by Mary Burton
When Riley awoke later, he was standing fully dressed by the window of his drab motel room. She came up behind him, pressing her full breasts against his back. His body responded immediately to her and he wanted to lean back, savor her touch, and go back to bed. But guilt shuddered through him as he glanced at his ring finger, which still bore the faint tan lines of the wedding band he’d worn for a decade.
Instead of loving Riley, he found himself resenting her vibrant health. She was full of life, and Karen was dead. And in the hours they’d been together, he’d forgotten about Karen and cared only about Riley and himself. How could he so easily abandon precious memories of a woman he’d cherished?
Unable to face Riley, he told her to leave. He had work, he said. He could sense the tension and confusion rippling through her body. She lingered another beat as if hoping she’d heard him wrong.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
She drew away, detecting the cut underscoring the words. Without any discussion, she reached for her clothes. He heard the jerk of jeans sliding up over her long legs and her rooting for the shirt and boots.
“I don’t know why, but I thought this was more than a casual hookup.” Under the formal tone simmered sadness. “I thought we had something,” she said in a controlled, clear voice.
He dared a glance at her and saw raw pain glistening in her eyes. “I can’t do this.”
She didn’t beg, plead, or make a case for them. A shrug of her shoulders and she tugged on her boots. “Right.”
That was the last time he’d seen her until yesterday on the mountain.
Bowman wasn’t sure why he’d tracked Riley to her home. She sure didn’t need his help after the stunt he’d pulled at Quantico five years ago. She owned a home and had one hell of a job and a life. She had her shit together better than him.
And yet, here he stood in the shadows craving what he’d recklessly tossed away.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, September 13, 2:00 p.m.
A body had been found in a field. Riley had received the radio call fifteen minutes ago. The dispatcher didn’t have much more information, noting the caller sounded distraught.
Her lights flashing, she nosed her state police SUV onto the shoulder behind an old red Chevy pickup truck. She was the first officer at the scene.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at an alert Cooper. “Ready?” He thumped his tail and barked. Yesterday’s chase had left her with slightly sunburned skin and briar scrapes, but she was good for duty today.
Out of the car, she glanced back toward the off-ramp leading from I-95. With no traffic approaching, she went to the passenger-side back door and hooked Cooper’s tracking line. “Come on, boy, let’s go to work.”
Pulling her shoulders back, she settled her cap on her head and searched the truck for signs of the man who called in the report. To leave fingerprints and physical proof of contact, she touched the tailgate and rooftop with her hand, then peered in the driver’s-side window. Seeing no signs of him, she and Cooper moved toward the scrub of trees bordering the roadside.
Beyond the trees was a field filled with tall grass. A flicker of plaid and denim flashed to her right and she turned, hand on her weapon. An older man with a thick shock of white hair moved toward her, his shoulders stooped and his eyes wide with worry. A short, scruffy beard covered his angled jaw.
“About time,” he said. “I called a half hour ago.”
“I’m Trooper Tatum. Can you tell me what you found?” Cooper sat next to her, staring with a keen gaze at the man.
“Like I told the lady on the phone,” he said, stealing looks at the dog, “I found a body. Jesus, scared the life out of me.”
She fished a small notebook and pencil from her back pocket. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Russell Hudson. I manage and own all the land on this stretch of road. I live off Route 602 about two miles from here.”
She recorded his name and address. “What were you doing out here today?”
“I’m leasing the field to a promoter. A music festival is coming to the area in two weeks. I was fixing to cut the field with my tractor, but wanted to walk the land first.”
“And that’s when you found a body?”
“Yeah. I saw a flicker of white by the trees over there and went to check it out. The dead girl is leaning against the tree trunk.” He pointed to a tall oak. “I can show you.”
She pressed the radio button mounted on her vest and relayed her position. Dispatch confirmed the sheriff’s deputy was en route. “Let’s have a look, Mr. Hudson.”
They moved through the thick grass until they came to a tree centered in a small clearing. At the base of the tree was the body of a young woman. Her head was slumped forward, sending long dark hair cascading over her face and breasts. Her neatly manicured hands rested in her lap, making her look almost polite, demure.
“Shit, the sight of her still makes me sick. I’ll never forget this. I saw dead bodies when I was in the navy, but it was never a girl like this.”
“Have you touched her or moved her in any way?”
He held up bent hands. “Hell, no. I’m not going near that.”
“Stay here.”
“Suits me fine.”
Riley tugged on latex gloves, moving through the brush with Cooper. A sick, sweet scent wafted around her, a harbinger of the pungent scent of decomposition.
She knelt and touched the girl’s wrist. Cold, stiff, and no pulse. By her looks she was young, not more than twenty. Faded jeans skimmed over slim hips and a peasant blouse clung to full breasts. There were no signs of trauma to the body, but as much as Riley wanted to tip back the cascade of hair and search for a cause of death, she’d leave that for the forensic team.
Rising, she clicked her radio on. “This is Trooper Tatum. I have visual on a young female victim. You can check with county, but I’m sure they’ll need the state lab to do the forensic collection.” She patrolled in a small rural county policed by a handful of deputies. They had the capability of collecting some forensic data, but a case like this would require more support.
She and Cooper walked back toward Mr. Hudson. “Do you have any idea who this girl might be?”
“Never saw her.”
“Have you seen anyone else in this area since you arrived?”
“Nope, just me.”
“When’s the last time you were on the land?”
Hudson scratched his gray beard on his chin. “Two or three days ago, and I didn’t see her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Damn straight. I wouldn’t miss that.” He rubbed his eyes as if trying to erase the girl’s image. “This is the last problem I expected.”
“Have you noticed any unfamiliar cars in the area?”
“No. Business as usual.”
Long stretches of desolate country road didn’t mean traffic went unnoticed. Someone usually saw something.
He pulled a handkerchief and wiped his brow with fingers bent of age and arthritis. “Do you mind if I get out of here? Seeing her gives me the creeps.”
“Mr. Hudson, I’d like you to wait in your truck for a little bit longer. The local deputies might have questions for you.”
“I’ve got work.” He shook his head. “I’m counting on the money from the lease of the land. This contract will settle a lot of bills.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. But you need to wait.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before I can cut this grass?”
“I don’t know, sir, but you need to wait.”
He shook his head again. “Jesus H. Christ. What a mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he slid into his truck, a sheriff’s deputy arrived, nudging behind her SUV.
The responding deputy rose out of his car and settled his hat on his head. Riley recognized Deputy Harris DuPont’s tall, lanky frame. They’d crossed paths over the years, and each time he made it clear he
didn’t like outsiders in his jurisdiction.
DuPont paused at the red truck to talk to Mr. Hudson. He laughed, touched the brim of his hat before settling his gaze on Riley.
As DuPont approached her, she adjusted her sunglasses, determined to make nice. “Harris, been a while. Molly and the baby doing well?”
He cleared his throat, his gaze skimming over her. A shake of his head betrayed disapproval. “They’re both fine.”
“Good to hear.”
“Saw you and your dog on the news. You’re the popular one.” An edge lurked under his tone.
Absently, she tapped her finger on her gun belt. “Won’t be long before we’re yesterday’s news.”
He hitched his big hands on his belt. “Naw. Not you.” His smile didn’t mask the sarcasm. “I bet they promote you to agent within the year.”
She’d considered applying for the promotion to agent, but moving up meant leaving Cooper to a new handler, and that she’d never do. As long as Cooper could work, she’d be with him. “Maybe, one day.”
“Ah, come on. You have to admit your career is gonna get a boost.”
“I was doing my job.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “I heard you had help on that mountain.”
“Really?”
“Two other deputies said they were there for the arrest. Said they pulled Carter off the mountain.”
She smiled, refusing to let him annoy her. “They arrived later, but I don’t recall seeing anyone around when I was cuffing Carter to a tree.”
He took a step closer. “You don’t get all the credit. Team effort.”
“Right.”
He tugged the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. “What can you tell me about the victim?”
“Victim is a young female. Brown hair. Wearing a white top and jeans. Brown boots.”
Nodding, he dug crime scene tape from his trunk and crossed the field to within five feet of the body. “Looks like one of those hookers from the truck stops. The ones you’re always trying to save.”
Annoyed, she studied the mop of hair draped over the victim’s face. In the few years Riley had been working the I-95 corridor, she’d learned none of the prostitutes were in the profession by choice. Pimps promising a better life coerced many of the young girls into the sex trade. But guys like DuPont didn’t see sex slaves or human trafficking victims. They saw hookers or strippers looking to make quick cash.
All local law enforcement along the I-95, which cut a two-hundred-mile swath through the center of the state, knew she cared about cases like this one.
“Russell Hudson is anxious to get back to work. With the concert coming, he can’t waste hours in the middle of the day,” DuPont said.
“I asked him to stay for now.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Russell didn’t kill that girl.” His gaze scanned the field. “He’s making a fortune leasing the land. We haven’t had a murder in this county in a couple of years.”
“Officer Tatum?” her radio squawked.
She pressed the microphone button at her chest. “Tatum.”
“Forensics has been dispatched. About a half hour away.”
“Roger.”
DuPont’s gaze narrowed as he glanced up at the clear, cloudless sky. “Nothing to do but sit and wait.”
The idea of standing here and waiting made her skin crawl. She wasn’t good with stillness, much less listening to DuPont’s latest theory on politics. “I’m going to take my dog for a look around the field. He might find something.”
“Suit yourself.”
She tugged Cooper’s line. “Ready to do some work?”
The dog barked and wagged his tail.
Cooper sniffed the air and tugged on the line. They moved back toward the tall grass, and Cooper took her straight to the body. He wasn’t a cadaver dog, but the scent was strong and hard to ignore. She let him sniff the ground and the area before he turned from the body and guided her into a thicket of woods. She followed, not sure where they were going. They were thirty feet into the woods when she spotted the black backpack sitting on the ground. Cooper sat in front of it, barked, and wagged his tail. She rubbed him on the head and praised him for the find.
Kneeling, she opted not to touch the bag. She’d bet money it belonged to the victim. She waved to DuPont to mark the place, and when he finally made his way with an orange flag, she and Cooper kept searching.
By the time two more deputy patrol cars arrived, she and Cooper had searched a large grid area of the grassland and found nothing else. News of the Woodstock-like concert planned here in early October was exciting for many of the local businesses. Hotels within sixty miles were sold out, and restaurants and food vendors were gearing up. What would happen now was anyone’s guess.
When she heard the engine of the forensic van arrive, she returned to the crime scene. She glanced across the field and saw Harris shake the technicians’ hands. She looked toward the scene and spotted a familiar uniformed officer, the forensic investigator Martin Thompson, working the crime scene.
Martin moved toward the body with two large cases, one in each hand. The technicians trailed, each carrying a piece of equipment. Within minutes, a tent was set up along with a folding table stocked with equipment.
By the time she returned to the body, Martin was setting up a camera designed to take a 360-degree panoramic image of the scene. She stepped outside the crime scene tape and watched as the camera’s eye swept the field around the dead girl.
“Trooper Tatum,” Martin said finally. “What can you tell me about the scene?” He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt embossed with a state police logo, khakis, and boots. Dark hair and a thick mustache were both trimmed close, making his angled face look sharper and leaner.
“Body of a young woman was found by a local farmer walking the field. Beyond confirming she doesn’t have a pulse, I let her be. Cooper found a backpack close by. I think it belongs to her.”
Satisfied he had a good shot of the overall crime scene, he hefted a 35 mm digital camera and took a couple of practice shots. He moved toward the tape, focusing on specific elements of the scene. Click. Click. He captured shot after shot, working his way around the tape. The images might not be interesting to a civilian, but they could capture a critical clue missed by the naked eye.
Martin approached the body and with gloved hands brushed back her hair. “There are ligature marks on her neck,” he said. “Medical examiner will make the call, but my money’s on strangulation.”
Sadness tugged at Riley.
“She’s in full rigor mortis,” he said. The stiffening of the limbs developed within two to six hours after death and eventually dissipated within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
“So she died within the last day?” Riley asked.
“That’s the best guess until the medical examiner takes a liver temperature. That will pinpoint time of death better.”
“Okay.”
“Harris looks annoyed,” Martin said. “Looks like he ate a sour apple.”
“You know how he loves having state police around.” Her belt creaked as she shifted her stance. She needed a distraction from the lifeless body. “How’s the running going? I heard you’re training for a marathon.” Outsiders rarely understood how cops could make small talk at a murder scene, but sometimes clinging to everyday life helped them deal with the horrors.
He opened a paper bag and pulled it over the victim’s left hand. The bag would save any DNA trapped under her fingernails. “The running is doing its best to kill me.”
Riley smiled. “Hang tough. You’ll come to love it.”
“If you say so.” His tone was always indifferent, his expression stoic, and his sentences factual to the point of dry. “I understand you’ve filed adoption papers.”
“That’s right. Soon I’ll be the proud mother of a seventeen-year-old. Hanna is thrilled. I’m hoping social services doesn’t find any reason to reject my petition.”
“I don’t see why they wo
uld.”
“My job has crazy hours.”
“Raising a teenage daughter is an undertaking, but you’ve done well so far, right?”
“So far so good. You have teenage girls, right?”
“Three.” Martin photographed the victim’s body, arms, hands, and face. The girl’s eyes were half-open, her jaw slack, but despite death, Riley recognized her. The invisible weight on her shoulders doubled. “I’ve seen her before working at a truck stop.”
“Doing what?”
“Hooking.”
He shook his head. “Girls like this don’t fare well.”
It had been four weeks since she’d seen this girl vanish into the motor home. She’d been ready to knock on the door and demand to see her. Then the call came from dispatch and she’d been pulled away. What would have happened if she’d been at the scene just another ten minutes? Would she have had time to check IDs and find out where the girl really belonged? “No, they do not.”
Martin leaned in and checked the victim’s front and back pockets. He retrieved a crumpled dollar bill, a stick of gum, and two condoms. “We might find ID in the backpack.”
As he drew closer and studied the ligature marks on the neck, he said, “There’s a tattoo on the back of her neck. There’s an extra pair of gloves on my worktable over there. Put them on and you can have a look.”
She moved to the table, noting the neatly organized bags, cameras, and sketch pads. Martin insisted on organization. She plucked a fresh pair of latex gloves from the box and pulled them onto her hands.
As she moved toward Martin, he lifted the curtain of hair off the neck. Above the ligature mark were the initials JC. The letters were crudely written, the dark ink thick and uneven. She knew them for what they were. JC. “Jax Carter’s brand.”
“The man you arrested?” Martin asked.
“I knew he controlled several girls. He put one in the hospital with broken bones, but he wouldn’t tell me where the other girls were. I’ll bet money the motor home I saw this girl vanish into belonged to him.”
“Heard he spent the night cuffed to a tree,” Martin said.
“The deputies were only an hour behind me.”
