‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Marcus was afraid that Tala had been beaten because he’d tried to talk to her. If someone was listening in while she walked the dog, he could be right. We need to know what precipitated the beating – if it was over Marcus or something unrelated.’ She pointed to the evidence bin. ‘So what’s in there?’
‘Everything else the victim was wearing or carrying.’ Vince lifted the lid, identifying each bagged item as he put it on the worktable. ‘Blue jeans, polo shirt, shoes, socks. Crucifix on a necklace chain. Dog treats. And this.’ He held up a small plastic evidence bag. ‘Ten grams of cocaine. I should have lab results on the purity in a few hours.’
Scarlett frowned. ‘The alley where I found her is drug-dealer central, but Carrie didn’t find any evidence of drugs in her system.’
Vince made no comment as he put the bag of coke on the table and took three more bags from the bin, silently holding them up for Scarlett and Deacon to see.
‘A pacifier, a teething ring and a baggie filled with Cheerios.’ Scarlett’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest. ‘For her baby.’
‘The dog treats and the coke were in her left pocket,’ Vince said quietly, ‘the baby things in her right.’
‘The baby’s at least eight or nine months old if she was giving him Cheerios,’ Scarlett said, hardening her voice so that it didn’t waver.
Vince looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know you knew anything about babies, Scarlett.’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘I’ve got six nieces and nephews. Difficult not to pick up a few things here and there.’
Deacon cleared his throat. ‘Can you get DNA off the pacifier, Vince?’
‘I already took a sample off the pacifier and the teething ring.’
Deacon nodded once. ‘Good. If we don’t find the child with her captors, at least we’ll be able to show that her child was with her at some point. Was there anything else in her pockets?’
Vince shook his head. ‘Nothing. No keys, no money, no ID.’
Scarlett caught Vince’s arm as he started to put the baby things back in the bin. ‘Wait.’ She took the pacifier and held it under the light on the worktable. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, pointing to three black smudges on the pacifier’s ring.
‘Magic Marker,’ Vince said. ‘But it’s too worn away to see what it used to say.’
She took the pacifier from the bag, then bent closer to the light, squinting at the smudges. ‘Can I see your glass?’ She held out her hand and Vince dropped the magnifying glass into her palm. ‘There are three distinct smudges,’ she said, ‘about the same space apart. They might have been circles originally. And . . .’ She squinted harder, tilting the pacifier one way, then the other, trying to catch the right light on the surface of the plastic ring. ‘Colors,’ she murmured. ‘Tiny leftover pieces of color. Red and blue and . . . yellow? Or maybe green. Each to the left of the black smudged circle.’
‘Other magic markers?’ Deacon asked.
Absently she nodded. She recognized this pattern, but the memory was hovering on the edge of her mind, just out of reach. And then her brain made the connection. Holy shit. Abruptly she straightened, her pulse hammering in her head as she met her partner’s curious stare. ‘Oh my God. He was wrong.’
Deacon’s head was tilted. ‘What? Who?’
‘Marcus. He was wrong,’ she said, her words coming out way too fast. ‘Do you ever watch Wheel of Fortune?’
Deacon blinked, then nodded warily. ‘Yes, quite often recently. Turns out Faith is a closet fan of Pat and Vanna. Why?’
‘You know those people who can solve the puzzle with one letter?’
‘I hate those people,’ Vince muttered. ‘They spoil all the fun.’
Scarlett pointed to herself. ‘Well I’m one of those people. These black smudges could have been lower case a’s. The blue, red and yellow – other letters. Blank “a” blank “a” blank “a”. Malaya. Somebody wrote “Malaya” on this pacifier. What if it doesn’t mean “freedom”? What if it’s a name?’
Deacon’s eyes widened as realization dawned. ‘When Tala said “Help Malaya”, she wasn’t asking Marcus to help free her family.’
Scarlett swallowed hard, Tala’s final plea taking on an even deeper meaning. ‘She was asking him to save her baby.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 9.15 A.M.
Drake snarled when his cell phone’s ring tone pulled him out of a sound sleep. He opened one eye and groaned. Stephanie’s throwaway phone. ‘This better be damn important,’ he barked. ‘You woke me up.’
‘He knows,’ Stephanie whispered harshly. ‘He came to my room and took my iPhone. Slapped me. Hard. He knows I took Tala out of the house last night. He kept asking me why.’
Drake sat up in bed, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Did you tell him?’ he asked softly.
‘No!’ It was a hissed whisper. ‘I didn’t. I swore I didn’t know what he was talking about, even when he hit me again. But I don’t know how long I can hold up.’
‘Then get into your fancy car and leave,’ Drake said irritably.
‘I can’t. He took my purse – my wallet, my keys . . . everything. Told me that if he caught me trying to escape, he’d beat me within an inch of my life. I believe him. You have to come. I might be able to sneak out through the servants’ door, but I won’t get far. You have to come pick me up.’
‘In what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stephanie snapped. ‘Figure it out. Just do it fast or it won’t matter. If he makes me hurt enough, I might just tell him what he wants to know. Somehow I think that’ll hurt you more than me.’
Drake’s eyes narrowed at the girl’s sudden spine. He hated spine. He thought he’d trained it out of Stephanie, but obviously he’d been wrong. He wanted to tell her to go ahead, tell her father everything. It wasn’t like her old man could call the cops or anything. He considered telling her to shove her rich head up her rich ass, that he was going to out her father for the cheating sonofabitch he really was.
But it would be easier just to pick Stephanie up, put a bullet in her head and dump her body in the river. Less fuss all the way around.
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, going along with her for the moment. ‘My sister has a Honda Civic. It’s white. Watch for it. I’ll text you when I’m two minutes away, okay?’
‘Okay.’ A shuddering exhale. ‘Thank you, Drake.’
‘No worries. Just stay out of dear old Dad’s sight until I can come get you.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 9.15 A.M.
Scarlett pushed through the exit from CPD, dragging in a breath of air that was already hot and humid. She paused on the sidewalk, waiting for Deacon to catch up. Neither of them had said much since leaving Vince’s domain, each caught up in their own thoughts.
Malaya is a baby. Tala’s baby. And she was out there somewhere, hopefully not alone. Hopefully with someone who would take care of her, make sure she was fed. And safe.
But the reality of the child’s situation had hit Scarlett hard as she’d stood staring at that pacifier. Tala had been beaten severely. Held captive. Owned. She’d still been nursing, so her baby must have still lived with her. Help Malaya.
The panic Tala must have felt became Scarlett’s and, chest too tight to breathe, she’d rushed out of CSU, chased by a wave of hot tears that she couldn’t let anyone else see.
She gulped more of the humid air, her throat still painfully thick. No wonder Tala had taken such a risk to see Marcus last night. Her baby wasn’t safe.
Please God, let that baby be safe.
Scarlett’s shoulders stiffened, abruptly aware that she’d whispered a prayer, if only in the privacy of her own mind. She didn’t pray. Hadn’t prayed in ten years. That she’d just done so meant only that she was exhausted, not that she actually expected the whispered entreaty to do a bit of good. She’d stopped believing in Santa and the Easter Bunny when she was five. She’d stopped believing in prayer t
en years ago, when she’d stood over the mutilated body of her best friend.
But at least the shock of hearing herself pray had knocked her out of the thick fog of panic that had seized her chest in a white-knuckled grip. She drew another deep breath, shuddered it out. What the hell is wrong with you today, Scarlett? She’d been on an emotional roller coaster since the ringing of her phone had yanked her out of sleep. Since Marcus’s voice had rolled over her, waking her up.
Waking up a lot of things, she thought darkly, thinking of the way her body had responded when she’d seen him standing there in that alley. Too damn many things.
Of course Bryan’s visit hadn’t helped, layering regret and guilt on top of her disappointment, then whipping up the fury within her that never seemed to cool. Dredging up the memories that still had the power to trap her in a nightmare, wake her up screaming.
That was why she was so emotional. This roller coaster of feelings had been triggered by remembering Michelle – finding her body, watching her killer go free to live his life. To become a goddamn defense attorney. That would drive anyone crazy. And who wouldn’t be upset at the thought of a defenseless baby in the hands of someone capable of administering a beating like Tala had received? To not be moved would make a person a monster. The lump in her throat had almost nothing to do with Marcus O’Bannion. Or his voice, or his face, and especially not his chest without his shirt . . .
Yeah, girl, you go on telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. Which it did. It also helped her clear her mind so that she could concentrate on doing her job. On finding that baby before it was too late.
Willing her hands not to tremble, she checked her phone for new messages, emails or voicemails, finding a number of all three. But not one of them from Marcus O’Bannion. He still hadn’t returned any of her calls, nor had he sent her the damn list of threats.
You don’t need the list, she told herself, knowing that what she really needed was for him to have kept his promise. What was he hiding? Or . . . Her gut tightened as a new worry presented itself. Was it possible that whoever had shot Tala had realized Marcus was still alive and come back to finish the job?
It had been hours since Tala’s body had been taken to the morgue. It had to have hit the newsfeeds by now. She did a quick Internet search, and seconds later her phone screen was full of hits. Clicking on the first link, she felt the breath seep from her lungs in the weariest of sighs. It was the Ledger’s website, the headline cleverly spinning the tragedy to focus on Marcus. Local philanthropist shot attempting to save woman’s life, by Stone O’Bannion. The article had been posted online only minutes before.
Now she knew what had kept Marcus so busy that he hadn’t been able to send her that damn list. Or return her calls. Well at least he’s not dead, she thought bitterly.
The story was true. All the facts were there. And even though the byline was Stone’s, the voice she heard in her mind as she skimmed the article was Marcus’s. It included what she’d told him he could, leaving out what she’d requested he hold back. He hadn’t disclosed that he’d seen her in the park or that he’d heard – and recorded – her last words. He made it sound like he’d happened upon her as she lay dying and that he’d been shot while giving first aid. By the end of the article, Marcus had somehow diverted the readers’ attention away from the fact that he’d been in the alley to begin with, making it clear that he was nothing but an innocent bystander, a Good Samaritan shot in the back for his efforts.
I make my living digging for news. At least he hadn’t lied about that. He’d told her he would print the story. But it didn’t change the raw burn of anger in her gut, irrational yet undeniable. Before her, in black and white, was the stark reminder that, no matter how much she wished for him to be different, the real Marcus was not the man she wanted him to be. When all was said and done, he was still a reporter. A man who made his living off the misery of others.
She heard the main door open and close behind her. A few seconds later, Deacon came to an ambling halt at her side. ‘You okay, Scar?’
The concern in his voice sent another wave of emotion crashing into her, the sudden stinging in her eyes making her slam them shut. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she gritted out, her voice harsh and gravelly. Barely recognizable as her own. ‘Just because I took off like an insane bat out of hell?’ She clenched her jaw to keep the tears at bay. She would not cry. She would not. ‘Shit,’ she added in a mutter. ‘It’s just hormones. Ignore me.’
Deacon lightly bumped his shoulder against hers, a silent gesture of support. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about the tracker capability.’
She swallowed the lump in her throat, surreptitiously wiping her eyes to clear them before meeting Deacon’s gaze. His bi-colored eyes no longer bothered her, but the compassion she saw in them now did. Another wave of emotion threatened to pull her under. She looked away, focused on the traffic crawling by. ‘Okay. What about the tracker?’
‘It can transmit sound, just like a telephone.’
‘I thought Vince had to take it apart to determine that.’
‘He did. Didn’t take him more than a few minutes to figure it out, but you’d already left.’
Fled. She pressed her fingertips to her temple, trying to think through the headache that invariably came with her tears. Which was one very good reason not to cry. Ever. ‘What was the range of the listening part of the device?’
‘There isn’t one. It’s digital, runs off the satellite, same as the GPS. Like a Skype line,’ he added when she frowned up at him in confusion.
‘Oh.’ Now she understood. ‘That means there wasn’t any place she could go where she couldn’t be heard. My God. That poor kid.’ And then she really understood and she sucked in a hard breath. ‘They wouldn’t hear just her voice. They’d hear anyone she talked to. Like Marcus. In the park and in the alley last night.’ And if they had heard Tala in the alley? Scarlett’s heart began to beat harder. They’d know that Marcus had heard her last words. ‘Could they record or would they have had to be listening at that moment?’
‘I’m sure they could record if they had the right equipment.’
‘I’m sure they had all the bells and whistles,’ Scarlett said grimly.
‘Not all,’ Deacon said softly. ‘The device didn’t have a camera.’
She frowned. ‘So?’
‘So, they could hear her in the park and they could see where she was on the map, but they couldn’t see her. She walked that dog all by herself, along the paths, through the trees, for at least a few weeks. Maybe longer. Invisible to them.’
‘You think she left some kind of message in the woods? Something someone might use to rescue her and the baby?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s worth taking a walk through the park to check it out. We don’t have our meeting with Agent Troy at the field office for several hours. We have time.’
Scarlett considered it. ‘While we’re at the park, we can see if the uniforms have made any progress. They’ve been out since sunup, canvassing the houses in a mile radius of the park with photos of Tala and the dog. Last update I got, nobody had recognized either of them. If they still haven’t found anybody who remembers them by the time we get to the park, I’ll move on to the list of groomers.’ She hesitated, then decided it would be better to check on Marcus and feel like a fool when he was safe and sound than the alternative. ‘On the way to the park, let’s swing by the Ledger’s office.’
Deacon’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Because Marcus O’Bannion’s called attention to himself as being the last person to see Tala alive.’ She held up her phone, showed him the article.
Deacon read it with a groan. ‘And I thought I had a flair for drama. He’s made himself a damn hero.’
Scarlett rolled her eyes. ‘If anyone was listening to Tala’s last moments, Marcus has made himself a damn target.’
‘The tracker. Shit. They’d know he knew that Tala was a slave. The
y’d believe he knew about Malaya.’
‘And if that tracker was still transmitting when I got there? Whoever was listening got the prologue in the park too. So they’d know this wasn’t a chance meeting the way he insinuates in the article.’
‘Did you call him?’
Scarlett huffed in frustration. ‘I’ve been calling his cell phone all morning and he hasn’t answered. I called his office and the young chickie who answered the phone said that Mr O’Bannion was in conference and could not be disturbed. I called his mother’s house, but the maid hadn’t seen Mr Marcus for several days and his mother was sleeping and couldn’t come to the phone.’
Deacon sighed. ‘That means she’s either doped herself up or she hit the bottle too hard again. I feel really bad for the woman, losing Mikhail like that, but she’s well past the point of concern. She needs help, but no one in the family will admit it.’
Scarlett’s heart hurt for Marcus’s mother. But her priority right now had to be keeping Marcus alive so that the poor woman didn’t lose another son. ‘Be that as it may, Marcus wasn’t there. I even called Jeremy, but Marcus wasn’t there either.’ She’d been hesitant to make the call, worried that Marcus’s stepfather would hold a grudge against her for what had gone down nine months ago. If he had, he would have had good reason. But he’d been pleasant, helpful even. ‘Jeremy called Marcus’s apartment for me, but just got voicemail. He even went over there and checked the place out, but Marcus wasn’t there and hadn’t slept in his bed.’
‘Let me try. Maybe he’ll pick up if it’s my caller ID. What’s the number for his cell?’
Scarlett read it out to him. ‘That’s the disposable he used to call me this morning.’ She waited quietly, her worry increasing when Deacon’s call got voicemail too. She knew she was being irrational. Marcus was probably simply busy. But she had a nagging feeling in her gut that he wasn’t safe, and long ago she’d learned to listen to her gut.
‘He’s probably working,’ Deacon said, ‘but if it’ll set your mind at ease, we can split up. You go by the Ledger, and I’ll meet you at the park.’