by Diana Palmer
Miss Jane also said that Grace didn’t get out much. She didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask anything else about her. He wasn’t interested. He liked an occasional night out with an attractive woman, preferably a modern, educated one. Miss Carver was the sort of woman he’d never found interesting.
He checked his watch, closed the front door and climbed into his black Bucar for the drive to San Antonio. He was entitled to use a Bucar—the FBI’s term for a bureau conveyance—even though a new black Jaguar sat in the garage next to his big Ford Expedition. He carried all his gear and accessories in the Bucar. So he drove it to work. It was going to be something of a commute, but no more than twenty minutes either way. Besides, he was tired of apartment living. Miss Turner was astringent, but she was a hell of a good cook, and she kept house without talking his ear off. He considered himself fortunate.
He set off down the driveway, casting a curious glance after Grace’s choking engine. He wondered if she knew that her car had a mechanical problem, and reasoned that she probably didn’t. He glimpsed her from time to time mulching and pruning her roses. She had several bushes of them. That was one thing they did have in common. He loved roses, and during his brief marriage, he’d grown several varieties. It was a hobby he enjoyed, and he had plenty of room to practice it again here at the ranch. Of course, it was February. Not many roses would bloom this time of year.
* * *
THE OFFICE WAS BUZZING when he got there. A local homicide detective with San Antonio P.D. was waiting for him, in his office.
“I haven’t even had time to brief the SAC about the workshop, yet,” Garon muttered to the secretary he shared with another agent. “What’s he want?” he added, nodding toward the tall, dark-headed man standing at the window with his hands in his pockets and his black hair in a long ponytail, even longer than the one Garon’s brother Cash, wore. It designated a renegade.
“Something about an abducted child case he’s working on.”
“I don’t do missing person cases unless they end as homicides,” he reminded her.
She gave him a knowing look. “I work here,” she pointed out. “I know what you do.”
He glared at her. “Don’t get smart.”
“Don’t get snippy,” she shot back. “I could be making twenty dollars an hour as a plumber.”
“Joceline, you can’t even put a washer in a faucet,” he replied patiently. “Or don’t you remember what happened when you tried to fix the leaky one in the women’s restroom?”
She pushed back her short, dark hair. “The floor needed mopping anyway,” she told him haughtily. “Now, if you want to know what Detective Marquez wants, why don’t you go and ask him?”
He sighed irritably. “Okay. How about a cup of coffee?”
“Already had one, thanks,” she said. She gave him a smile.
“I hate liberated women,” he grumbled.
“Gee, can’t you lift a coffee cup all by yourself?” she asked with mock surprise.
“When you come asking for a raise, see what happens,” he said.
“When you want a case report typed, see what happens,” was the smug reply.
He muttered in gutter Spanish all the way into his office. He hoped Joceline understood every single nasty word. But if she did, she didn’t let on.
The detective heard his footsteps and turned. He had black eyes and an olive complexion, and a worried expression.
“I’m Marquez,” he introduced himself, shaking hands. “You’d be Special Agent Grier, I assume?”
“If I’m not, I don’t have to look at all that paperwork piled on my desk,” Garon replied dryly. “Have a seat. Like a cup of coffee?” he added, then grimaced.
“We’ll have to go get it ourselves, of course, because my secretary is a liberated woman!” he raised his voice as she went past the door.
“The computer is about to eat your six-page letter to the attorney general about your proposed new legislation,” she called merrily. “Sorry, but I’m sure you can draft a new one…”
“If you ever get married, I’ll give you away!”
“If I ever get married, I’ll give you away,” she retorted and kept walking.
He sat down behind his desk with a rough sound in his throat. “She and my housekeeper must be sisters,” he told the visitor. “I hired them and they tell me what to do.”
Marquez only smiled. “I was told that you head a squad that deals with violent crimes against children,” he said.
Garon leaned back in his chair, and all the humor went out of his face. “Technically I head a squad that deals with violent crime, up to and including serial murder. I’ve never worked child murders.”
Marquez frowned. “Then who does?”
“Special Agent Trent Jones was our crimes against children specialist,” he replied. “But he just got transferred back to Quantico to work on a high profile case. We haven’t had time to replace him.” He frowned. “I thought Joceline said you had a missing person case?”
Marquez nodded. He looked as solemn as Garon did. “It started out as a missing person case. Now it’s a homicide; a ten-year-old girl,” he said quietly. “We’ve checked out everyone close to her, including both parents, and we can’t turn a perpetrator. Now we think it might have been a stranger.”
This was serious business. The news had been full of abducted children who were murdered by convicted sex offenders, all over the country. The case was, sadly, not that unique.
“Do you have any leads?”
Marquez shook his head. “We only found the body yesterday. That’s why I’m here. I found a similar case. I think it’s a serial crime. That means I can ask you for help.”
Garon leaned back in his chair. “When was she abducted?”
“Three days ago,” Marquez said quietly.
“Any latents at the scene?” Garon asked.
“No, and we had the criminologists on their hands and knees all over her bedroom with blue lights. Nothing. Not a single latent fingerprint.”
“He took her out of her bedroom?” he asked, surprised.
“In the middle of the night, and nobody heard anything,” Marquez replied.
“Footprints, tire tracks…?”
Marquez shook his head. “Either this guy is very lucky, or…”
“…or he’s done this before,” Garon finished for him.
Marquez drew in a long breath. “Exactly. Of course, my lieutenant doesn’t buy that. He thinks we’ve got a pedophile who carried the kid away and killed her. I told him that this is the second case of bedroom abduction we’ve seen in the past two years. The last one was over in Palo Verde, and the child was murdered in a similar manner. I found it listed on VICAP, the FBI’s violent criminal apprehension program. I showed it to the lieutenant. He told me I was chasing ghosts.”
Garon’s eyebrow lifted. “Did you check for other unsolved child homicides?”
“I did,” Marquez said somberly. “I found two in Oklahoma eight years ago. They happened about a year apart, and the children were abducted from their homes, but in daylight. I showed the cases to my lieutenant. He said it was coincidence, that there were no real similarities except the kids were strangled and stabbed.”
“The victims,” Garon replied. “How old were they?”
Marquez pulled out a BlackBerry and brought up a screen. “Between ten and twelve years of age. They were raped, strangled and then stabbed.”
“God!” Garon burst out. “What kind of animal would do that to a child?”
“A really nasty one.”
“I’d hoped that the red ribbon would show up in those VICAP postings that matched this homicide. But I had no luck.” Marquez looked up from the BlackBerry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He handed it to Garon.
Garon opened it and looked inside. “A red silk ribbon?”
“The murder weapon,” Marquez said. “The first officers on the scene were San Antonio P.D. They found it tied tight around t
he neck of the ten-year-old girl. Her body was found in behind a little country church north of here yesterday. We transported the body here to our medical examiner for processing. We haven’t released that bit about the red ribbon to the press.”
Garon could guess why. All homicide detectives tried to hold back one or two pieces of evidence so that they could weed out potential suspects who were lying about their involvement in the murder. Every police department had at least one mental case who tried to confess to any violent crime, for reasons best left to a psychiatrist.
He touched the ribbon. “It might have something to do with his fantasy,” Garon mused, having participated in seminars by the FBI’s behavioral science department, observing profilers at work. Modus operandi was the method used to kill. Signature was a feature linking all victims of a serial killer in a way that was important only to the killer, and it never changed. Some left victims posed in obscene ways, some used a particular marking of victims, but a number of serial killers left something that identified them as the suspect.
Garon glanced at the detective. “Have you checked the database for similar ribbons at other crime scenes?”
“First thing I did, when I saw the ribbon,” he replied. “But no luck. If there was such a ribbon, maybe it was overlooked or held back from the file. I’ve tried to contact the police department in West Texas, at Palo Verde, where the last homicide occurred, but they don’t answer phone calls or e-mails. It’s a tiny little jurisdiction.”
“Good idea. What do you want from us?”
“A profile would be a good start,” he said. “My lieutenant won’t like it, but I’ll talk to our captain and see if he’ll make a formal request for assistance. He mentioned the profiling to me himself.”
Garon smiled. “I’ll fill in one of our ASACs, so that he’ll expect it.”
“Not the SAC?”
“Our special agent in charge is in Washington, trying to appropriate funds for a new project we’re trying to get started, partnering with the local middle schools to discourage kids from using drugs.”
“He might need to ask somebody with more money than our government seems to have,” came the dry reply. “On a local level, our own budget is cut to the bone already. I had to buy a digital camera out of my pocket so that I could get my own crime scene photos.”
Garon laughed shortly. “I know that feeling.”
“Is it true, that a lot of cases never get listed on VICAP?” Marquez said.
“Yes. The forms are shorter than they once were, but it takes about an hour to fill them out. Some police departments just don’t have the time. If you could find a second case with a red ribbon involved, I might be able to help you convince your lieutenant that there’s a serial killer loose. Before he kills again,” he added somberly.
“Can you spare us an agent, if we put together a task force to hunt this guy?”
“We can spare me. The rest of my squad is trying to run down a mob of bank robbers who use automatic weapons in holdups. I’m not essential personnel to them. My assistant can run the squad in my absence. I’ve worked serial murder cases, and I know agents in the Behavioral Science Unit I can call on for help. I’ll be glad to work with you.”
“Thanks.”
“No sweat. We’re all on the same team.”
“Do you have a business card?”
Garon took out his wallet and pulled out a simple white business card with black lettering. “My home phone is at the bottom, along with my cell phone number and my e-mail.”
Marquez’s eyebrows lifted. “You live in Jacobsville?”
“Yes. I bought a ranch there.” He laughed. “We’re not supposed to be involved in any business outside the job, but I pulled strings. I live on the ranch. The manager takes care of the day-to-day operation, so I have no conflicts.”
“I was born in Jacobsville,” Marquez said, smiling.
“My mother still lives there. She runs a café in town.”
There was only one café in town. Garon had eaten there. “Barbara’s Café?” Garon asked.
“The same.”
He frowned. He didn’t want to step on the man’s toes, but Barbara was a blonde.
“You’re thinking I don’t look like a man with a blond mother, right?” Marquez smiled. “My parents died in a botched robbery. They owned a small pawn shop in town. I was just six at the time. Barbara never married and had no family. I used to take mom and dad food from the café. After the funeral, Barbara came and got me out of state custody and adopted me. Quite a lady, Barbara.”
“I’ve heard that.”
Marquez checked his watch. “I have to run. I’ll phone you when I’ve talked to my captain.”
“Better make it an e-mail,” Garon replied. “I expect to be in meetings for most of today. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Okay. See you.”
“Sure.”
* * *
IT WAS A GOOD DAY, Garon thought as he drove himself back to Jacobsville. The squad was working witnesses at the last big bank robbery to find any information that would further the investigation. Men armed with automatic weapons were a danger to the entire community of San Antonio. He’d talked to the senior ASAC about setting up a task force in concert with San Antonio homicide detectives to work on the child murder. He had a green light. The ASAC had a friend in the Texas Rangers. He gave Garon his number. They were going to need all the help they could get.
He glanced toward the Carver place as he drove by. Her car was still sitting in the driveway. He wondered if she could start it again. It was a miracle the piece of junk ran at all.
He pulled into his driveway and almost ran into the back of a silver Mercedes convertible. A familiar brunette with dark eyes got out, dressed in a black power suit with a skirt halfway up her thighs that showed off her pretty legs. He knew her. She was the realtor who’d just gone to work for Andy Webb, the man who’d sold him this ranch. Her aunt was rich; old lady Talbot, who lived in a mansion on Main Street in town.
What was her name? Jaqui. Jaqui Jones. Easy to remember, and her figure was more than enough to make her memorable in addition to her job.
“Hi,” she said, almost purring as he climbed out of the Jaguar. “I just thought I’d stop by and make sure you were still happy with your ranch.”
“Happy enough,” he said, smiling.
“Great!” She moved closer. She was only a little shorter than he was, and he was over six feet tall. “I’m hosting a party at my aunt’s a week from Friday night,” she said. “I’d love to have you join us. It would be a nice way to meet Jacobsville’s upper social strata.”
“Where and what time?” he asked.
She grinned. “I’ll write down the address. Just a sec.” She went back to her car and bent over to give him a good view of her body as she retrieved a pen and pad. It didn’t take second sight to know that she was available and interested. So was he. It had been a long, dry spell.
She wrote down the address and handed it to him. “About six,” she said. “That’s early, but we can have highballs while we wait for the others to show up.”
“I don’t drink,” he said.
She looked startled. He was obviously not joking.
“Well, then, we can have coffee while we wait,” she amended, smiling so that he could see her perfectly capped teeth.
“Suits me. I’ll see you then.”
She hesitated, as if she wanted to stay.
“I’m just in from D.C. very early this morning,” he said. “And it’s been a full day at the office. I’m tired.”
“Then I’ll go, and let you get comfortable,” she said immediately, smiling again. “Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
He’d gone around her car to put the Bucar in front of the house, on the semicircular driveway, so she simply pulled around him to shoot out the driveway, waving a hand out the window as she passed him.
He went inside, almost colliding with Miss Jane. “Tha
t fancy woman parked herself in the driveway and said she’d wait for you. I didn’t invite her in,” she added with a faint belligerence. “She’s only been in town two months and she’s already got a reputation. Put her hand down Ben Smith’s pants right in his own office!”
Apparently this was akin to blasphemy, he reasoned, waiting for the rest.
“He jerked her hand right back out, opened his office door, and put her right out on the sidewalk. His wife works in the office with him, you know, and when he told her what happened, she walked into Andy Webb’s office and told him what he could do with the property they’d planned to buy from him, and how far!”
He pursed his lips. “Fast worker, is she?”
“Tramp, more like,” Miss Jane said coldly. “No decent woman behaves like that!”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” he began.
“Would your mother ever have done that?” she asked shortly.
He actually caught his breath. His little mother had been a saint. No, he couldn’t have pictured her being available to any man except his father—until his father had cheated on her and hastened her death.
Miss Jane read his reply on his face and her head jerked up and down. “Neither would my mother,” she continued. “A woman who’s that easy with men she doesn’t even know will be that way all her life, and even if she’s married she won’t be able to settle. It’s the same with men who treat women like disposable toys.”
“So everybody in town is celibate?” he queried.
She glared up at him. It was a long way. “People in small towns mostly get married and have children and raise them. We don’t look at life the way people in cities do. Down here, honor and self-respect are a lot more important than closing a business deal and having a martini lunch. We’re just simple people, Mr. Grier. But we look deeper than outsiders do. And we judge by what we see.”