3. Maverick
MAVERICK
TEARS OF GOLD
It’s been a long fucking night.
I help haul the last piece of equipment into the FBI forensics van before shutting the doors and knocking twice, letting the team inside know everything is secure. Evie and Jesse will return it to the resident agency office before they head to their FBI assigned rental for some well-deserved sleep.
That’s exactly where I plan to go once I wrap up with the medical examiner.
We could have driven back to Minneapolis to sleep in the comfort of our own beds, but it’s three in the fucking morning, and not a single one of us wants to make the drive back.
Especially since it looks as though we’ll be taking up residence in Rochester for the foreseeable future.
The van pulls away and I turn toward the crime scene. Cruz and the rest of the RPD officers have just finished securing and closing it up. Sammie stands at the edge of the police tape, shifting impatiently on her feet. I get it— she’s tired. So am I.
Sammie waits until I’m directly in front of her before sharing her findings.
“Based on the body’s decomposition, I’d guesstimate Jane Doe has been deceased for at least three weeks.
Preliminary cause of death is suffocation.
She died slowly. Agent Hernandez collected evidence from her fingers and body, but I’ll likely find more during the autopsy.
I always do,” she says confidently with a shrug before continuing, “I’ll give her my full attention and should have something for you by tomorrow.
You’re welcome to stop by, but I’d wait.
Don’t wanna waste your time and all. I’ll call you with anything I find. ”
I give her a nod and thank her quickly, then make the short trip back to my car.
Three weeks.
Just like the others.
With all my years in law enforcement, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. And my instincts tell me our missing person, Clara Santos, was taken by the same sick fuck we’ve been hunting.
The biggest lead we have so far is that there’s still a chance Clara is alive. We’re not three weeks behind this time, chasing ghosts and skeletons.
And I’ve already made the decision to give Clara Santos my full attention.
The rental house is quiet as I make my way towards the unfamiliar bedroom. I toe the door shut and drop my duffle bag next to it; I’m too fucking exhausted to bother with a shower.
I check my phone to make sure there’s enough charge to last a few hours before I strip and climb into bed, tossing my phone onto the empty pillow case next to me. My body feels heavy like I’m submerged under water, and the second my eyes shut, sleep overtakes me.
What feels like minutes— seconds —later, I wake with a start, drenched in sweat. Though I can’t recall the details of my nightmare, nor the faces that haunted it, the visceral unease that woke me lingers.
I grab my phone and look at the time. 6:30 a.m.
God. What I wouldn’t give for a full night’s sleep. There’s only so much sleep deprivation my body can handle.
I head to the bathroom and splash some water on my face, hoping it’ll ease the grittiness and burning of my eyes. The likelihood of going back to sleep is slim to none, so I might as well get some shit done while I can.
I opt for a quick shower to wash away the remnants of last night—both the crime scene and restless sleep. By the time I yank on a pair of pants, my phone vibrates and illuminates with Cruz’s number. It looks like I’m not the only one having trouble sleeping.
“Rhodes.”
“I had a feeling you’d be up,” Cruz starts. His voice sounds groggy and heavy with sleep. He must’ve just woken up.
“Sounds like I’m the first thing on your mind, Cruz.”
“Only because you’re a pain in my ass. I wanted to catch you before you made it back to Minneapolis. I have a meeting with Tamara Martin at The Pour House at 11 a.m. Her shift starts at noon, and she said she’d meet me there early.”
“I haven’t had coffee yet. Remind me: who’s Tamara Martin?”
“The woman who filed the missing report on Clara Santos. Her friend and coworker.”
“Shit. That’s right. 11 a.m.?” I make my way into the bare bones kitchen and look at the time on the microwave. 7 a.m. “I’ll meet you there. I’m headed to Minneapolis to pick up Juno.”
“I bet he misses his daddy. He hardly leaves your side. You got the address?”
Ignoring his remark about Juno, I grunt an affirmative and hang up the phone.
The Pour House sits on the corner of Main Street’s historic strip in the heart of downtown Rochester. It’s an old brick building, and the only available parking is along the busy street. There’s a shared parking garage across the way, nestled between a bank and coffee shop.
As I pull into a parking space, I take notice of the street lamps and lighting. I imagine it’s a well-lit area at night, and I’m hoping Arlo is able to pull something from the cameras. I spot the ATM he mentioned, right in front of the bank with a direct view of The Pour House’s entrance.
If there’s a chance of catching Clara with the unsub, Arlo will find it. It’s 10:45 a.m., but there’s no doubt in my mind that Arlo is still sleeping after having been up all night. I shoot him a text anyway and ask for any updates.
Cruz’s unmarked SUV appears in the rearview, and I watch as he flawlessly parallel parks behind me. I pocket my phone and exit my vehicle, meeting him underneath the pub house’s awning.
“Get Juno settled okay?” Cruz asks as he opens the door and heads inside, stopping at the hostess stand.
“Yeah. He’s not particularly happy about the small space, but he’d be even worse if I left him home alone.
” Juno is a spoiled rotten German Shepherd—the only light in the darkness that is my life.
He’s been with me since our K-9 training days.
Now he’s five years old and a little over two feet, large enough to stir up trouble when he’s mad at me for leaving him by himself.
I don’t even want to think about the damage he would’ve caused if I hadn’t picked him up this morning.
Cruz laughs and shakes his head just as a waitress comes over.
“Table for two?”
“We’re here to see Tamara,” Cruz says as he removes his RPD badge and shows it to the lady.
Her eyes widen, but she nods quickly and leads us to a private booth in the back. “She said you’d be stopping by. It’s about Clara, isn’t it?”
“Did you work with Clara?” I ask as I slide into the circular booth. I pull my phone from my suit jacket and place it on the table, then lean back and position myself to take in the restaurant and entrance.
“Only sometimes. She usually worked the third shift, and I’m always on the first. We’d only work together for an hour or two if she came in early and our shifts overlapped, but that was rare. Would you like anything while you wait?”
“Coffee would be great,” Cruz says while getting comfortable in the booth. He chose the last spot that gives him a full view of our surroundings, leaving Tamara with her back to the door when she arrives.
I signal that I’d like one as well, then turn my full attention on Cruz. “Tell me what you know. What happened when Clara was first reported missing?”
Cruz scrubs a hand down his face, swiping his trimmed beard a few times before letting out a sigh.
That’s not a good sign.
“One of our rookies took Tamara’s statement and filed the report.
He made a few follow up attempts: visited her apartment and questioned the night manager who was working the night she went missing.
Surveillance cams show Clara walking out those doors,” Cruz nods his head toward the entrance, “at around two in the morning. She had her purse and phone with her. Officer Marquez reported no signs of foul play, and with Clara being 34, he assumed she left on her own accord.”
“What about her cell phone records?”
Cruz shakes his head. “Marquez didn’t request a warrant to ping her phone because he didn’t think there was a reason.
We attempted to trace it and triangulate her location after Tamara stormed into the precinct with Clara’s photo.
It’s either dead or turned off, and the last location pinged was her apartment building at 2:30 a.m. that morning. ”
“Fuck.”
“You can say that again. This whole thing is fucked. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t walked into the precinct when I did. Clara’s missing person’s report should’ve hit my desk as soon as it was filed, but it didn’t.”
My response is cut off before it begins when another waitress approaches the table, our coffee mugs resting on a tray in her hand. A quick glance at her name tag tells me that this woman is Tamara. Clara’s friend.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” she says as she places our cups in front of us. She sets down small packets of cream and sugar, which Cruz and I both ignore, before sliding into the seat facing us.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Cruz replies with a voice softer and lower than his usual baritone. It’s his attempt to appear non-threatening, but it makes me want to roll my eyes.
Tamara offers him a weak smile and a nod. “Clara and I used to talk every day. She doesn’t have any family here… or at all, really. It doesn’t feel right going this long without hearing her voice, you know?”
I dip my chin sympathetically. “What can you tell us about the last night you saw her?”
“God,” she whispers. Tamara places her elbows on the table and leans her head forward, rubbing her temples and running her fingers through her dark, coily hair.
Her voice sounds pained, and the worry for her friend is written all over her face.
She’s trying hard to keep the tears in, and I know from experience it’s better to say nothing when someone is trying to keep from breaking down, so Cruz and I wait patiently while she takes a few deep, steadying breaths.
“It was a busy night. I mean, every Friday night is pretty busy, but it was really fucking busy. I remember thinking how I hadn’t been able to take a break in hours.
I usually have time to hang out at the bar when it’s slow or while my tables are eating.
Clara and I would always talk and laugh any chance we got.
It helped the night pass by faster, you know?
“I never had a slow moment that night, though, and neither did Clara. Every time I went to the bar to collect orders, she was busy pouring drinks and talking with customers.” Tamara looks down at the table with a blank stare.
“Was she talking to any customers more than others?” Cruz questions, a notepad laden with notes in front of him.
“Uhm… Well, I mean. Clara is the sweetest, and she was always talking to everyone when she was behind the bar. She was—” Tamara’s voice hitches and she clears her throat, though it’s still thick with emotion when she speaks again, “ is— She is so easy to talk to. They say a bartender is like a therapist. People just sit there and share their stories while drinking. Some of the shit people told her was just unreal; they weren’t afraid to get too personal.
” Tamara pauses and shakes her head. “I remember seeing one of her regulars hanging out for most of the night. He’d just sit there and talk with her, but he always seemed to nurse his drink instead of downing it like some of the other guys. ”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
Tamara grimaces. “Like all the other guys? I don’t know.
There wasn’t anything that stood out about him.
He wasn’t bad looking by any means… White guy, maybe in his 40’s, but I’ve always been a bad judge of age.
Hell, I thought Clara was in her 20’s but she turned 34 a couple months ago, so take that for what it is. ”
Cruz looks up from his notepad, and I watch as his eyes scan the interior.
I know what he’s thinking. He wants another look at the surveillance cameras from that night.
Maybe we can find the guy on video, this regular who came in often, seemingly just for Clara.
He directs his gaze back at Tamara, ready to continue his meticulous note-taking.
“Is there anyone in Clara’s life who may have a grudge against her?
A family member? Boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? ”
This time when Tamara shakes her head, she does it emphatically.
“No. No way. Like I said, Clara is the sweetest. She’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met.
She, uh, is estranged from her family. I don’t even think they live in the area.
Or the state. She never spoke about them except for once when she said they had a falling out about five years ago.
Religious shit, you know? But she didn’t have a boyfriend.
That girl’s a damn workaholic, which is why she never would’ve missed a shift on purpose.
She never called out. I had to practically block her from scheduling extra shifts sometimes.
All she wanted was to save money to open up her own coffee shop-slash-bar.
She didn’t make time for anything else. Except for me.
She always made time for me. We always joked that she’d host yoga nights, and I’d run the classes. ”
The smile on Tamara’s face is full of emotion as she reminisces, but the sadness in her eyes speaks volumes.
“I’m sorry,” Tamara says as she glances down at her watch. “I have to get ready for my shift. Will you let me know if you find anything?”
“Of course. Would it be all right to contact you if we have any more questions?” Cruz closes his notepad and slips his pen in his pocket.
“You have my number. I’ll be here if you need me.”
We thank Tamara for her time before she slides out of the booth and disappears behind a door marked Employees Only .
Cruz and I are both silent as we process the conversation with Tamara.
She didn’t have much for us to go off of, but she did mention that regular.
The one who nursed his drink while talking to Clara.
I know Cruz has already thought about pulling the surveillance cameras around the bar to see if we can find him.
I have no doubt that’s where we’ll be headed next.
Tamara made one thing all too clear: Clara’s circle is practically non-existent.
No family.
No boyfriend.
Only her job, her dream, and Tamara.