4. Maverick
MAVERICK
DOWN SO LOW
By the time I make it to the FBI resident agency office the next day, my team has already commandeered a large conference room and set up our evidence board. One of them—Spencer, most likely—painstakingly recreated the board just as it was in Minneapolis.
No.
Not just as it was. This evidence board has more pins.
More locations.
More photos.
More failures.
Except for Clara’s photo. It doesn’t represent failure. Yet .
Right now, it represents hope.
A lead.
We just have to find her.
I lean against the door frame and take in the activity.
Arlo and Spencer work side by side, sitting closest to the evidence board, lost in their laptops.
The headphones are a clear indication they’re deep in a surveillance dive.
When Arlo texted me back after Tamara’s interview, he said he was still sifting through the footage.
He didn’t have anything then, but maybe he does now.
Evie and Jesse are standing at the edge of the table, poring over the photos of the crime scene.
Jesse’s laying out photos of evidence—they’re marked and out of evidence bags.
The real evidence is stored safely in the lab, but it’s always been helpful to pair evidence photos with crime scene photos.
“I just got off the phone with the ME a few minutes ago.” Riley looks up from a photo of the holes left by the portable table near the grave.
She’s comparing it to the ones left at previous crime scenes.
They’re not damn near identical; they are identical.
She rolls her shoulders as though she’s been leaning over for a while before continuing.
“That woman moves fast; she’s already completed the autopsy.
The RPD must want to get ahead of the press on this one, considering this is victim number seven.
The victim died of asphyxiation approximately three weeks ago, based on the body’s stage of decomposition, which lines up with Sammie’s preliminary observations. ”
Riley’s eyes catch mine, and immediately I know I’m not going to like what she says next. Her pause has me on edge, and I raise my eyebrow to get her talking.
She sighs and glances at Evie before looking at me once again. “There were signs of sexual assault: pelvic bruising and lacerations. Internal and external. ”
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, attempting to center myself and push down the rage threatening to escape.
This sick motherfucker.
Clara’s face takes over my vision—dark hair framing delicate features and deep, penetrating brown eyes. Suddenly, she’s all I can think about. Is that what he’s doing to her right now? The thought is enough to make my knees buckle, and I move from the door frame to take a seat across from Riley.
“What else?” My voice is rough; it sounds as if sandpaper has been rubbed against my throat.
“The victim is estimated to be between 29 and 33 years old. She appears to have been healthy, if not a little malnourished. Sammie was able to take a dental impression and send it off for ID. Jesse collected her DNA last night, and we should have it processed within forty-eight hours.”
“Thanks, Riley.” She nods and goes back to her photo comparisons as I shift in my seat, turning toward Arlo and Spencer. “Where are we at with the surveillance cams?”
Arlo removes his headphones and places them in their case. “We haven’t pulled any definitive information from the cameras. Not from inside The Pour House or outside along the strip.”
He pushes away from the table and stands, walking to where I’m seated.
After setting his laptop down in front of me, he presses play and points at the screen.
“This is the ATM feed from that night. See here?” He points to the timestamp in the upper right corner.
“It’s 2:08 a.m. when Clara exits the building and crosses the street to the parking garage.
She has everything with her, but she’s alone.
And then here.” He waits a few seconds before pausing the video.
“She’s waving at someone in the garage. I wasn’t able to get a good view inside the parking garage from The Pour House’s exterior cams, and they’re the only ones with a direct view of the ground floor.
There’s only a running vehicle and a shadow behind the wheel.
I can tell it’s a man, but I can’t make out anything else. ”
Dejection fills Arlo’s voice as he speaks. There isn’t much he can’t do, so I know it grates him when he can’t get the evidence clean enough for an ID.
“Here.” Arlo leans over me once again and restarts the video.
“1:30 a.m. Two groups of men walk out of the pub and disappear into the garage. It’s possible our unsub was one of them, but we can’t be sure.
Cruz sent over the surveillance feed from inside the bar, so Spencer is cross-referencing the patrons with these men.
He’s looking for the regular Tamara mentioned. ”
At that, Spencer turns his laptop toward us and hits a button on the keyboard.
“I think this is him. If I’m right, he’s one smart son of a bitch.
This guy was in the same seat for hours.
You can clearly see Clara filling orders, then going back to talk with him.
He chose a blind spot—right on the other side of the beer taps. His face is hidden.”
“Jesus Christ. How far back does that feed go? Are you able to see how many times that regular showed up during Clara’s shifts?”
“That’s what I’m doing right now.”
“Good.” I knock my knuckles three times against the table before standing and heading toward the door. “Good work. I’m going to let Juno out before he destroys the rental, then I’ll check in with Cruz.”
Another day without answers, without leads. We’re chasing shadows, and the endless frustration is damn near suffocating.
My feet pound the pavement as Juno leads me down the running trail.
This is our third run since yesterday’s meeting, but I needed to expel the fury taking residence in my veins, and physical exertion is all I have.
Cruz didn’t have any updates, the ME said the toxicology report could take weeks, and any solid lead I thought we had is starting to feel like a dead end.
A run sounded like the perfect outlet to clear my mind and calm my nerves.
The burn in my lungs and calves is a pain I embrace; it brings me clarity, pushing me harder.
In Minneapolis, Juno and I often take long runs down the city streets.
The current view of Silver Lake Park is a welcome change from the concrete and tall buildings that I’m used to.
Its serenity lies in the calm waters to the left of the running trail and the woods to the right.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. Just what I need. I breathe deeply, inhaling the overpowering scent of the lake and trees.
There’s a wooden bridge up ahead with a small creek running beneath it.
I head straight for it, deciding we can slow down once we get to the other side.
I loosen the slack on Juno’s leash and pick up my pace.
He takes the cue to push as far as I’ll let him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants heavily.
Almost as soon as we step off the bridge and back onto the trail, Juno lets out a series of loud barks and veers off the path. He’s running so fast that I have no choice but to follow or drop the leash.
“Juno! Juno! Slow down!”
What the fuck has gotten into him?
“Goddamn it, Juno! Stop!” I try to rein him in, but he’s not having any of it.
Something’s off—he’s never done this before. But I trust his instincts just as much as I trust mine.
I take in the area as I fight to keep his pace.
The sun has set; the only light comes from strategically placed lamp posts and the full moon’s reflection on the lake.
Juno and I are the only ones on this side of the water, but I spot the silhouettes of runners further ahead beyond a second bridge.
Dense trees span the length of the trail to my right, only a few yards from the pavement. Juno heads in that direction.
I no longer make an effort to reel in Juno’s leash. There’s no stopping him. When he does stop abruptly, approximately 100 yards off the trail, I nearly topple over him.
“What the fuck, Juno?” I breathe heavily and lean forward, my hands grasping my knees as I try to catch my breath. A stitch in my side makes me grimace. Fucking dog.
Juno whines in response and begins pawing the dirt. He presses his nose to the soil then continues digging. What’s he found?
It takes a minute before I can hear anything besides Juno’s whining and my panting. When I hear it, my body goes rigid. I straighten and turn my head to look around. We’re a few feet into the woods. I can see the path from where we’re at, but I see nothing else; no one else.
But I heard it.
It was faint and muffled.
A scream.
“Hello?” I call out. I expect the screams to get louder—closer—but they’re still muffled, and I can’t seem to pinpoint the origin.
“Can you hear me?” I call out again, louder this time. The responding screams sound more frantic, and I notice Juno nudging the dirt with his nose. He places his head down, ear on the ground, and lets out a high pitched whine.
No fucking way.
There’s just no fucking way.
I drop to my knees next to Juno and follow suit, placing my ear against the earth. “Can you hear me?” I repeat.
Help me! That’s what it sounds like, but it’s almost indiscernible.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My eyes widen, and I reach for my phone in the pocket of my arm sleeve.
It’s only years of training that keep the panic at bay long enough to dial 911.
I’m practically yelling at the operator, identifying myself and telling them to contact Detective Jonathan Cruz and my team. “Tell them to bring fucking shovels!”
I toss my phone down unceremoniously, keeping the call connected for the trace, and begin digging with my hands. I don’t have anything else, and I know I’m running out of time.
She’s running out of time.