Cold Shot (11 page)

Griffin prayed for Finley’s safety—and the victim’s family’s peace of mind—but the thought of no longer needing to be at Finley’s side disappointed him on a far deeper level than anticipated. What was it about this woman that entranced him so? Whatever
it
was, it had to be ignored. As soon as he was certain Finley was safe, he was back to Gettysburg and routine. That’s where he belonged, regardless of what his gut kept saying.

14

D
ental results are in, Dr. Scott.” Finley looked up several hours later to find another one of the lab techs, Max, standing in front of her with a folder, his jaw tight. They all wanted to find John’s and Jane Doe’s killer—assuming they were one and the same.

“Thanks.” She blinked the drowsiness from her eyes and grasped it, praying it held the answers they needed, though disappointment sifted through her at the thought of not being paired with Griffin any longer. She opened the folder.

Most doctors sent results via the computer, but Dr. Kent was old school. She didn’t mind in the least though, considering his level of expertise and his compunction for working until his desk was cleared each day—as late as that might take.

She looked across the lounge at Griffin. There was something so calming and yet tantalizing about his steadfast presence. “Here comes the moment of truth,” she said. Swallowing, she
glanced up at the women’s faces on the whiteboard. Whose family were they about to bring closure to?

“Results, I hope,” Declan said, striding back in the lounge.

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ve got some of my own.” He’d set up a command center of sorts in a recently evacuated office down the hall from Finley’s while they waited, not wanting to be far away when news came in.

“So do I,” Parker said, rejoining the group. He and Avery had been hard at work on the trace evidence.

“Wonderful.” They’d be able to give Jane Doe a name and a family closure. She looked at Griffin, anticipation darting through her. She loved this part. Finding the answer. Giving the dead back their identity. It’s why she did what she did.

“You first,” Declan said, lifting his chin.

With a deep breath, she flipped open and scanned the folder’s contents. Shock rippled through her. It couldn’t be. “I don’t believe it.”

Declan shifted. “What is it?”

She handed him the file. “No match.”

He frowned. “What do you mean no match?”

“That’s what the report says.” How could it
not
be one of their victims?

“But victim number three, Marley Trent, drove a 2007 GMC Silver Envoy,” Declan said.

“Which matches the glass fragments found on her remains,” Parker added.

“Right.” Declan’s voice held the urgency Finley felt sifting through her. Wanting something so badly, being so close you could grasp it, and yet feeling it slip through your fingers. “Parker, you said you had results as well?”

“I did some tracking on Jane Doe’s ring. As you know there was no alma mater on it. Just the phrase
Omnia Pro Patria
, and the emblem of a town.”

“And?” Declan pressed.

“And it’s the emblem for University of Nevada, Las Vegas.”

“Any idea where each of our victims in question attended college?” Griffin asked.

“I can look, but it’s a moot point,” Declan said. “Dentals didn’t match any of them.”

“I think I recall reading Marley received her first undergrad degree from UNLV before moving to Towson and completing her preprofessional studies in law. It was part of her alum bio.”

“That may be, but she’s not our Jane Doe. The dentals didn’t match.”

“Okay, then you should extend the missing persons search radius,” Finley said. Just because they’d struck out with these four women didn’t mean they were finished. Jane Doe had a name. They just had to keep digging. She was not letting go of this one.

“I’ll hit the drawing board anew,” Declan said, handing her back the folder with a sigh.

Shirley Mitchell, the forensic artist she’d called in, entered the room. “Why all the long faces?”

“We thought we’d gotten a positive ID.”

“Oh, sorry, but maybe this will help.” She set her laptop on the table and stood back. “Your Jane Doe.”

Finley moved closer, her gaze fixed on the image. She
knew
that face.

“That’s Marley Trent,” Declan said, excitement renewed in his voice.

“How is that possible?” Griffin asked.

“There must have been a mistake with the dentals,” Parker offered.

“I’ll get back in touch with Ms. Trent’s dentist and see if he can resend a copy of her films.” Declan pulled his cell from his pocket, clearly not realizing the lateness of the hour.

“Better if you personally pick up the films,” Parker said.

“What are you thinking?”

“We need to rule out foul play.”

Finley frowned. “You think someone intentionally switched the films?”

Parker shrugged. “I’m saying someone might be doing everything they can to make sure their victim isn’t identified. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that somewhere along the line a switch was made.”

“If that’s the case,” Griffin said, “then what’s to say all of Marley’s films haven’t been switched? They could have hit the dental office. Where’s her dentist located?”

“Baltimore,” Declan said.

“How long has she been with that dentist?” Griffin asked pointedly.

Declan snapped his fingers. “On it.”

Finley watched Declan race from the room. “What just happened?”

Parker smiled. “Griffin just came up with a brilliant idea.”

“What now?” she asked.

Griffin exhaled. “We wait.”

How many times had he been told that?

“Just wait and be patient. We’re working the case.”

“Just wait and let us do our jobs. These things take time.”

“Just wait for your mark.”

“Just wait—it takes time to get over things like this.”

He was sick and tired of waiting. Waiting through pain. Waiting for justice. Waiting for God to act.

Where are you in this injustice, Lord?

Aren’t you the God of justice? Don’t you say those who wait on the Lord will mount on wings of eagles? That we will be more than conquerors?

I’ve been waiting, Lord, but just when I think I’ve found some measure of control and peace, all hell breaks loose and I’m reminded of the helplessness in waiting.

How long will you let injustice prevail?

“Hopefully we’ll have an ID tomorrow,” Parker said, interrupting Griffin’s pensive thoughts. Probably for the best. Sometimes he felt sinful for expressing his frustration, but God already knew his heart, knew what he was thinking. Better to be up front than pretend to hide the frustration brewing inside.

He’d been praying for understanding, praying for God’s action, but it was cases like this that exposed the bitterness still burrowed inside.

How long, Lord?

“In the meantime . . .” Parker stood and stretched. “Everyone take precautions. Someone was very intent on preventing this woman’s ID. I can’t imagine he’d let up now.”

Griffin looked at Finley. “I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want you staying alone until an ID is made. I have a guest room, or if you prefer I can bunk on your couch.”

A mix of emotions rushed over her face. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Parker said, shocking him. “In fact . . .” He looked to Avery. “You should probably stay at my place.”

Avery rolled her eyes. “Nice try.”

“I’m serious.” He held up his hands. “No funny business, I promise. I agree with Griff. You ladies should not be alone until our Jane Doe is identified.”

Avery exhaled. “Fine. I’ll stay at your place, but any sign of funny business and you’re losing digits.”

Parker grinned. Clearly he appreciated the lady’s style.

15

T
hey decided to stop by Griffin’s place so he could grab a few things on the way to Finley’s house. The thought of Griffin spending the night in her guest room was a mix of reassuring and unnerving. She loved the protection aspect, but she hadn’t had a man in her home since Brent Howard.

She swallowed the bile burning up her throat at the traumatic memory, trying to ground herself as the room began to spin.

It was a wonder she hadn’t moved, but she
refused
to be driven from her home because of
him
.

Griffin unlocked his front door and flipped on the entryway light.

She would have pegged him as the cabin type, especially in the wooded area of Thurmont, but somehow the rustic farmhouse—a two-story, deep greyish-blue home with a gorgeous wraparound front porch she could spend hours reading on—suited him too.

He stepped back, allowing her passage inside. Exquisite, handcrafted pine wainscoting covered the bottom half of the
walls from the chair rail to the hardwood floors, the top half painted a crisp white, the ceiling navy blue with track lighting. The effect was stunning. Sailor’s rope framed the pictures of the Chesapeake lining the long, narrow entryway—images of ships, shore, sunsets, and crabs. On top of the pictures ran a row of antique oars. Griffin clearly loved the Chesapeake.

An Irish wolfhound, his head level with her rib cage, lumbered forward with a red Kong in his mouth.

“Easy, Winston,” Griffin said, and the dog heeded, sitting on his haunches with what she swore was a smile, his tail wagging.

Griffin squatted and ruffled the dog behind his ears, his tail going into hyperdrive.

“Don’t let his size scare you. As you can see he’s a big softie.”

“If you’re staying with me, who’s taking care of Winston?”

“My neighbor Kristin. She adores him. And he’d probably trade me in an instant for her.”

“You’re welcome to bring him along.”

Griffin cocked his head with a smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Most people don’t want such a large dog in their home.”

She shrugged with a smile of her own. “I’m not most people.” She didn’t mean it in a conceited way. She just didn’t fret the small stuff, especially when it came to animals. Besides, after the day they’d had, she wouldn’t mind the added level of protection.

“No.” Griffin’s smile widened. “I suppose you aren’t.”

She bit the side of her lip, wondering if that was a compliment or an insult. She couldn’t always tell with the man. He left her unbalanced, which while intriguing, was also terrifying.

Griffin looked at Winston. “Road trip, buddy?”

Winston raced for his leash hanging on an anchor-shaped peg by the front door.

She cocked her head. “Did he just . . . ?”

“He loves road trips.”

So did she. Any kind of trip really, as long as it involved water or mountains, but since the incident she’d been embarrassingly nervous to travel on her own. It angered her that she allowed
him
any lingering control over her, but traveling in the midst of panic attacks was hardly enjoyable. She still forced herself to go, determined not to let one evil man’s actions destroy a lifelong love of exploration, but the fact she struggled ticked her off.

Winston nudged his leash off the peg with his nose, the blue strap dropping at his feet, the metal clasp clanging on the wooden floor.

“Hold on, buddy,” Griffin said. “I gotta grab a few things first. Come on, let’s go out.”

With a grunt, Winston left the leash and followed Griffin through the house to the kitchen and out the back door.

Finley followed them. “Nice kitchen,” she said looking around. Vaulted ceiling with wooden beams, glass-front cupboards, weathered hardwood floors.

“Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

She took in the ladder propped against the back wall, the can of stain in the corner. “You did this?”

“I’m refurbishing little by little. Sort of a project of mine.”

“Refurbishing kitchens?” She never would have pegged him as the renovating sort, though she was quickly coming to realize she didn’t have him pegged at all. He was so much more.

“That’s a part of it,” he said, offering her a drink.

She accepted a glass of OJ and hopped up on the stool. The sweet juice would no doubt give her a renewed burst of energy, which she needed. She was dragging. It’d been a long couple of days.

“I enjoy restoring older homes and then selling them,” he said, topping off her glass.

“Cool. So flipping houses?” She took another sip.

“Yeah. Run-down ones with character.”

“You give them new life.”

He smiled, looking around the rafters. “I suppose you could say that.”

Winston pawed the door, and Griffin let him in. He wasted no time in bustling back to his leash.

“I’d better go get my stuff before he starts grunting again.”

“Is it done?” he asked over the phone.

“Almost.”

“See that everything’s in place.”

“I understand.”

“I want it set to go tonight.”

He got it. He wasn’t an idiot. “We’ll own them.”