Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (10 page)

Tara took a long look at the fire chief. He was younger than the other men in the room, probably mid-thirties, and he kept himself in much better shape. She liked that he’d not only found a clue but followed up on it.

The lock was a valuable lead but unsettling, too. For the killer to access the park from a nonpublic route suggested a good deal of premeditation. He’d been familiar enough with Catalina’s routine to know when to expect her at the park and then to get there ahead of time to lie in wait.

Or maybe it suggested that Catalina wasn’t specifically targeted. Maybe the killer accessed the park through a back route and waited for a victim of opportunity.

“I’ll check with Delphi on it,” Tara told Sears.

“How about local suspects?” M.J. said, addressing the sheriff and his deputy. “You were compiling a list based on known offenders in the area?”

“Besides drug and alcohol charges, I got three possibles so far,” Jason said. “Ross McThune, Donny Price, and Liam Wolfe.”

“Liam Wolfe has a rap sheet?” M.J. sounded surprised. She and Tara had checked Liam out and come up with zip.

“He owns the land,” Jason said. “Knows the area, the victim. Makes him a suspect in my book.”

Tara couldn’t argue his logic. “What about the other two?” she asked.

“Donny Price served a two-year stretch for aggravated assault. McThune just finished a year for simple assault on a woman in Dallas. We haven’t had a chance to check ’em out yet. I’ll probably interview Price today.”

Tara jotted down the info as Jason eyed her notepad with suspicion.

“You might want to check McThune’s arrest report,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m surprised he did a year for a misdemeanor, unless it got pleaded down from something bigger. How old is he?”

“Twenty-six.”

She nodded. “So maybe it was a first offense and they cut him a deal. The original police report should tell you more.” Tara wrote down the names and then looked at Ingram. “What about the guy who lives near the crime scene—Alligator Joe?”

Smiles around the table. Jason snorted.

“You ever met him?” Ingram asked.

“No.”

“This that Cajun that lives down in the hollow?” Sears asked.

“Joe Giroux,” Ingram said. “And he’s older than two trees. I don’t see him hustling down here to kidnap a woman, then hauling her home to cut her up.”

Tara made a note of the last name.

“I’m following up with the teenagers today,” Jason said. “Their folks are coming in, and we’ll see if we can’t sort out their stories.”

“What about them?” Tara asked.

“Timing’s off. This couple said they went out there around eight to meet some friends that never showed. But we talked to the friends, and they said they stopped by there and didn’t see them. Somebody’s lying.”

He was right, but Tara figured the lies had more to do with the fact that they’d been out there having sex. She doubted that summoning their parents to the police station would do anything besides further muddy the waters, but she didn’t want to waste time arguing about it.

As the meeting dragged on, Tara started to lose hope for getting any real help from the sheriff’s people. They seemed to have the same sloppy approach to developing local suspects as they’d had to processing the crime scene. And so far, every “lead” they’d come up with would have to be reexamined by Tara or someone from her office. Day three of the investigation, and Ingram had yet to nail anything down.

“How about the husband?” Jason asked. “You guys bring him in yet?”

“We’ll be interviewing him again this afternoon,” M.J. said.

The Silver Springs PD had been more than happy to let the FBI handle the delicate matter of interviewing the powerful Houston attorney. David Reyes had a reputation for being litigious.

Ingram looked at Tara. “I thought the husband had an alibi.”

“He does. He was in a mediation followed by a business dinner the evening his wife disappeared. But we’re still looking at him.”

David Reyes might not have killed Catalina, but he could have
had
her killed, and the pending divorce was a red flag. They needed more information, including financials, to really get a picture.

“Okay, back to the forensics.” Tara scanned her notes. “I plan to be in touch with the Delphi Center, so I’ll ask about that lock and chain.” She looked at Sears. “You sent it for fingerprints?”

“And DNA, if they can get any.”

“I’ll check. We’re still waiting on DNA results from a shard of glass they recovered from the body.” She glanced at Ingram. “And I’m going to need a list of the items sent in from the crime scene, the cigarette butts in particular.”

Ingram shook his head. “We didn’t send them.”

“Why not?”

“No reason to.”

Tara looked at him.

“Waste of money, at this point,” he said. “Till we have a suspect in hand, we’d just be running blind tests on a bunch of beer cans at a couple hundred bucks a pop.”

Tara tried to swallow her frustration. “You’re worried about the budget?”

He folded his arms over his chest.

“My office can help with that,” she said. “Go ahead and send the evidence.”

He obviously didn’t like taking orders from a woman, but she didn’t care. They had work to do, and she wanted to wrap this meeting.

“That’s it, then.” She closed her notebook. “The one other thing we should talk about is the press. Sheriff, I’ve been asked to let you know our media relations coordinator will be happy to handle any questions and interview requests. We ask that you direct reporters to us, so we get a consistent message out to the public.”

Ingram looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. He was up for reelection next year, no doubt running on a tough-on-crime platform. She doubted he’d be able to resist the spotlight.

“If you
do
talk to any reporters,” Tara said, “be careful not to discuss details of the investigation. When we get a suspect in for interrogation, it’s going to be critical that we haven’t tipped our hand.”

“All due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.” He stood and grabbed his Stetson off the table behind him. “Milt, Alex. I’ll be in touch.”

Five minutes later, Tara and M.J. were back in the Explorer.

M.J. looked at her. “What’d you think?”

“We came out with more to-dos.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. And the lead from the fire chief about the gate is good,” Tara said. “But we’re definitely on the sheriff’s shit list.”

“I think we were on it from the minute we got here. What do you think about the suspect list they’re working?”

Tara didn’t think much of it, but she shrugged. “We’ll see where it leads.”

Liam was on that list, and she had to admit—to herself, at least—that the idea bothered her.

Tara was treading on thin ice with him. She thought about the warm rush she’d felt during their first encounter. She’d felt it again last night, too. But she couldn’t be influenced by that. She had the self-discipline to do her job, professionally and thoroughly, without letting a little thing like sexual attraction distract her.

M.J. scrolled through her phone. “I missed a call while we were in there. Mike Brannon.” She dialed him back. “Hey, it’s Martinez. What’d you get?”

Tara eavesdropped as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“Are you sure?”

She shot Tara a look. By the tone of her voice, Tara knew something was wrong.

“Can you e-mail the file?” M.J. asked. “Okay, thanks.” She hung up.

“What?”

“I thought you said Liam Wolfe hadn’t talked to Catalina Reyes since before Thanksgiving.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Well, it sounds like he lied.”

T
ara had stopped by the office to pick up an unmarked Taurus, hoping to maintain a low profile. The car reeked of lemon air freshener, but it had a built-in GPS, so it was a step up from the Blue Beast. Now she hung back, keeping the Silverado in view.

Her phone chimed from the console, and she put it on speaker.

“Where are you?” M.J. asked.

“Still shadowing him.”

“To the airport or—”

“Austin.”

Silence.

Liam eased into the right-hand lane, but Tara stayed where she was.

“You tailed him all the way to Austin?” M.J. sounded shocked.

“Tell me what you found out.”

“I finally reached Jeremy Owen, with Wolfe Security. He says Liam’s out of town on business until tomorrow night.”

Overnight created complications, but Tara had expected as much when she realized Liam was headed out of town. She eased into the right-hand lane as he exited the freeway.

“I need his cell number,” Tara said.

“We don’t have it.”

“What about Catalina’s phone records?”

She took the exit ramp. Following Liam, she hung a right into a residential neighborhood with large old houses and even larger new construction.

“The number’s a landline,” M.J. informed her. “Registered to WSI—Wolfe Security, Incorporated. What business would he have in Austin?”

“I don’t know.”

Tara slowed, letting him get ahead of her as he made a left turn, going deeper into the neighborhood. Now was the tricky part. If she lost him now, her entire day was down the tubes. But she couldn’t risk getting too close.

“I’m not even sure it
is
business,” Tara said, glancing at the manicured lawns up and down the street. “A lot of people say that when they leave town, whether it is or not.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

She pulled up to a stop sign and spied him several blocks north turning into a driveway. She noted the street name and kept going.

“Try to connect with Jeremy again,” she said. “That’s a good angle. See if you can get him to tell you what Liam’s relationship is with the victim. He’s hiding something, I can tell.”

Tara circled the block so she’d end up north of the house where Liam had stopped. She spotted him getting out of his truck, and she pulled over under the shade of a tree. He walked up to the front door of a Georgian two-story with black shutters. A blond woman stepped out. Liam pulled her against him and kissed her.

“And what are you going to do?” M.J. asked.

Liam followed the woman inside. The door closed, and Tara realized her heart was racing.

“Tara?”

“When I get the chance, I’ll corner him,” she said. “See if I can get some answers.”

LIAM WAS ON
edge tonight, and it wasn’t just the job.

It was the setting, the timing, the distractions. And the fact that the threat to his client had recently been elevated.

He forced himself to forget all of that as he scanned the faces. He needed to stay in the moment—observing, collecting impressions, making eye contact. His stare made people uncomfortable, and that was fine with him.

Liam skimmed the tables in the ballroom, starting with the two closest to the stage. He was looking for suspects. His definition: anyone who caught his attention for any reason at all. Anything from a nervous glance to a forgotten backpack could signal trouble, and years of working in terrorist hot spots had taught him to trust his instincts.

Applause from the audience as the tuxedo-clad MC finished his introduction. The guy stepped back from the microphone, and Jim Willet, candidate for lieutenant governor of Texas, stepped up to the podium.

Liam ignored his client and watched the audience. Look, assess, progress. Look, assess, progress. The mantra flowed through his mind as his gaze moved over the faces. Tonight’s crowd included campaign donors and business cronies, along with dozens of bored-looking spouses. It also included reporters and party loyalists and—possibly—the author of a recent letter to Jim Willet that promised to put a bullet between his eyes.

Liam finished his survey of the audience and turned his attention to the podium.

Liam hated podiums. He hated stages even more. They created too much space between him and the protectee. Tonight’s compromise had been to move the podium to the side of the stage, ostensibly so the audience would have a better view of the slide show while they ate undercooked pasta and rubbery chicken marsala. The real reason was so that Liam could station a man in the wings, just eight feet away from the client.

He scanned the crowd again, zeroing in on the man he’d labeled the Fidgeter. Ever since the dinner plates disappeared, he’d been messing with something in the pocket of his suit jacket. Liam caught the gaze of one of his men across the room. Lopez nodded. He’d noticed the guy, too, and was in a position to respond if anything happened. Such as what, Liam didn’t know. But Jim Willet had his sights set on the second-highest political office in the nation’s second-largest state. Rumor had it he ultimately had his sights set on the White House. Whether he got there would be a matter of planks and platforms and the pendulum swings of a fickle electorate.

Liam didn’t give a shit about planks or pendulums. His job was to keep the protectee alive long enough to let the voters decide.

He checked the faces again, looking for tells. The relevant stats were embedded in his mind. A political attack in the U.S. would most likely be the work of a lone actor. It would be at close range, less than thirty feet. The most likely weapon was a handgun, which was why Liam always pushed for metal detectors. But campaign managers and sometimes the candidates themselves usually balked. Metal detectors created an “atmosphere of suspicion” that wasn’t conducive to people getting out their checkbooks. Usually, Liam had to settle for ID checks at the event entrances, which carried the risk of someone sneaking in a weapon.