Griffin prayed that Parker would be able to match at least one set of tire prints to Haywood’s tire tread, confirming the body drop site, or at least the presence of Haywood’s car. Parker would need to get a mud sample to compare to Haywood’s tires.
“Has any more blood been found along the trail?” Parker asked, echoing Griffin’s thoughts.
Howe shook his head. “Not that we’ve found. And I went in with Knox first and placed markers by the shoeprints present before we did our search.”
“Excellent job,” Parker said, examining the half dozen flags staked around them. It wasn’t many, but even though it was a Saturday, Merryman wasn’t a high-volume trail. Parker would have to compare the shoeprints found to everyone’s at the retreat—especially Lowell Brentwood’s.
“There is no sign of additional dismemberment based on the limited amount of blood we found,” Parker reported and he and Avery worked the scene, taking print, tire tread, and mud samples. Sorting through all their shoeprints would be time consuming—having to go to each client’s home, but thankfully that was Parker’s area, not his.
“And?” Griffin said, hoping they had some answers.
“My guess is that the killer started to dismember the bodies and either determined it would take him too long or something spooked him and he dumped the bodies and rushed away.”
“So we may have a witness to the dump?”
“Kids party in this area. Maybe the killer heard someone arriving or moving around. I can only conjecture.”
And Parker hated conjecture. He was a man of facts and evidence.
“We’re going to have to get divers in the water,” Griffin said.
“I’ll call it in.” Cavanaugh lifted his chin. “But the search will have to wait until morning.”
“Thankfully we have just enough light to finish processing the scene without bringing in artificial light,” Parker said, always preferring to use what he termed “clean” or natural light.
Once finished at Loch Raven, Griffin returned to the inn to pick up Finley, who had spent the time they were away curled up with a throw by the patio heaters and fire pit, reading in the dying day’s light. Kate had taken off around noon.
He regretted that he hadn’t been able to join his beautiful wife for a restful weekend. Instead he’d found a man he’d admired almost all his life dead in a tub, and a couple’s bodies were most likely submerged somewhere in the reservoir. This case was definitely going to push him to his limits.
Finley rubbed Griffin’s arm as he reversed out of the inn’s parking lot, the spots where the Markums’ and Haywood’s vehicles had been parked, empty, the cars having been towed to the station’s impound lot.
“You okay?” Finley asked softly as he pulled out onto the main road.
“Yeah.” He shifted gears. “Just not an easy case.”
“Never is when someone you know is involved.”
22
Kate worked on digging into Lowell Brentwood’s life at her front room desk at CCI, while Griffin tracked down Haywood’s lawyer’s name and contact information after paying a painful visit to Haywood’s wife, Carol. Apparently the two were separated, but not yet divorced.
Kate didn’t envy Griffin having to make that death notification visit. Carol and Haywood had been married close to thirty years prior to their separation, and Haywood’s death under harsh and questionable circumstances had to be extremely difficult for Carol to hear.
Griffin said she’d cried, and he attempted to soothe her, but Kate knew when losing a loved one—even when you had no idea why you’d lost them or where in the world they were—the sorrow never subsided.
Kate shifted her gaze to the light emanating from under Parker’s lab door as he and Avery worked the recovered evidence from the inn and reservoir.
Jason Cavanaugh sat on the sofa, taking a brief reprieve over a cup of coffee while they awaited Thatcher Grimes’ arrival.
Kate would never hand over a significant piece of an investigation to someone she didn’t know without checking their credentials, so she had done some digging on the man. And she learned Parker hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Grimes was the best forensic accountant in the field. His credentials were stellar—he had authored the premier textbook and handbook in use in both the field and in training schools. He was the Parker Mitchell of the forensic accounting world.
The door signaled someone’s entry, and Kate turned to find what could have been Morgan Freeman’s twin, twenty years younger. The man was tall, handsome, and genteel in mannerism.
“Thatcher Grimes,” he said, taking off his hat and dipping his head.
She stood and moved to greet him. “Kate Maxwell. Thanks so much for coming. I’ll let Parker know you’re here.”
He nodded.
“This is . . .” She started to introduce Jason, but he was already on his feet and moving to shake Grimes’ hand.
“Detective Jason Cavanaugh,” he said.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Grimes said as she moved down the hall toward Parker’s lab.
She opened the door to find him standing over the printer as pages slipped out.
“Find something?”
“A number of somethings.”
“Mr. Grimes is here.”
“Great. Griffin and Finley should be here any minute.” He grabbed the papers out of the printer tray and, taking Avery’s hand, headed out for the front room. “Thatcher,” he said, greeting the man with a handshake.
“Parker, always good to see you. Sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”
“Thanks.” Parker turned slightly. “This is my photographer and girlfriend, Avery Tate.”
Grimes once again dipped his head. “Pleasure to meet the woman who finally wrangled this man’s heart.”
Avery smiled. “The pleasure is mine.”
The bell signaled another entry, and Griffin and Finley walked in.
“Griffin, Mrs. McCray,” Grimes said, “so nice to see you.”
“Thanks for making this a priority.”
“No problem a’tall.”
“Shall we?” Kate said, indicating the seating area. “Mr. Grimes, let me take your coat.”
“Thank you, young lady.”
She hung his coat on the rack and joined the team, anxious to hear what Grimes had to share.
With a sigh, he pulled a portfolio out of a worn brown leather satchel. “I ran the preliminaries on the company. It’s going to take several more days to sort everything out, but at this point it appears Haywood was the one stealing from his clients.” He surveyed the room. “That, however, doesn’t mean much.”
“No?” Griffin asked with a twinge of hope.
“It’s complex. The log-in used was Haywood’s, and most of the clients affected were his.”
“Most?” Kate frowned.
“It appears that he—or whoever was behind it—also siphoned from Emmitt Powell’s clients.”
Parker leaned forward. “Which to me would indicate Lowell Brentwood.”
Grimes smiled. “That’s where my mind went. Everyone’s clients, but Brentwood’s.”
“And Haywood said Lowell had access to his log-in.”
“Exactly. The warrant came through to access the firm’s computers and paperwork. I’ll be heading there with my team first thing in the morning.”
“Wonderful. Please keep us posted,” Kate said, anxious to know who was behind it all and praying for the guys’ sake that it wasn’t Haywood—despite how guilty he might appear.
“I most certainly will.”
After Thatcher left, Finley moved to make a fresh pot of coffee, and Parker began sharing the results he’d found so far.
As he stood and moved to the whiteboard, Kate scooted forward in her seat. It was weird working a case without Declan and Tanner—especially without Declan running the board. She’d be glad when they were back from Houston.
“First,” Parker said, “the fingerprint from the dismembered index f
inger is a match for John Markum.”
“Which would indicate a body dump,” Griffin said, “or at least that the Markums were there and, if not already dead and being dismembered, under severe duress.”
“Correct,” Parker said with a sigh.
Griffin straightened. “What?”
They all knew that was Parker’s “bad news is coming” sigh.
“One set of the tire treads we found matches Haywood’s car, along with the mud sample from the trailhead matching the mud caked in his tires.”
“Any other fingerprints on Haywood’s steering wheel?” Griffin asked, again with hope in his voice.
“Actually, yes.” Parker smiled. “Lowell Brentwood’s.”
“Finally, some good news.”
“And there’s one additional piece,” Parker said.
“What’s that?”
“None of Haywood’s shoes match the imprints we took from the reservoir.”
“So he wasn’t there?”
“At least none of the shoes he had in the room were. There’s always the possibility he tossed them somewhere along the way, as there was no mud on the floorboard of his car, but that could also indicate that whoever drove it to the trailhead either never got out of the car, covered their shoes in some way, or changed shoes before getting back in.”
Tanner watched Declan meticulously spread Steven Burke’s personal files in an order that suited him across his hotel room bed, then step back and assess what was before him.
“Where to start?” she murmured.
“Top left and work our way across and then down.” He pointed in the shape of an upside-down L.
“You want me to take notes while you read?” she asked.
“Sure. That’d be great. But are you certain you aren’t too tired? It’s been a long day.”
“Nah, I’m fine.” The more time with Declan the better. Plus, she was intrigued by the case. She wanted to know what had happened to Steven Burke, why he’d been on that ship.
Declan smiled, his chin dimple hollowing. “You mean you’re hooked.”
She sure was—and not just on the case.
Declan looked amazing, and considering he was simply wearing a yellow-and-green rugby jersey and a pair of straight-legged black sweats, that was saying something. She looked down at her yoga pants and very worn-in Towson sweatshirt, hoping she didn’t look half the wreck she felt. She’d pulled her hair up into a lopsided bun, the annoying slips of hair escaping the band, but at least the majority was off her freshly washed face. It felt good to be casual, and if she and Declan ever really began a romantic relationship, it was better he saw the real her now rather than later. She was a firm believer in being true to who God created her to be and never pretending to be someone else. Take it or leave it was her motto. And she was pretty sure Declan shared a similar one.
He handed her a steno pad—she hadn’t seen one of those in about a gazillion years—and a pen. Her tools in hand, she sat on the one chair in the room, tucking her legs beneath her. “Where are you going to sit?” she asked, assuming the edge of the bed, but with all the files, he hadn’t left himself much room.
“I won’t.”
“Won’t sit?”
“I think better moving.”
“Okay. See, there’s one more thing I’ve learned about you.”
He smiled and grabbed the first file. “Case 1045. Since these are personal files, I’m assuming the case numbers were part of Burke’s own coding system, but we’ll see if we can find a pattern, or if there are references back to his work files.”
They ran through the first three files, each clearly a cold case. All missing women. All in a similar age range. The three cases spanned the last five years, the most recent being Burke’s personal file of the Chelsea Miller case. They took a few minutes to compare the file with her Bureau file, and they found the details to be pretty much the same.
Thanks to Franco, Declan now understood Burke’s connection to the missing women—when a friend’s loved one is kidnapped and killed, it heightens one’s commitment to finding the truth. But he wondered how Burke had come across Nisa, and how he recognized she needed help.
Was there any connection between the three threads—the missing women from Houston, the smuggling of refugees and terrorists on the Hiram, and Nisa and the ship she and Burke spoke of? Or were they all separate cases Burke was juggling? And what was Burke’s motivation for boarding the Hiram?
It was highly likely Nisa had been smuggled in through Galveston’s port and entrapped in a situation like Max Stallings’ victims were in Baltimore. Was Galveston’s port and the city of Houston another branch of Ebeid’s or was it like Max Stallings’ network? Either possibility was terrifying.
“You’re thinking Nisa might have been smuggled over as Mira had been, just in a different port?” Tanner asked.
“Yes.” He glanced at the bedside table. It was already nine o’clock. Realizing they hadn’t eaten anything since the hot dog cart, he placed a hand on Tanner’s shoulder. “We still have five files to go. Are you sure you aren’t getting too tired or hungry?”
“I could go for some room service,” she said.
They perused the menu and Declan placed an order for two cheeseburgers and fries, and then they moved back to the files. The next two victims were very similar to the rest—young women, abducted in Houston and murdered.
He lifted the sixth file and read the case number. Tanner noted it, and he flipped back the cover, his eyes widening with shock.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned the photo of the victim to face Tanner.
“Jenna?” Tanner stood and walked to his side, taking the file to better examine the picture of Griffin’s younger sister, who’d been murdered more than seven years ago. “Why would Burke have a file on Jenna McCray? She was murdered in Maryland.”
Declan skimmed the file. “Because the MO is remarkably similar in all these files. Young women—ages sixteen through nineteen—dark hair, green eyes, petite, walking alone at night, and found washed up on shore a few weeks later, tortured, raped.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Maybe he was a drifter after all. Maybe this is why Jenna’s killer was never found—because he relocated to Houston.”
“Are all the other victims from Houston?”
“So far, but we still have two files to go.”
“So . . . do you think Burke found a link between all the cases—missing women, human trafficking, terrorism?”
“I can’t be sure, but my gut says no—at least not intentionally. Burke picked up the missing women thread because of his connection to one victim’s father. From there he searched cold case records and recognized a pattern. He developed a passion to pursue justice for all those women whose killer was still at large.
“But then Burke met Nisa. I am guessing they bonded and she shared what had happened to her. Their interaction drew the attention of whomever is in charge of a Houston ring similar to Max Stallings’ in Baltimore. Someone figured out he was an FBI agent and that person silenced her.
“Burke knew she’d come through Galveston’s port on the Hiram, so knowing the Bureau would not support his investigation, he headed to Galveston on his own and joined the Hiram crew. And then, in addition to his investigation of human trafficking, he stumbled upon the smuggling of terrorists into the U.S.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s criminal justice. You’d be amazed at the cases I work and the connections that are sometimes made.”
“What about the last two serial-killer victims?”
“Right.” Declan retrieved one file and then the other. “Both victims were young women, both fitting the profile, but both had been killed in Wilmington, North Carolina—one about six months after Jenna’s murder, the other a year after that. Then . . .” He retrieved one of the earlier files. “The earliest Houston murder we have was about nine months after that. I think we may just have our first big lead in Jenna’s case. The
footprints of her killer.”
A knock sounded on the door. “Room service.”
Declan moved for the door, his hand on the butt of his holstered handgun.
Tanner smiled. “It’s food, Declan.”
He smiled back at her and opened the door to a room service attendant, his hands on the cart’s edge.
“Come in,” Declan said, stepping back.
A split second later, a rush of movement blew past him, someone tackling the man to the floor. The room service attendant pulled a syringe from his pocket, trying to jab it into the other man’s neck.
Declan and Tanner both pulled guns on the pair, but the wrestling didn’t cease.
The man on top, his back to Declan, overpowered the room service attendant and injected him with his own syringe, pumping yellow liquid into his neck. Within seconds, he spasmed, foamed at the mouth, and died.
The other man stood and moved for the door, but Declan grabbed his arm.
The man spun around, gun aimed at Declan’s face, Declan’s aimed right back at his. Shock ricocheted through Declan. “Luke?”
23
Luke paced the room, trying to settle the adrenaline coursing through him. “I’ll clean this up.”
“That’s it?” Declan said as Luke crammed the man’s body onto the lower tray of the room service cart, covering it with the draped-over tablecloth. “You disappear without any word and reappear over seven years later, killing a room service guy . . .”
Luke cocked his head.
“Okay, clearly he wasn’t a real room service guy,” Declan said. “But a little explanation would be nice.”
“A little explanation will only put you in deeper.”
“Deeper into Ebeid’s network?”
“I knew you’d figure it out, but he’s not Ebeid’s man. Not directly.”
“Then whose man is he? The guy who runs the Houston branch of Ebeid’s network?”
“I’ve already been here too long.” Luke raked a hand through his hair and slipped his ball cap back on.
“Are you coming home?”