Exposed

by Laura Griffin

  “Because it’s entirely possible you could have a concussion.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” And a trip to the emergency room was the last thing she needed tonight. She had an aversion to hospitals.

  “Well.” The woman flipped shut the lid to her first-aid kit. “Suit yourself. I can’t make you take commonsense precautions.”

  “Madeline Callahan?”

  She turned, startled. She hadn’t expected such a deep voice from someone so young. He stared down at her, hands resting at his hips, suit jacket pushed back to reveal a semiautomatic pistol and—as she’d suspected—an FBI shield. She lifted her gaze to his smooth, clean-shaven face. If she was right about the military thing, he must have graduated from the Academy about a week ago.

  “I’m Special Agent Brian Beckman with the FBI. This is Special Agent Sam Dulles.” He nodded at the bald guy. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

  Dulles leaned back against the patrol car parked perpendicular to the one where Maddie stood. Clearly, he intended to hang back and observe. Maybe this was a training exercise.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked back at the young one. Beckman. He was watching her intently with those hazel eyes.

  “Could you take us through what transpired here, please?”

  Transpired. Typical cop-speak. Maddie folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the side of the car. “It was a mugging.”

  His eyebrows tipped up. “Could you be more specific?”

  “Someone attacked me in the parking garage. Stole my purse, along with my brand-new camera.”

  “Your camera?”

  “I’m a photographer. I was doing a photo shoot down at the park—a couple getting married.”

  Both men were regarding her with frank interest now, and she had the feeling she was missing something.

  Beckman eased closer. “We’d like you to walk us through the entire incident, ma’am. Step by step.”

  Irritated by the ma’am-ing, she shot a look at Dulles. “Since when does the FBI have jurisdiction in a mugging?”

  No answer.

  “Maddie?”

  She turned to see Jeff walking toward her, hand outstretched. Her brown leather purse dangled from his fingers.

  “Oh, my God! Where was it?” She beamed a smile at him and snatched up the bag.

  “Scanlon found it under a truck near your car. Phone’s in there, too. You just had a call come in.”

  “Thank you! You have no idea how much trouble this saves me.” Maddie already had the phone out, and her heart lurched when she saw the text from her boss. It was just as she’d feared. She was needed at a crime scene, ASAP. He’d sent her a message coded 911 and a street address.

  Maddie stashed the ice pack in her purse and shoved the phone into the pocket of her jeans. Now, she really needed to leave.

  “Ms. Callahan?”

  She glanced up. The young agent was watching her expectantly. So was his partner.

  “Listen, you see Officer Scanlon over there? The one with the notepad? I guarantee he’ll be turning in a full report before he clocks out tonight. You can get the details from him.”

  “We need them from you,” Dulles said, speaking up for the first time. He was still leaning against the side of the car, looking disapproving.

  “Is there a specific reason the FBI is involved here? I told you, it was a mugging.”

  “Looks to me like an assault, too,” Beckman said evenly.

  “Okay, fine. But I really need to be somewhere, like, an hour ago, so unless you can explain how this is relevant—”

  “We’re investigating a federal case.”

  “A federal case involving . . . ?” She waited as they exchanged looks.

  “There was a theft across the street from here about five-thirty.” Dulles nodded toward the park. “Given the timing, we think it could be connected to your incident.”

  Maddie glanced across the street, where a bank faced out onto the park. A bank robbery certainly would explain the feds, but why weren’t there any police cars?

  “Take us through what happened,” Beckman said, all trace of politeness gone.

  And so Maddie did.

  Brian watched as Madeline Callahan gave a concise but thorough account of the events following her photo shoot. The woman had an eye for detail—that much was clear. She also had an attitude. He wasn’t sure where it came from. Most people tended to perk up and take notice when FBI agents arrived on the scene, but this woman seemed mostly annoyed.

  Brian watched her, intrigued. She wore faded jeans that hugged her hips, brown leather boots, and a black T-shirt that stretched tight over her breasts. Her arms were folded as if she were cold, and she probably was, given that the temperature had dropped into the forties since dusk. Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but strands had escaped, and she kept tucking them back behind her ears. A nervous habit, maybe? But she didn’t seem nervous, and Brian had interviewed more than enough witnesses to know. His attention drifted to those full lips that seemed to taunt him as she talked. He watched her mouth and knew he was going to be fantasizing about it for a good long time.

  In an effort to stay focused, he shifted his gaze to the side of her jaw, which was swollen and rapidly turning purple. Her assailant had gotten in a solid punch, and Brian’s gut tightened as he imagined some fat, hairy fist connecting with her face.

  She was staring at him now, and he realized she’d finished her story.

  “So, your camera was directed north,” Sam stated, saving him from making an ass of himself.

  “That’s right.”

  Brian cleared his throat. “Ma’am, what are the odds you might have inadvertently photographed someone standing in front of that bank at five-thirty?”

  She paused for a moment. “I’d say good. But I’d also say the odds of us ever knowing for sure are nil. So, as much as I’d love to help you guys, I think we’re all pretty much shit out of luck today.” She checked her watch, and a look of anxiety flashed across her face. “And now I really have to go.”

  “Do you need a ride home?” Brian asked her.

  She looked surprised by the offer. Then wary. “Thanks, but I’ve got my car.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at the parking garage, and the anxiety seemed to double.

  “Would you like an escort?” he asked.

  “An escort?”

  “To your vehicle.”

  “Oh. No. Really, I’m fine.” She hitched her purse onto her shoulder. “So, if there’s nothing else you need . . . ?”

  “If there is, we’ll call you,” Brian said.

  Her gaze narrowed. “I didn’t give you my number.”

  He smiled slightly. “We can get it.”

  They watched her walk across the street, and Brian marveled at her confidence as she returned, alone, to the scene of her attack. After dark, no less. Granted, there were cops milling around, but still.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked.

  Brian glanced at his partner. “Seems pretty street-smart for a wedding photographer.”

  “In a hurry to leave, too.”

  “Maybe she’s got a date.”

  Sam shot him a look.

  “What?”

  “Shit, Beckman. Don’t you ever stop?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  “You believe she saw them?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I think the timing’s too perfect to be a coincidence,” Sam said grimly. “A photographer gets mugged right after a kidnapping goes down? By a two-man team, and they don’t even get her purse?” Sam rubbed his hand over his bald head and blew out a sigh, reminding Brian what a truly crappy day they’d had. And it wasn’t nearly over yet. They still had to get back to the office in San Antonio and help the task force piece together what happened to Jolene Murphy, the star witness in their upcoming case.

  The star witness who had gone missi
ng only minutes after leaving her office, which just happened to be across the street from Maddie Callahan’s photo shoot.

  Sam was right. The timing, the location, the ruthlessness with which they’d gone after that camera but overlooked other valuables—taken all together, it was too much of a stretch. Maddie Callahan had been targeted.

  Brian watched the garage now as a Prius pulled out. He recognized Maddie behind the wheel. She turned onto Main Street and sped away.

  He pictured the bruise on her face, and his gut tightened again. This case involved some extremely dangerous people, and he didn’t like the idea of them knowing Maddie Callahan existed, much less targeting her.

  He looked at Sam. “Maybe she didn’t see anything,” he said hopefully.

  “Maybe not. But a woman doesn’t just disappear in broad daylight. Someone sure as hell saw something.”

  “You know, Jolene Murphy could have taken off,” Brian said. “Maybe we’re not dealing with a kidnapping at all but a spooked witness.”

  Sam sneered. “Trust me, they grabbed her. They want to know what she revealed, and then they want her out of the way. And if we don’t find her soon, you can be damn sure we’ll be dealing with a murder.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Maddie’s headlights sliced through the darkness as she turned onto Cottonwood Road. The bumpy strip of asphalt stretched past a series of mobile homes before making a dip over a low-water bridge. As she rounded a bend, the sight of the small clapboard house lit up like a beacon made her stomach knot.

  A homicide. Even if she hadn’t been tipped off by her boss’s text message, she would have known by the sheer number of vehicles: three from the Clarke County Sheriff’s Department, a Delphi Center crime-scene unit, and a white ME’s van.

  Maddie rolled past everyone and parked beside some mesquite trees lining the road. She popped her trunk and swept her Maglite over the contents. Everything looked to be in order. Her backup camera was nestled in its nylon bag. Her go-kit was neatly packed with spare batteries, extra memory cards, a light meter, and an array of other equipment she might need. She hitched the bag onto her shoulder, looped her camera around her neck, and took a deep breath.

  A homicide. Regardless of what had happened earlier, she needed to bring her A game. She only had one chance to get this right.

  Maddie adjusted the camera settings for low light and walked to the spot where a gravel path met the road. She snapped four photographs, at twelve o’clock, three, six, and nine. She approached the house and paused several times for mid-range pictures.

  Shoot your way in, shoot your way out. The words of her forensic photography instructor echoed through her head as she stepped into the halo of light spilling from the porch. At the base of the wooden stairs was a cardboard box, overturned and sitting on the dirt. Maddie had a hunch she knew why it was there, but she took a photo of it anyway. Always better to have extra shots than to miss something important.

  “Maddie. Where ya been?” Wood creaked as a hefty sheriff’s deputy stepped out to greet her. Craig Rodgers lifted the yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the porch and motioned her to come through. “I was starting to get worried.”

  “Sorry. Got held up. You save me a shoe print?” She nodded at the box.

  “Didn’t want anyone mucking it up.”

  “Thanks. Where’re all your guys?”

  “One’s inside. I sent two of them out back to search the yard. Figured we’d keep traffic in here to a minimum.”

  She was relieved to hear it. Another CSI adage she’d found to be true: The victim died once, but the crime scene could be murdered a thousand times.

  Maddie ducked under the tape and spotted the brown clipboard on a plastic lawn chair. After scrawling her information in the crime-scene log, she donned a pair of paper booties and latex gloves from the boxes someone had left beside the chair. She squeezed past Craig’s barrel-shaped chest, and he caught her arm.

  “Hey, what happened to your face?”

  “Long story,” she said, and turned to snap a photo of the door frame. She’d come back later to document the gouge marks in the wood thoroughly. On the plank floor were tiny blood drops that had already been designated with evidence markers. Careful not to trample anything, she stepped over the threshold.

  The house was cramped and messy and reeked of cigarette smoke. With a quick glance, she noted a debris-strewn kitchen, a breakfast table heaped with fast-food cups, and a living room dominated by a worn yellow recliner.

  She glanced across the room at Brooke Porter. The slender brunette was crouched beside a media cabinet, visualizing latent prints with what cops referred to as her “fairy dust.”

  “I’m surprised the sheriff called both of us,” Maddie said.

  “Well, you know. Election year and all that.” Brooke glanced up from her work. “Shit, Mad, what happened to you?”

  “I got mugged.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “He get your purse?”

  “My Nikon.” She ignored Brooke’s pained expression and darted a look at Craig. “So, what do we have?”

  His face was a mix of protectiveness and annoyance, and Maddie ignored that, too.

  “Isabella Simmons, nineteen.”

  Maddie’s heart squeezed.

  “Neighbor called it in,” he said. “She went out to walk her dog and noticed the door standing open. Came over to check it out, found her in the bedroom.” He jerked his head toward the back of the house. “Looks like a burglary gone bad. Her wallet’s missing from her purse back there. Jewelry box is dumped out. TV gone.”

  Looks like. Maddie noted the tone of his voice. She took a shot of the hallway and then followed him past a bathroom to the bedroom.

  “Watch the blood,” he said, pointing at evidence markers on the floor. Maddie passed them without stopping. Before the night was over, she’d photograph all of it, but the ME’s guys had beaten her here, and she guessed they were getting impatient.

  Isabella Simmons lay sprawled on the floor beside a queen-size bed. She wore jeans, one black sandal, and a tight white blouse that had flecks of something dark on it—maybe blood. One of her arms was flung up above her head, fingers outstretched, as if she were hailing a cab. A curtain of long blond hair covered her face, partially obscuring her wide-eyed gaze. A trickle of blood had dried beneath her nostril, and she had red marks on her neck.

  “You didn’t move her?” She glanced at the ME’s assistants, who were crouched beside a bag of gear. One was reading a thermometer, while the other made notes on a clipboard.

  “Waiting for you,” the closer one said, and she detected the irritation in his voice.

  Maddie lifted her camera and went to work photographing the victim. By some unspoken understanding, all four men in the room stepped toward the door to give her space to maneuver.

  Well, as much space as possible. The bedroom was small to begin with, and the walls were lined with overflowing laundry baskets, mismatched chairs, and milk crates brimming with shoes. A wooden jewelry box was dumped out on the floor. Within reach of the victim’s hand was a small lamp. Maddie dug a metal ruler from her kit, placed it beside the lamp to provide scale, and snapped some pictures. She did the same for a black sandal peeking out from under the bed.

  “You got enough light?” Craig asked from the doorway.

  “I’m fine.”

  With practiced detachment, she photographed the body from every angle, taking care to keep her expression blank. The Clarke County Sheriff’s Department didn’t see a lot of homicides, maybe a handful a year. But the ME’s guys were well versed in death, and Maddie felt their gazes on her, gauging her reaction as she worked the scene. Was she up to the job? Was she going to puke? She knelt beside the bed and took a final shot of the victim’s outstretched hand.

  Nineteen years old. A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. Her thoughts went to Isabella’s parents, and she felt a swell of sympathy for them. Th
ey probably hadn’t even been notified yet, and here Maddie was documenting the event that was going to tear through their lives like a tornado.

  “She’s got something on her fingers,” she said as she stood up.

  “We noticed.”

  She glanced up at the deputy beside Craig. Big. Buzz cut. He hardly looked old enough to drink, and he clearly felt threatened by her presence, as if she were trying to tell him how to do his job.

  And she was. She and Brooke were here specifically because Clarke County didn’t have the budget to keep CSIs on staff. Some of their deputies had had a few training courses and were capable of handling burglaries, car thefts, anything routine. But for something as important as a homicide—especially during an election year—the sheriff called in the experts at the Delphi Center crime lab, where Maddie and Brooke worked full-time.

  “Where’s Sheriff Bracewell?” Maddie asked Craig.

  “Abilene.”

  She arched her eyebrows.

  “His mother-in-law’s funeral,” he expanded. “He hit the road as soon as I called him.”

  “Can we bag her hands now?” one of the ME’s assistants asked.

  Maddie nodded and proceeded with the rest of the room. She spent some time near the door, where a drop of blood had landed on the wooden floor. She photographed the neatly made bed, the makeup brushes spread out over the dresser, the red lipstick—top off—that had fallen to the floor. Maddie glanced at Isabella’s face and noted her unnaturally vivid lips.

  She swept her flashlight over the walls, the baseboards, the ceiling—a spot often overlooked by fleeing suspects. She glanced at the undisturbed bed again and at the victim’s jeans, which were zipped and buttoned. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Maddie’s gaze went to the lipstick, and she composed a narrative: Isabella is home, putting on makeup, maybe getting ready for an evening out. No car out front, so maybe the burglar assumes no one is home. He pries open the door, surprises the victim, strangles her, grabs her valuables, and flees the scene.

  Maddie studied the bed again. She turned to Craig. “I need to use the UV light.”

  “Fine by me.”