by Mary Burton
“I’m not entirely sure. I do know the usual girls on the streets are present and accounted for as of yesterday.”
That was because the killer did not have his van. It was his base of operations. Without it, he might be sidelined until he found another. That might have bought them a little time. “What did the girls say about the van?” Ramsey asked.
“Like I told Melina, it was driving around the Bottom. This van never stopped, but it passed by enough that it was noticed.”
“You said they considered him a virgin. Anyone get a look at the driver?” he asked.
Reverend Beckett lifted her cup to her lips. “They described a man with black hair.”
“The guy who came for me was wearing a blond wig,” Shepard said.
“Reasonable that he’s altering his appearance on a regular basis,” Ramsey said.
“Some thought he might have been a businessman or a ‘nice guy’ from the suburbs.” She made air quotes with her hands. “They get types like that. Men who want to try the forbidden fruit but haven’t quite summoned the nerve to cross the line.”
“The women have seen this behavior before. What bothered them about him?” Ramsey wanted specifics, which generally supported real memories.
Reverend Beckett cradled her cup. “He stared at them for a long time. Gave them the creeps,” she said.
“They’ve all been stared at before,” Ramsey said.
“My boss said the same thing. The ones who survive life on the streets develop a sixth sense. They know when something is off. Without it they don’t last long.”
“Can you clarify?” Ramsey asked.
“One girl said he was wearing gloves and sunglasses. It was hot and dark.”
“Did anyone see his face?” Ramsey knew he was likely repeating Jackson’s interview, but sometimes a day or two could jog something loose. Even if the memories were not wholly accurate, they could have enough elements of truth to lead to something more substantial.
“Not that I know. But I’ll keep asking.”
“Where did they see him?”
“Seven blocks from here. He was on Southside Avenue across from the tire store.”
A clatter from the other room had Reverend Beckett rising.
“I’ve got it,” Shepard said. “Be right back.”
“We’re mixing up the oils for the new line of hand soap,” Reverend Beckett said.
“How long has Agent Shepard volunteered here?” Ramsey asked.
“For a couple of years. Did she tell you we grew up in the same neighborhood?”
“She did.”
“Both our moms were teachers and both our dads cops. She’s genuine. She’d do anything for you, but she takes too many chances.”
“Does she say the same about you?” he countered.
Reverend Beckett grinned. “Two peas in a pod.”
“What are the names of the missing women?” Ramsey asked.
“Delia and Joy. Each uses the last name Smith, but I doubt it’s either of their real surnames.”
“Has anyone been by their residence?”
“Delia lives on the streets. Joy stays in a small room over her sister’s garage. I did contact Joy’s sister, but she’s not seen Joy in two weeks.”
“What’s the sister’s name?” he asked.
“Emily Ross. I can pull up her contact information for you.”
“That would be appreciated.”
Shepard reappeared. “It was Sadie. She dropped a tub of coconut oil. Some spillage. Sam is cleaning it up. I asked Sadie if she would talk to Agent Ramsey.”
“Sadie takes our mission work to the streets, literally. She’s out there almost nightly making sure the girls are eating and getting medical attention if they need it. She was out there the night Melina was attacked.”
Steps echoed in the hallway moments before a short, heavyset woman with short-cropped hair appeared. The woman appeared to be in her midthirties. She had blotchy skin, and discolored teeth indicated a prior meth habit. Her eyes were clear, but Ramsey had no way of knowing if she was totally clean or for how long.
As if reading his thoughts, Reverend Beckett said, “You can’t work in my shop if you’re using. I have mandatory random drug tests for everyone. If you pull a positive, then you have to leave until you can prove you’ve been clean for ninety days.”
Sadie tipped her chin up as she reached for a rumpled packet of cigarettes in her back pocket. “I’ve been clean for five years, two months, and seven days.”
“We’re very proud of her,” Reverend Beckett said.
“Why were you on the street with Agent Shepard?” Ramsey asked.
“My friend Fiona and me used to work the streets with the missing girls, and because we still know all the players well, we offered to stand on the street corner with Melina.”
“Did you see the van?” he asked.
“No, we left right before he approached her.”
“You left Agent Shepard alone.” An intended accusation rumbled under the statement.
Sadie shot Shepard a hard look that looked more sad than angry. “She said she had it under control.”
“I told them to leave,” Shepard said. “I just wanted a few more minutes out there. Like I said before, I had a feeling.”
“Describe it,” Ramsey said.
“There are nights when the vibe feels off. Like when the air shifts before a storm comes.”
“Not very scientific,” he said.
“You’ve never operated on a hunch?” Shepard asked.
Ramsey didn’t respond. “Facts, Agent Shepard.”
“Turns out I was right,” she said. “Only the storm wasn’t the one I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“To see Joy or Delia, I guess. Maybe their pimp.”
“Reverend Beckett, did you see the van?” he asked.
“All I saw was the man trying to pull Melina into the van,” Reverend Beckett said. “I was too busy freaking out and blaring on the horn to get a good look at him.”
“Was this your first time out there alone, Agent Shepard?” Ramsey asked.
She shifted. Took a sip of coffee. “No, it was my third. I’d met up with the gals twice the week before, but we never saw the van.”
“Does Agent Jackson know this?”
“No,” she said.
Whether it was that last night or the week before, the killer had noticed Shepard. And Ramsey could see why she would be noticed. Despite her edgy street vibe, there was something about her that was hard to ignore.
“Have you seen any signs of a man loitering around since that time? Anything that felt off?” he asked.
“Not around here,” Sadie said. “Rev, what about you?”
Reverend Beckett’s brow furrowed. “I’ve seen no odd men, at least no more odd than usual.”
It had been seven days since the van driver had made his move. He was injured and without his van. He was likely feeling angry and frustrated over the failure.
All the prep in the van’s interior told Ramsey he had been challenged by women before. But instead of giving up, he had adapted and changed strategies—the handcuffs, the drugs he had ready for Shepard, and the bleach.
This killer would not let a setback stop him. He was modifying his tactics. He was always looking for an advantage while also being careful. The chances of finding usable evidence were slim.
Until his aborted abduction of Shepard, this killer had played his cards perfectly. Now that he had failed and been injured, he was not likely to forget the woman who had caused both.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday, August 24, 4:30 p.m.
Melina was back in her office, free to return phone calls, while Ramsey did the same from the conference room. She was grateful to have some distance from him. He was intense and not easily approached, and small talk was not her friend. Ultimately, he would evaluate her work on this case and report back to Jackson.
She scrolled through the messages and retu
rned her mother’s call first. “Mom,” she said, trying not to sound impatient.
“A little bird told me you’ve been on desk duty.”
“Who?” She rose and looked around the office. No one was watching, but she did not doubt her mother had connections.
“Like you, I don’t rat out my confidential informants.”
Melina heard the smile in her mother’s voice and decided to dial back the tension in her own tone or her mother would lock in like a guided missile. “How’s Dad?”
“On the mend.”
“Did you throw away the old ladder?” Her newly retired father had decided he was perfectly capable of putting siding on their thirty-year-old house regardless of his seventy years. He had fallen off the rickety ladder two weeks ago and broken his foot. His doctor had said he would fully recover unless he pestered his wife too much and she killed him.
“I tossed it in the garbage the day after the fall. I wanted to set it on fire, but we’re in a drought.”
“Good call. Can I do anything?”
“Nothing time and a little bourbon for me won’t fix.”
Quirky inside jokes brought down Melina’s blood pressure because they reminded her that she had family behind her. Despite a couple of moody teenage years, she had always cherished her place in the Shepard clan. Her mother understood all this, and clearly suspected that desk duty meant something had gone down.
“I’ll be by on Sunday,” Melina said.
“If you can manage it. I know work gets busy.”
“Never that busy.”
“Bring a few good war stories home to your dad. You know how much he enjoys them.”
This current case was right up his alley. Well, except for the small part that included the near murder of his only child. “Will do, Mom.”
“Love ya, kid.”
“Love you.” She hung up, knowing she had hit the jackpot when Molly and Hank Shepard had adopted her.
Twenty-eight years ago, when Hank Shepard had been a uniformed officer for the state police, he had received a call that a little girl had been spotted on the side of the northbound lane of Route 25. He had been five minutes out and had responded.
He said he had almost not seen her the first time because she was huddled by the guardrail. In fact, it was her yellow jacket flickering in his rearview mirror that made him turn around.
He found her dressed in shorts, a white T-shirt, red boots, and the yellow raincoat. Most of her thick black hair had escaped her ponytail, and her eyes were red from crying. Her hands had been trembling, and when he had gotten out of the car, she had taken several steps back.
“It’s okay. I’m here to help. My friends call me Shep,” her father said.
To this day, Melina barely remembered the moment. She recalled his bright headlights shining on his frame, blinding her to only the outline of a giant. But she also recollected a soft, soothing voice that chased away some of the fear.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Too rattled to lie or give the other name she was told to use, she spoke the truth. “Melina.”
“That’s a pretty name. Melina, are you hungry?”
She nodded.
“I thought so. I can take you back into town, and we can get something to eat and maybe find your mom and dad.”
“They’re dead,” she said.
“Your mom and dad are dead?”
She nodded.
His smile only hardened for a split second. “Who left you out here?”
She had never told him the woman’s name. She was not sure if she had not recalled it or was too afraid to say. And when she was old enough and no longer afraid, the name had already faded from her consciousness.
She wished now she had spoken to the big man as his rough hands had wrapped gently around her own fingers. If she had not been so afraid to talk, she could have told him about the person who had left her, and he could have dug deeper into her past. But she had remained silent, even when he had called his wife, Molly, who had come to the station armed with blankets and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The opportunity to find her biological family was gone.
The Shepards had pulled strings and gotten social services to release her into their custody. There had been an exhaustive search for her birth family, but no information had materialized. Some surmised that, given her dark hair and olive skin, she had come from Mexico or Central America. She did not speak Spanish, so if she had been brought over the border legally or illegally, there was no way of determining her nationality. Her past had simply vanished.
A knock on her door had her looking up. Jackson stood in her doorway. “I have a case for you.”
“I thought I was working one.”
“This one’s more up your alley. Missing persons case.”
She had been assigned to her first one five years ago in Knoxville. The missing boy, Johnny, was eight years old and autistic, and he had vanished from his backyard. A scent dog was summoned but was two hours away.
She walked across the property toward the woods behind. With the temperature dropping, she had no time to waste. Knowing autistic children often walked in straight lines, she did the same for almost an hour before she heard the rustle of leaves. She turned around and saw something moving. She called out the boy’s name. That’s when she saw the red shirt and the crop of blond hair. She had found him, cold, hungry, and scared.
She wished she could say that all her cases had turned out so well, but too many, as far as she was concerned, had ended up unsolved. But somewhere along the way, she had earned a reputation as a solid investigator.
“Who’s missing?” she asked.
“There’s been a car accident. There’s a child on the scene, but the driver is missing, and I need you to check it out.”
She rose, reaching for the jacket slung over the back of her chair. “Is the Key Killer involved in the accident?”
“No. This has nothing to do with him. There’s not much you can do with that case at the moment, and I need you now.”
Her heartbeat kicked as her mind instantly filled with dozens of questions about the child, the absence of an adult, and the condition of the car. She pulled in a breath, taming the rush of adrenaline. “What is the child’s medical condition?”
“She appears to be fine but is confused and upset.”
“Is she talking?”
“No.”
“Why is TBI being called in? This should be a case for local police.”
“There’s something the local police want us to see in the trunk of the car,” Jackson said. “Since we rarely have a genuine profiler in our office, I thought it would be helpful if Ramsey is on scene as well.”
They passed the conference room’s glass wall where Ramsey had set up temporary shop. He was standing, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he stared out the large tinted window overlooking the former Freemason foster home. Melina knocked on the glass to get Ramsey’s attention. Turning, he held up an index finger, signaling her to wait.
Annoyed at the delay, she turned to Jackson. “What’s the something?”
“I’m going to let you both see it for yourselves. If it’s really what they say it is, we’ll need Ramsey.”
Ramsey ended his call and rose, pushing down his shirtsleeves as he crossed to the door. “What’s going on?”
“There’s another case,” Jackson said. “I’m going and so is Shepard. I’d like you to come along.”
Ramsey frowned as if he were mentally shifting priorities with the flip of a switch. “Sure.”
He shrugged on his coat, carefully collected his files, and arranged them in his briefcase. His suit coat gently flapped as he approached.
“What are we headed into?” Ramsey said.
“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” Jackson said.
“Boss wants us to see it for ourselves,” Melina said.
“Understood,” Ramsey said.
“I’m in a white SUV,” she said to Ramsey. “Sep
arate cars might be more efficient this time.”
“Roger.”
The three divided, each moving at a clipped pace. Ramsey had his phone to his ear again as he angled into his car, and Jackson headed toward the exit as she jogged to the far side of the lot lovingly known as Siberia.
As Melina started the engine, Jackson was gone, but Ramsey’s vehicle waited at the parking lot exit. When she drove up behind him, she caught his gaze as he glanced in his rearview mirror. The intensity in his eyes was direct and cutting. He shifted his attention quickly back to the road, but as he drove and she followed, she knew he was as keen a hunter as the Key Killer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, August 24, 5:15 p.m.
Ramsey saw Shepard in his rearview mirror, gaining on him and then taking the lead as they merged their cars onto the interstate. She wove in and out of traffic, moving quickly toward the accident site. There was no quit in this woman.
When he was not trying to keep up, he recognized some of the scenery, but found the metro area had changed since his last visit seven years ago. More buildings, strip malls, and people on the road than he remembered, but a growing local economy drew more residents who strained roads and local infrastructure. He missed the slower pace of yesterday. But as his dad used to say, nothing stayed the same.
Shepard skated through a yellow light that turned red quickly. He stopped, watched her car turn left and out of sight. A text from her hit his phone. It contained the location of the accident.
He plugged it into his GPS and when the light finally changed, he followed the prompts, which guided him into a residential neighborhood.
The houses were small but stylish. Many had front porches deep enough for two rockers. The yards were filled with tall, mature oak trees and green lawns faded by the August heat. He guessed this neighborhood had been built in the late 1940s.
He spotted Cox Road, the location of the accident, and took the left despite the GPS’s warning to reroute. He savored a moment of superiority over the machine until the road dead-ended into a wooded cul-de-sac.
Cursing, he threw the car in reverse and was ready to rush back to the main road when he caught the flash of blue lights on the other side of a bank of trees. GPS had been right. The road was divided by a narrow stand of thick trees.
