by Stone, Mary
“Why the change?”
Ellie pushed the door open and moved out of his way so he could step into the evidence locker. “When I was promoted to detective, there wasn’t a desk available upstairs. So, I started down here, and it worked out. The arrangement was always supposed to be temporary, but I was hoping to stay here.” She pointed to the right side of the evidence room, where cold cases were stored until they were solved. “Everything I need is right here, and since I’m constantly reviewing case files, having my desk here was convenient.”
Clay nodded his understanding. “Makes sense. I guess your commanding officer didn’t see it that way.”
“They want to keep an eye on me. Fortis thinks I’m obsessed with the Kingsley case. Maybe I am, but the man waited thirteen years after my escape to make his move.” Ellie’s gaze traveled down the aisle where she knew her own case sat in a white box. “I won’t believe he’s out of commission until I see his dead body or watch him rot in prison for the rest of his life.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Ellie turned, meeting Clay’s soft brown eyes as she narrowed hers. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Why would you let it go? Dr. Kingsley forced you to order the death of a young woman after he tortured her for hours. Does it matter how much time passed between that event and when he began stalking you? Snatching your roommate on the anniversary of your kidnapping thirteen years later. I wouldn’t underestimate a man like that, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to let another detective handle it and walk away from my own kidnapping case.”
“You read my file?” She didn’t know how to feel about that.
He gave a slow nod, a muscle flexing in his jaw the only outward sign of whatever emotion hid beneath his cool exterior. “I saw the video too. That woman’s death wasn’t your fault.”
She was quiet for a moment, her breath stolen the way like it always was when she discovered that someone knew about her case, much less had watched the video of her ordering a woman’s death.
Kill the bitch.
“I know that now, but it doesn’t make what happened to her any easier. And I still don’t know who she is.” She indicated the Cold Case section with a sweep of her arm. “She could be any of these Jane Does. Or none of them. Until I find her and figure out who she was, there won’t be any justice for her.”
“And that’s why you defy your superiors and look into the case any chance you get.” He smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “That insuppressible thirst for justice makes you a great detective. These victims deserve that.” Agent Lockwood glanced around the locker, clearing his throat before flashing her a grin. “I’m not going to tell your boss you’re still looking into the Kingsley case. Anyone who expects you to ignore your instincts doesn’t understand how a great detective works.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” She had a good feeling about him. “I will say, Agent Lockwood, I wasn’t thrilled about having to work with another detective. For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you, even if this partnership is temporary. The guys upstairs act like I’m only a detective because my family has money. A few of them are decent, but for the most part, I feel like a bit of an outsider.”
She was about to say more, then realized that she might be interpreted as being whiny, which was the last thing she wanted.
“Some men can’t separate their ego from the job. They’ll get over it, or they won’t.” His eyes brightened and crinkled slightly at the corners as his lips turned upward. “Real men aren’t intimidated by strong women.”
The compliment drew a smile from Ellie and reminded her of Jacob. “Thanks, Agent Lockwood.”
“Please, call me Clay.”
His easy manner had the tension she hadn’t known she carried melting from her shoulders. “All right, Clay. Call me Ellie.”
They stood in silence for a moment before Clay cleared his throat again and nodded toward the row labeled with the letters that “Parker” would fall under. “Back to the case at hand. You said Charity Parker’s file was here?”
“The detective’s notes are in the file cabinet. There wasn’t any physical evidence to store.” Ellie led Clay to a large file cabinet. Pulling open the drawer, she flipped through file folders until she found the one with Charity Parker’s name, with two different dates. “Her initial missing persons case from fifteen years ago, then the second report three years later when Mrs. Parker reported her missing again.”
Ellie took the file to the nearest table, where they sat and began reading through the case notes, splitting the separate disappearances between them.
“What was the name of the detective working for the trafficking ring?”
“Roy Jones. He didn’t handle either of these cases.”
Clay nodded, eyes darting back and forth as he read the notes from Charity’s original disappearance. “I’m glad to hear it. Charity’s case doesn’t appear to be connected to the human traffickers in Charleston. The fact that their inside man didn’t touch the case, and the notes are extensive, leads me to believe there’s no connection. At least, not to the traffickers operating under Kingsley’s direction. Charity could’ve easily been moved around the country by any number of organizations, but I don’t think so.”
“I get the same impression. Here, the mother says in her first interview that Charity argued a lot with her parents before she disappeared as a minor. Standard teenage complaints. They were too strict, wouldn’t let her date an older guy, or go out to parties.”
“The boyfriend is listed as Gerald Thompson.” He pointed to a line on the notes and leaned closer to Ellie, eyeballing the file in front of her. “Is his name mentioned in the second missing persons report?”
Ellie skimmed the notes until she found the boyfriend’s name. “Here.” Her stomach dropped. “Oh. Looks like he died in a car accident two years after Charity ran away.”
“He’s definitely not involved, then. At least, not in her death. The M.E.’s report supports Charity dying within days of her discovery. Whether Gerald Thompson helped her run away or not, we’ll probably never know.”
“What about the other cases you’ve possibly tied to Charity’s murder? Anything particular jump out at you?”
Clay shook his head. “Not at all. The only common denominator between them is the fact that the women were dumped near highways frequented by truckers, and all but one woman was known to trade sex for rides, cash, or a warm bed for the night.”
Grimacing, Ellie sighed, sorry for the women whose lives had come to such desperation. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“It really is. People judge prostitution harshly because they don’t understand some of these women really have no choice. So many are pushed into being sex workers either by circumstance or even by force. Sex trafficking was rampant long before the media started reporting on it. Now that the human trafficking epidemic has come to light, people have had to change their perspectives. I’m glad to see it. I couldn’t imagine thinking a woman’s death was less tragic because of what she did to survive her circumstances.”
Ellie’s respect for the man went up several degrees.
“My mother always told me, never judge someone’s life until you know what their choices were.” Though Helen Kline seemed to take on the persona of Queen Elizabeth herself, she had a heart of gold. She might stick her nose up at times, but Ellie had to forgive her. Her mother’s Charleston elite upbringing allowed for no other way. “Even then, I still don’t. Everyone deserves justice.”
“Words to live by.”
Ellie glanced at the copy machine across the room. “The Parkers still live in Charleston. I can copy these notes, then we can head out to interview them.”
Clay shook his head. “You don’t need to do that.” Rummaging in the laptop case he’d set aside on the floor, he produced a large tablet that doubled as a computer monitor. Photographing each sheet of paper, he organized them in a file with Charity’s name on it whi
le Ellie refiled each one. “There. Now we can access these and add notes of our own.”
“Having tablets here would make things so much easier.”
“You should request one.”
Ellie laughed, picking up the case file and taking it back to its place in the file cabinet. “I’ll get right on that. If I put in a request today, I might have something by the end of the millennium.”
“You don’t have a tech budget?”
She barked out a laugh. “Nope. I think my laptop is older than I am.”
“I’ll get you one.”
She slapped her thigh in mirth this time. “Fortis would never let that fly.”
Clay followed her out into the hallway. “I wasn’t going to ask. As a local consultant for ACTeam’s Charleston office, it’s a necessary tool.”
“It would be nice to access files without coming down here or setting up the laptop every time.” She went out the side door, holding the door open for Clay. The lights on her silver Audi Q3 flashed twice when she neared, disarming itself. “All right, you convinced me.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
She got into the driver’s seat, surprised he didn’t balk at taking her vehicle. Even Jacob, who’d never treated her like a child the way her other beat partners had, had always insisted on driving. But Clay got into the passenger seat without a word, settling into the soft leather with an appreciative sigh.
The red brick home on Ridgemont Avenue near the Ashley River was surrounded by trees. An older gray sedan was parked behind a little red coupe with a Brown University sticker in the back window.
Ellie pulled up to the curb and parked, and a woman with raven hair and startling green eyes appeared on the porch.
Clay got out of the vehicle, waiting for Ellie before he made his way to the porch. “You must be Mrs. Parker,” Clay said, his tone gentle.
The woman nodded. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up here since you called. Y’all come on in. Let’s get this over with.”
Ellie shot Clay a look, and he lowered his voice to explain. “I called her before I left Dallas.” He motioned that Ellie should go ahead of him as Mrs. Parker led them into the house.
The walls were painted a soft blue with bright white trim. Framed photos lined a long hallway off the foyer, chronicling the lives of the Parkers, year after year. The first photo was the couple’s wedding day, the pair no more than twenty or so, holding hands as they beamed into the camera. The next picture showed a very pregnant Faith Parker holding up a small pink card, announcing she was expecting a girl.
Ellie’s chest tightened as she walked down the hall and each year progressed. Charity’s hospital pictures as a newborn. The adorable birth announcement of a second child featuring a scowling four-year-old Charity. But the big sister was all smiles in the next frame, holding her newborn baby sister on her lap while the adults hovered, ready to swoop in. The photos continued in that vein, offering a glimpse into the life of a family who’d had to bury their beautiful young daughter much too soon.
Ellie glanced at Clay. His ever-present smile had been replaced with a somber expression.
Mr. Parker appeared in the kitchen doorway with red eyes and a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Parker.” Clay shook the man’s hand and gestured to Ellie. “This is my colleague, Detective Kline.”
Mr. Parker nodded toward her with a grunt. “Call me Lyle.”
“Of course.”
Ellie and Clay followed Lyle into the living room, sitting on the sofa across from the Parkers.
Lyle wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief, stuffing it back in his shirt pocket. “I’m not sure how we can help you. We didn’t know where Charity was until we got the one call, and before that, we hadn’t heard from our daughter in three years.”
Clay nodded, leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs in a seemingly relaxed position. “This is a common concern, and understandable. In the absence of a clear suspect, we use a technique called victimology. Basically, what that means is by learning everything we can about Charity, we can make some educated guesses about the person who murdered her.”
Lyle furrowed his brow, his frustration clear. “A guess?”
Ellie jumped in. “Even if you don’t know exactly where your daughter was when she met her killer, everything we learn about Charity gives us insight into who she was and what choices she was likely to make.”
Lyle’s frown deepened, his chest heaving with every breath. He wiped at his face with the handkerchief again. “Isn’t that what they did when they interviewed us twelve years ago? If it didn’t help then, why would it help now?”
“Police departments use victimology to investigate cases like Charity’s, where there’s no obvious suspect, but not with the depth the FBI does.” Ellie was careful to keep her tone level. If Lyle Parker heard the excitement she felt creeping in, he might shut down, but it was hard to appear calm. Clay had access to the latest investigative techniques, and Ellie was eager to learn from him. Most families, however, didn’t care how they got answers; they just wanted closure.
“The FBI is at the forefront of progress in investigative techniques, and there have been countless advancements in the past ten years.” Clay matched Ellie’s tone, holding eye contact with Lyle Parker as he explained. “The more information you can give us, the better. Even details that seem inconsequential can have a big impact on the case.”
“We’ll answer any questions you have. Anything to help bring our daughter’s killer to justice.” Lyle took Faith’s hand in his. “Our youngest daughter, Hope, is home from college. I’m not sure what she can tell you, if anything, but she insisted on speaking with you. She’ll be downstairs in a minute.” His lips tried to tip up at the corners, despite the sadness that lingered. “Smart girl. Graduated with a master’s degree from Brown with honors in December.”
“She’s taking a gap year before she goes back to start her PhD,” Faith Parker chimed in, handing both Ellie and Clay a glass of sweet tea. Ellie set hers on the table beside her, a coaster beneath it. Faith took a sip of her own tea and propped the glass on her leg. “I’m not sure what she can tell you about Charity’s disappearance, but she insisted we let her know when you were here. She was only twelve when Charity took off.”
Footsteps on the stairs drew Ellie’s attention. She caught her own gasp, but barely, before the sound escaped her lips.
The woman who appeared before them was the mirror image of Charity. So like her sister, had they not been four years apart, Ellie would’ve thought them twins. Her jet-black hair hung in shiny gentle waves, giving her long locks a tousled look. Her eyes were the same haunting shade of green as her mother’s. Not deep emerald, like Ellie’s, but a slightly lighter shade with a touch of gray that reminded Ellie of the Spanish moss that hung from the trees throughout the city.
Clutched in Hope’s hands was a stack of lined paper covered with loopy handwriting, each sheet wrinkled as if it had been read hundreds of times. Lyle and Faith regarded their daughter with surprise, clearly shocked by what she carried.
“Where did you get those? That’s Charity’s handwriting.” Faith’s throat caught on the last word.
“Charity sent me letters.” Hope pulled them closer, the paper crinkling against her chest. “She told me not to tell you. She was afraid you’d come after her.”
Ellie braced herself, unsure of how the Parkers would respond. Death often brought families together, but long-held secrets those deaths brought to light could tear grieving families apart just as easily. She expected the Parkers to react in anger at being kept in the dark for so long, but Lyle Parker only nodded and wiped at his eyes this time. Faith’s hand went to her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut as tears spilled over her cheeks.
Hope stopped in front of Ellie, holding out the letters. “I used to get home before my mom and dad. My school was only a few blocks away, and I walked.” She shrugged, looking mu
ch younger than her years. “I checked the mail every day, but I only took what was mine.” She glanced at her parents, lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry. She made me promise not to tell. After she died, I didn’t want to share them with anyone. This is all I have left of her.” Her voice broke and a single tear ran slowly down her cheek. “I know that was selfish, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
The letters would take some time to scrutinize. Clay retrieved his tablet, photographing the letters front and back, and labeling the file with the date before moving on to the next one.
Ellie waited until he was done and handed them back to Hope. “You can keep these. Thank you for sharing.”
Hope nodded, taking the letters and setting them on the long coffee table in front of her parents.
Faith leaned forward, running the tips of her fingers over the neat cursive with a flourish of loops and extended lines, similar to the style Ellie had used in her teens as she was exploring her own unique handwriting. The simple connection between Charity’s exaggerated handwriting style and Ellie’s own at the same age nearly broke her composure, but she straightened her shoulders, focusing on the dates.
Faith choked on a sob, turning her head into Lyle’s shoulder, her body shaking as she cried for her daughter. Lyle excused himself, leading his wife away, leaving Hope alone with them in the living room.
Hope sighed, blinking rapidly as she watched them stumble out. “I thought they’d be mad.”
“Grief hits everyone differently.” Ellie offered a reassuring smile. “You honored your sister’s request, and no one blames you for that.”
“Thank you.” Hope’s gaze went to the letters again, then to Clay. “I’m not sure if they’ll help.”
“They might not seem like much, but reading Charity’s firsthand account of her life on the road will give us insight we wouldn’t have access to otherwise.” Clay’s demeanor was patient, in no hurry to force answers out of Hope.
