Chapter 48 Jordan
FORTY-EIGHT
JORDAN
“It’s all about the attention. That’s really all she’s ever cared about anyway.” #TeamTaylor #CatchCara
—@desireek
Was that her?
Jordan hardly had time to register a flickering feeling of recognition before his view of the pretzel stand was blocked by a group of laughing, jostling sailors in dress whites. He started moving closer.
After wasting the previous day driving north and then south again, and a restless night in a cheap downtown hotel, he was overstimulated, sleep-deprived, and dead on his feet.
Watching faces in the crowded train concourse he’d had a hard time shaking the feeling he was in a zombie film.
He just didn’t know if he was surrounded by zombies or if he was a zombie himself.
But that face . . .
Her features matched, although so had a dozen other women who’d gotten some work done. And her rough-cut hair was purplish-black, the same color as Rae Ann Salter’s. She’d shared her home with Cara Campbell, and most likely, the bottle of Clairol Nice’n Easy he’d seen in the bathroom trash.
Most damning was the fact that she seemed to recognize Jordan, too.
He moved faster, shoving his way through the crowd. When he reached the pretzel stand, she wasn’t there.
“Did you see a black-haired woman just now?” he asked the last woman in line, realizing as he did that she had black hair, too.
The woman pursed her lips and looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his sheriff’s badge. “They say it’s the most common hair color.”
“Did you see where she went?”
“I didn’t see. So sorry.”
Her tone was confrontational, as if she was ready for a fight. He definitely wasn’t in Madera County anymore. Giving up, Jordan turned in a circle, scanning the crowd. When he saw a sign for Metro buses, he started running.
“Coming through!” he shouted, shoulder-barging a man who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough.
A worker was buffing the floor to a slippery sheen, but his waffle-soled tactical boots kept their grip.
He ran outside, pounded up an escalator, and emerged on the sidewalk of a bus plaza. The black-haired woman was waiting to board a bus.
“CARA CAMPBELL!” he yelled.
She turned and looked, a victim of instinct. It was her.
Oh, shit, she mouthed.
Other people had heard him. Confusion was coalescing into recognition. As she turned and fled into the crowd of early morning commuters, Jordan chased after her. He finally had the presence of mind to use his radio.
“Target sighted on the east side of the station, at the bus plaza,” he said as he broke into a run. “I’m in pursuit.”