Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  “Just toast?” Tara asked.

  “No appetite this morning.” M.J. opened up her laptop and clicked into a file. “So, I downloaded those reports from Jacobs.”

  Tara scanned the screen, reaching over to tap the keyboard as she read through the documents.

  “Four incidents within two months, all the summer before the election,” M.J. summarized.

  Each event was detailed in a 302, the standard Bureau interview form. In the first three instances, Catalina Reyes was listed as the interviewee. The fourth report was different.

  “Liam Wolfe,” Tara said, skimming the notes. “Security consultant?”

  “That’s her bodyguard, evidently. Some special forces badass. I heard the deputies talking about him last night.”

  “Why were they talking about him?”

  “His firm—Wolfe Security—it’s headquartered around here. Although I couldn’t find a listing, so right now it’s not much of a lead.”

  Tara spent a few minutes reading the 302s. The first two incidents consisted of threatening letters. The third incident involved a Molotov cocktail thrown through the living-room window of Catalina’s house, injuring no one but resulting in a call to the Silver Springs Fire Department.

  “No one injured, no fire,” M.J. said. “Evidently, the bomb was pretty amateurish.”

  “Still, it kicks up the threat. Looks like that’s what prompted her to hire the bodyguard.”

  The fourth incident consisted of someone tagging Catalina’s car with the words wetback whore while it was parked at a restaurant in Houston.

  The waitress appeared with their food, and M.J. slid the computer over so Tara could continue reading. Tara stabbed at a sausage link as she skimmed the page. In the fourth incident, Liam Wolfe had personally confronted the vandal and escorted him to the police station.

  “Escorted. Ha.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too.” M.J. spread grape jelly on her toast.

  Tara took out her phone and did a Google search of Wolfe Security. No listing. She tried a different search engine. Nothing. She tried the name Liam Wolfe and got a real estate agent in Naperville, Illinois. Definitely not the same Liam Wolfe.

  “Where is this guy?” She looked at M.J.

  “No idea. I couldn’t find a trace of him.”

  Tara dug into her omelet, thinking. She did a search of images and got publicity shots of the real estate agent. They were all the same, except for a candid at a charity event in Chicago.

  Tara ran across another candid photo, a man standing beside a limousine with a beautiful blonde in a black micro-dress. “Ashley Somers arrives at SXSW, accompanied by bodyguard Liam Wolfe,” read the caption.

  Tara zoomed in on the bodyguard. He was tall, broad-shouldered. The cut of his dark suit didn’t quite conceal whatever serious weapon he had holstered at his hip.

  “Damn, he’s ripped,” M.J. said. “Wonder what his face looks like.”

  Tara did, too. It was hard to tell with the mirrored aviators. He had a strong jaw and a military-short haircut. His mouth was set in a firm line.

  “South by Southwest. That’s the film festival in Austin,” M.J. said.

  “I thought she was a singer.”

  “Whatever.” M.J. shut down her laptop and zipped it into her bag. “She’s a celebrity, so he doesn’t just protect politicians.”

  Tara made a dent in her breakfast and watched M.J. nibbling her toast.

  “You nervous?” Tara asked.

  “About what?”

  “The autopsy.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll be okay. Last night I was just, I don’t know, caught off guard. What I’m really nervous about is this assignment. What was Jacobs thinking?” She pushed her plate away. “I mean, you I can understand. You used to be a cop. But I barely have a year on the job.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  Tara downed the rest of her coffee. The conversation made her antsy because she’d been thinking along the exact same lines.

  “Y’all need a refill?”

  Tara glanced up at the waitress. “Thanks. Great omelet, by the way.”

  She smiled as she poured. “I’ll tell Donny you said so. He’s a keeper.”

  “Hey, I have a question,” M.J. piped up. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Wolfe Security in town, would you?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “You know where they’re located?”

  “Sure, up the highway. Second turnoff on the right, just past the old sawmill.”

  Tara checked her watch. They had more than an hour to burn before the autopsy.

  “Think we have time?” M.J. asked.

  “We’ll keep it quick.”

  The waitress dug out their check from her apron and gave Tara a pointed look. “Good luck.”

  “Why?”

  “I bet you don’t get past the gate.”

  THE SECOND TURNOFF past the old sawmill was a gravel road that curved into the forest. After 2.8 monotonous miles, the road dead ended at a solid black gate.

  No guardhouse. No keypad.

  Tara surveyed the eight-foot game fence stretching in both directions.

  No mailbox or nameplate or wrought-iron depiction of the family brand above the entrance. The sole indication of the property’s owner was a sleek black security camera aimed straight at Tara’s windshield.

  Tara stared up at the all-seeing eye.

  “Not really camouflaged, is it?” M.J. observed.

  “Think that’s the idea.”

  Tara took out her phone and tried another search, but she still couldn’t find a listing, much less a phone number.

  M.J. huffed out a breath. “It’s like he doesn’t exist online. He’s invisible.”

  Tara made a three-point turn and headed back toward the highway, tamping down her annoyance. She’d just have to roll with it. No one was really invisible, and she’d find another way to access Liam Wolfe. In the meantime, they could be early to the autopsy and maybe get a moment alone with the pathologist.

  The Cypress County morgue was in a sixties-era brick building that housed the county’s administrative offices with the exception of the sheriff’s department, which shared the courthouse across the street. Tara and M.J. picked up visitors’ badges from the receptionist and followed her directions through a labyrinth of cinder-block hallways. After half a dozen turns, Tara started reading placards beside the doors, thinking they’d missed it. Then she rounded the corner and spotted a pair of khaki uniforms receding down the hallway.

  “Sheriff.”

  Ingram turned around, hat in hand. Fury swelled in Tara’s chest as she strode up to him. He smelled like menthol, and she noticed the ointment glistening over his upper lip.

  “We’re here for the autopsy,” Tara said.

  “Looks like you just missed it.”

  “You said ten o’clock.”

  He shook his head. “Doc showed up at seven, so we went ahead and got started.”

  Tara gritted her teeth. Behind Ingram, his deputy—Jason of the vomit breath—was already tucking a lump of chaw into his lip. He looked pretty pleased with himself.

  The sheriff arranged his hat on his head. “I’ll be sure to get you ladies a copy of the report,” he drawled, “soon as I have it in hand.”

  Down the hallway, a door opened, and a man in blue surgical scrubs walked out.

  Tara sidestepped Ingram and caught up to the doctor as he headed into a break room.

  M.J. snagged Tara’s arm. “You handle this. I’ll see what I can get out of the staff here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tara turned back to the pathologist, who was pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

  “Dr. Greenwood?”

  He glanced up. “You must be one of the feds who was running late.”

  “Not late. Misinformed.” And it was her own fault, because she should have seen it coming. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the autopsy.”

 
Greenwood was short, portly, and bald as a turkey vulture. He took a sip and made a face, then set the coffee aside and regarded Tara with bloodshot gray eyes.

  “I’ll finish my report by tomorrow,” he said. “You can read about it.”

  “I will, but in the meantime, I’d like to at least get the basics.”

  He leaned back against the counter. “You want an ID, I presume.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you at the crime scene?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you have an idea what we’re dealing with.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked up at her. “I compared the dental records of Catalina Reyes to films of the victim. Looks like a possible match.”

  “Possible?”

  “Several teeth were knocked out. I’d like to get confirmation from a forensic odontologist before we go public with a name.” He arched his eyebrows. “Given the circumstances.”

  “I understand,” Tara said, even though it meant more delays. But she didn’t blame him for being thorough. She could only imagine the fallout if he got the ID wrong in such a high-profile case.

  “What about fingerprints?” she asked.

  “So far, we’ve come up blank. In terms of the other findings, manner of death, obviously homicide. I’d say time of death was between six and ten on Wednesday night. Livor patterns indicate the victim was moved sometime after she was killed. Cause of death, asphyxiation—”

  “Asphyxiation? She was gutted like a deer.”

  Greenwood frowned reproachfully.

  “Sorry.”

  “Cause of death,” he repeated, “asphyxiation due to manual strangulation, evidenced by minor petechial hemorrhaging. The mutilation to the body occurred postmortem. At least an hour, I’d say. The instrument was a large blade, six inches or more. You might also be interested to know I recovered a shard of glass embedded in her left hamstring.”

  Glass was good, in Tara’s world. Glass might yield prints or DNA from the killer.

  “What kind of glass?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. The Delphi Center crime lab might be able to help you on that count. I had it couriered over to them, along with the other trace evidence. Their forensic odontologist will be getting the films. And that”—he heaved a sigh—“is about all I can tell you until I pull my report together.”

  “Thank you.” She tried not to sound disappointed.

  “Also, I put in a phone call,” he said. “Mia Voss in the Delphi Center’s DNA lab is a top-notch analyst and a personal friend. I let her know the urgency surrounding this matter. I’m sure she’ll do her best to be quick.”

  He started to leave, but Tara stepped forward. “Just one more question. Is there anything in your findings that might”—she struggled for how to phrase it—“shed light on the perpetrator?”

  “Besides the obvious? That we’re dealing with someone exceedingly violent?”

  “That’s right. I’m talking about anything forensic. Anything that might give us an idea about who we’re looking for.”

  Greenwood bowed his head and looked at his feet. “You know, I posted two traffic fatalities last night, both sixteen-year-old kids texting and driving. Now this.” He gazed up at her, his look somber. “I can’t shed light on this for you. I wish I could. I can document her injuries and X-ray her bones and weigh her organs. But ultimately, she is a stranger to me.”

  TARA EYED THE sheriff’s units parked in front of the courthouse as she pulled out of the lot.

  “Well, I picked up some gossip,” M.J. said.

  “I knew you would.”

  M.J. had something Tara lacked: the gift of gab. It was a skill that came in useful during investigations.

  “One of the clerks said the pathologist was notified and put on the schedule last night,” M.J. said. “By Sheriff Ingram himself.”

  “Figures.”

  “So, anything from the doctor?”

  Tara filled her in, getting angrier by the minute as she recounted all the critical developments they’d missed by being shut out of the autopsy.

  She drove through downtown Cypress, passing the town square with the white gazebo in the center, the library, the VFW hall. It seemed like such a quaint Southern town, but Tara knew better, and so had Jacobs when he’d sent her here. Don’t let the yokels jerk you around.

  Tara tried to calm her temper. She had a problem with certain types of men, a problem that manifested itself as a tight knot in her chest that refused to loosen. It was a constant struggle for her to let go of all the crappy things she couldn’t control and focus on the things she could.

  She took a deep breath and tried to shake it off. She’d underestimated the sheriff. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Tara passed the Dairy Queen, whipped into a gas station, and pulled her old Explorer up to a pump.

  M.J. pushed open her door. “Think I’ll grab some coffee now that I’m not worried about losing my breakfast. Want any?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Tara popped open the gas tank and surveyed the town as she fueled up. GO VIPERS! read the Dairy Queen marquee. Across the street at the local hardware store, spirit signs decorated the windows.

  Tara studied the traffic—a mix of pickups and SUVs and logging trucks. She spied a few gas rigs, too, and remembered last night’s rotten-egg smell, which resulted from hydrogen sulfide being released during the production of oil and gas. Fossil fuels were more lucrative than timber, and Tara knew logging was becoming secondary to petrochemicals in this part of the state. And then, of course, there was the other cottage industry. Meth labs had been sprouting up like weeds, providing a steady source of income and misery throughout the region.

  M.J. came back. “Brought you a snack,” she said, holding up a pack of powdered-sugar doughnuts.

  “How’d you know?” Tara slid behind the wheel. She opened the doughnuts and demolished the first in two bites. The sugar dissolving on her tongue seemed to dissolve some of her bitter mood.

  “Okay, new plan,” Tara announced, firing up the Explorer. She started to pull out, then jabbed the brakes. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” M.J. glanced up.

  “Hardware store. Black pickup.”

  Tara watched the man as he loaded lumber into the truck bed. Tall, lean, mirrored shades. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she recognized the military-straight posture.

  “It’s him.” She looked at M.J.

  “Who?”

  “Liam Wolfe.”

  M.J. leaned forward and squinted. “How can you tell from here? I can hardly see his face.”

  “Trust me.”

  Tara watched, riveted by the sight of him. His size, his moves—the man oozed confidence from every pore. He strode around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.

  Tara drove to the opposite end of the lot as the black pickup pulled into traffic.

  “You’re going to follow him?” M.J. sounded alarmed.

  “Sure, why not?”

  Tara pulled out but hung back, allowing a few cars between herself and the truck. She didn’t need to get close because she knew where he was going. He got on the highway and headed south toward Dunn’s Landing.

  “But the ID isn’t confirmed yet,” M.J. said. “What if the victim isn’t Catalina Reyes?”

  “Either way, she’s missing, which is why we’re here. Liam Wolfe’s her bodyguard.”

  “Was.”

  “He might have some ideas for us.”

  Tara tailed the truck, which looked like so many others on the road. She would have expected more of a statement—something with souped-up hydraulics or maybe a Hummer. But it was your basic black pickup, one of countless in the Lone Star State.

  Tara studied the truck, memorizing the taillights, the chrome toolbox, the tinted back windows. The Chevy Silverado was a few years old. Loaded with lumber, it rode low to the ground.

  “You think he’s spotted us?” M.J. asked.

  “I sure hope so. He’s
a security consultant.”

  The miles ticked by as they moved south on U.S. 59. Tara closed the gap and tried to read the license plate, but it was impossible to see with the wood hanging off the back.

  He shifted into the right lane and put on his turn indicator. Tara’s gaze narrowed. She’d never met the man, but she got the distinct impression that he was being a smartass.

  He exited the freeway and passed the old sawmill, then hooked a right. Tara stayed behind him, wending her way along the gravel road just like before. Only this time, when she reached the end, the black gates magically parted.

  Tara followed him through.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The gates slid shut behind her. Tara kept about thirty feet off his tailgate, close enough to watch his reflection in the side mirror.

  “Cameras,” M.J. said.

  “Where?”

  “Up in the trees.”

  Tara wasn’t looking at the trees. Her attention was fixed on that mirror, but once again sunglasses concealed his eyes.

  The trees gave way to a grassy clearing, and he swung a left. A house came into view.

  “Wow,” M.J. said.

  It wasn’t a house, really, but a lodge made of rough-hewn logs. One story, weathered wooden shingles. A wide breezeway connected two separate sections, each with a limestone chimney at the end. He drove past the building and pulled up to a row of trucks and SUVs with mud-caked tires.

  Tara went to the end of the row and parked beside a battered Suburban with a swamp-camo paint job.

  M.J. looked at her. “I hope you have a plan.”

  “We’ll improvise.”

  Tara slid from the Explorer and walked over to the man now getting out of the pickup. Black T-shirt, faded jeans. Not combat boots, as she would have expected, but shit kickers.

  “Liam Wolfe?” She strode up to him. “I’m Special Agent—”

  “I know who you are.”

  He watched her, his expression unreadable. Tara didn’t usually look up at men, but this one was tall.

  He glanced at M.J., then back to Tara.

  “You’re here about Catie,” he said. “There’s been an ID?”

  “Nothing definite.” Tara paused, gauging his reaction. His eyes were still hidden behind mirrored shades. “Probably by tomorrow.”