went well. Seems like Cavazos’s got a good handle on things. At this point, he has no idea if he’s dealing with one perp or more. Either way, he fears it’s only a matter of time until another woman goes missing.”
“Good that he realizes how urgent this is.”
“No one knows that better than you. I can only imagine how difficult this is on you. If you want to back out at any time, I’ll understand.”
“I’m willing to see how it goes,” she said. She could make no promises. Sipping coffee and talking to strangers at Dani’s wasn’t getting the job done.
Three male agents were sitting around a long wooden table when they joined them in the roomy kitchen. They all stood for introductions.
Allan Cullen looked to be in his midforties and explained that he’d been with the Bureau ever since he’d graduated college.
They had that in common. She was twenty-seven and had been with the FBI for six years, having graduated from UT in three.
Second guy was Tim Adams, whom she’d met before but hadn’t run into in several years. She knew him better by reputation. He’d helped capture a well-known serial killer in the Northwest a few years back and had been instrumental in cracking several big cases since then.
Rene Foster was the oldest of the bunch, around fifty, she’d guess. His hair was beginning to gray. His hairline was seriously receding, but he’d managed to stay in good physical condition.
That left her. “I’m Sydney Maxwell,” she said, “and thrilled to be part of this team.”
“You’re the profiling queen,” Rene said. “You pegged the description of the Swamp Strangler with almost nothing to go on and then tracked him down. Impressed the hell out of us old-timers.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Sydney’s going to play a slightly different role in this investigation,” Jackson said. “She’s going to be officially unofficial.”
“That’s a new one on me,” Allan said. “How does that work?”
“She’ll be working in the background, using all the information you feed her and giving us the benefit of her expertise but not doing any fieldwork.”
“Why is that?” Rene asked.
“Her sister is one of the missing women.”
All three of the men turned to stare at Sydney in total silence. Rene finally broke the quiet. “I’m really sorry to hear about your sister. Really sorry.”
The others joined in with their condolences, but their expressions revealed more than their concerns about her feelings.
“If any of you have questions about her role, we should clear that up now,” Jackson said.
“I would think keeping this objective would be difficult for Sydney,” Rene said.
“Sydney, do you want to answer that?” Jackson said.
“I’m not sure I’m ever totally objective when dealing with perps who are abducting and killing women. I don’t expect it to affect my judgment.”
Not that she could guarantee that.
“If the perp finds out you are the sister to one of his victims, wouldn’t that put you in more danger?” Tim asked.
“If danger was an issue, I wouldn’t work for the FBI,” she assured him. That she was certain of.
“I remember an interview you gave after the Swamp Strangler case,” Tim added. “You explained that seemingly casual comments made by the victims’ families had given you the most insight into the mind of the killer.”
“I can’t deny that,” she said.
“If that becomes an issue, we can always move her into the field,” Jackson said.
In her mind it was already an issue. But how could she turn down access to all of the information the FBI would have at its fingertips?
“Makes sense,” Allan said.
Only with everything out in the open, it made even less sense to Sydney. Being officially unofficial sounded more like being close to the loop but not really in it.
“There’s bottled water and soft drinks in the fridge, some chips and other snacks on the counter,” Jackson told them, “and a fresh pot of coffee. Help yourself at any time. This is going to be a long afternoon.”
The guys got coffee. Sydney chose a bottle of water. Her nerves were edgy enough without adding more caffeine to her system.
“Now to get down to a few of the organizational details. This cabin will serve as my living quarters and our joint office while we do the initial investigating. We will be working closely with Sheriff Cavazos and his deputies.”
“What do they have for us so far?” Rene asked.
“Computer printouts of all the missing persons reports and information on the recently identified body. Tim is going to fill you in on the latest information not included in the printouts.”
Jackson sat down and Tim stood and took the lead. “The body has been identified as Sara Goodwin, a sixteen-year-old runaway last known to be living on the streets of San Antonio. Examination of her body indicated severe trauma with bruises and lacerations around the head and face. Evidence suggested she’d been killed somewhere else and her body taken to the wooded area where she’d been found. Naked. Her head shaved.”
The other missing women were between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-two, Rachel being the oldest. They were all from different towns, were not believed to know one another and were all believed to have been abducted within sixty miles of the fishing cabin they occupied right now.
Sydney scribbled a few notes as she listened though she knew they would also get this information in printed form. This meeting was meant to trigger the brainstorming process. Evidence would continue to be gathered and discussed from every angle.
Sydney understood the process but hearing Rachel talked about in the abstract was making her dizzy and nauseous. Not that the others were heartless. Far from it. They just weren’t talking about their own flesh and blood.
They spent the next few hours going over the next steps in the investigation process, deciding on priorities, tossing ideas back and forth like rubber balls.
She had no quarrel with Jackson’s decisions and leadership, but she was beginning to feel less and less like a full member of the team.
She was on the outside because she was too closely involved. But that was exactly why she couldn’t sit back for even a second. She couldn’t simply digest and analyze what they shot to her.
Profiling was 10 percent knowledge and practice and 90 percent intuition, at least it was the way she went at it. First impressions, instant reactions to how and what family members and friends reported about the victims, getting a feel that something was off-kilter.
She had to be neck deep in the investigation to trust those.
It was quarter to seven before she had a chance to talk privately with Jackson.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and brought it to the small kitchen table where she was sitting. “I think we’re off to a good start,” he said. “I know you’ll need additional information but that’s coming.”
“We need it like yesterday,” she said.
“Always. Did you pick up anything of interest we should be looking into?”
She explained her meeting with Dani Lawrence and her visit to Esther Kavanaugh’s house.
“Interesting,” he commented. “Esther’s name came up in my conversation with Sheriff Cavazos this morning. He said she’s a good source of information for most everything that goes on in the town and larger community.”
“Did he mention that her husband died less than two years ago?”
“No, that didn’t come up.”
“Esther’s convinced he was murdered though the death was ruled a suicide.”
“Family members frequently have difficulty accepting a loved one took their own life.”
