Martin’s dark eyes danced with amusement. “I heard they weren’t in a real rush.”
“Safety first. Didn’t want anyone twisting an ankle.”
The humor faded from his gaze as he shifted his attention back to the body. “Well, then he couldn’t have killed this girl.”
Riley agreed. “But he has a girlfriend named Darla Johnson. I pulled up her arrest record. She looks strong enough to have done it.”
“How many girls does he have?”
“It’s a guess, but I’d say two or three at a time. I stopped by the hospital to talk to the kid Jax beat up, but she’s still out of it. Broken ribs and heroin withdrawal. It’ll be a few days before she can talk.”
Martin scowled. “That kid has a long road ahead of her.”
“Police got a look at her cell phone,” Riley said. “There’re quite a few texts between Jax and the girl.”
“Not a big surprise.”
“No, it’s not,” Riley said. “I’d have waited, but the media arrived outside the hospital.”
“I know you. You’ll see her soon and get some answers.”
“I will.” Riley studied the victim’s sightless gaze. A ring of purple bruises wrapped around her neck like a morbid piece of jewelry. Reaching for her phone, she snapped a picture of the girl’s face.
“Who’s investigating the murder?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know if it’s been assigned yet, but I bet the investigation gets tossed to state police. This case reaches beyond the county’s jurisdiction, and no one is going to want an unsolved homicide before a big concert brings in lots of people and money.”
Martin raised the camera as he snapped more pictures of the victim. High cheekbones tapered into parted full lips. Her peasant top rode up, exposing a narrow waist and the underside of full breasts. The jeans were a standard variety, not designer, but they looked new and clean. She wore no shoes, but her toenails were freshly painted a bright red, like her fingernails.
As Riley knelt next to the girl’s face, a bone-deep sadness settled. “So damn young,” she said, more to herself. A few more minutes and maybe she could have saved her.
Martin clicked through the last few camera images, studying them. “At her age I was more worried about passing my final chemistry exam or making sure I had a date on Saturday night.”
Riley had worried over her share of tests, but dates had been a low priority after her mother died and her stepfather’s ogling turned hungry.
In the days after the funeral, she’d hear him pacing in front of her door as if mustering his courage. When he finally burst into the room and moved toward her, she curled her fingers into a fist and punched him. He swore, cupping his bloodied nose as he retreated. Terrified, she slammed her door and pushed her dresser in front of it. And when he tried the knob and couldn’t get in, he pounded on her door, demanding she let him inside. “You’re like your mother. Selfish, cold. Never good enough.”
When her stepfather left for work the next day, she shoved clothes and whatever cash she could find into a backpack and left. Her plan was to get a job in one of the New Orleans diners or restaurants and find a new place to live. She was convinced any life was better than hers. However, like most kids who took to the streets, she underestimated the monsters lurking by the abyss.
Riley had sugarcoated her teen years when she’d met with Hanna’s social worker. She had never lied but a lot went unsaid.
Squad car lights flashed on the trees, drawing her gaze over her shoulder. Sheriff Bobby Barrett’s black SUV parked behind Deputy DuPont’s vehicle, carving a spot out of the mud and gravel.
Sheriff Barrett stood close to six feet. Twenty-five years separated him from his training days, and though time had swapped muscle for bulk, he retained his determined jock gait that telegraphed to the world to stand clear.
“The party has started,” Martin said.
“What, I don’t count?” Riley asked.
“You’re a baby in the eyes of the area sheriffs’ offices. Ol’ Bobby is the king of it all. Tell me you’ve had your shots. I hear he bites.”
Rising, Riley dusted the dirt from her hands. “I bite back.”
Martin shook his head. “Now that, I’d like to see.”
Sheriff Barrett paused to talk to DuPont, and the two exchanged a hearty handshake along with a couple of easy smiles. However, Sheriff Barrett’s smile vanished when he glanced past DuPont and saw her.
Refusing to look away, she pulled a brand-new small spiral notebook from her back pocket. She filled dozens of notebooks like this one each year.
She watched as DuPont raised the tape for Sheriff Barrett and smiled, easy and relaxed. The sheriff’s long strides cut through the weeds, which she imagined magically parted for the guy who had been the sheriff for two decades.
“To what do we owe the honor of the state police?” the sheriff asked.
“Received a call from Russell Hudson. He found a body,” Riley said.
“Where’s Russ?” the sheriff asked.
“In his car. He’s not happy about staying.”
“Ah hell, there’s no need to hold him.” He turned and ordered DuPont to send Russ home. “We can find him anytime we need. And I know he sure didn’t kill this girl.”
Riley watched as DuPont hustled over to Russ’s truck and gave him the good news. The man nodded, tossed her a glare, and drove off.
“So do we know the victim’s identity?” Sheriff Barrett asked.
“No ID,” Riley said. “But I crossed paths with her about four weeks ago. I didn’t get a name, but she was hanging out with Jax Carter. My dog also found a backpack about fifty yards north.”
“She’s not from this area, or if she is, she’s new,” Barrett said.
She showed the sheriff the girl’s tattoo and gave him the update on Jax.
“So she’s a hooker,” Sheriff Barrett concluded.
“She’s a kid.”
Hearing the anger humming under her tone, he planted thick fingers on his gun belt. “Don’t you got bigger fish to fry?”
Contempt scraped the underside of her skin. If this victim’s daddy were rich or gave a damn, this place would be covered with cops. “Not right now.”
“My money says she’s a hooker working the I-95 truck stops. With a concert that’s supposed to bring in several thousand people, it makes sense that the traffickers like Carter would be moving girls into the area.” The case was hours old and Barrett already sounded tired.
“We might learn more when we run her prints through AFIS,” Riley said. The Automated Fingerprint Information System maintained fingerprints from a variety of sources, including arrests, employment, and background checks.
“Makes sense,” he said.
“Wouldn’t hurt for me to hit the hangouts where the runaways gather as I’m patrolling today.” Someone always knew something, and it was simply a matter of finding the right person. The faster she moved, the better her chances of unearthing a lead before it went cold.
He shrugged as if his mind had already shifted to more important cases. “I won’t say no. You’ll keep me posted.”
“Of course.”
Martin straightened. “Let’s have a look at the backpack.”
Martin planted a number next to the backpack. Next he documented the item first in a sketch, then with more pictures. “Sheriff, you can open the backpack now.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Let Tatum do the honors. She was first at the scene.”
Riley unzipped the bag and examined the contents: a water bottle on top of worn jeans, a sweatshirt smelling of sweat and dirt, athletic shoes slightly worn on the bottom, a yellow dress, heels, and a toothbrush wrapped in a plastic bag.
Sheriff Barrett tugged off his glasses and leaned closer. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he frowned. “ID?”
“Not in the bag,” she said.
In a side pocket she found several crumpled one-dollar bills and a pamphlet for a youth e
mergency shelter she recognized.
Sheriff Barrett rested a hand on his holstered gun. “Trooper, what’s the backpack tell you about her?”
“The bag suggests she’s been moving around,” Riley said. “She’s thin, likely underfed by Jax, so she’s been with him at least a month. But the pedicure looks fresh and professional. Most pimps like Jax don’t make that kind of investment. Girls like her are lucky to get a shower and fed.”
Martin straightened and lowered his camera, bending backward to stretch his back.
“I see the pamphlet is for Duke Spence’s shelter,” Sheriff Barrett said. “Spence is always handing out flyers at the truck stops, malls, and city streets.” He looked at the victim. “There was something about that girl I couldn’t put my finger on until now. She looks a little like you, Trooper.”
Riley, grateful for the protection of her sunglasses, delayed her comment until her annoyance passed. “Not even close.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Not saying that to rattle your cage, Tatum. I mean it.”
Not convinced his intentions were sincere, she didn’t look at the body. “Dark hair and tanned skin. That’s about all we share.”
Sheriff Barrett stared at the dead girl’s face a long moment. “Hell, Tatum, she could be your sister.”
His words burrowed under her skin and he knew it. Cops were always searching for weakness within their ranks, and she’d absorbed her share of hazing when she first rode patrol. With cops, the teasing never really stopped.
Grinning with satisfaction, he checked a worn black Timex watch. “When will the body be transported to the medical examiner’s office?” he asked.
“About an hour,” Martin said. “Team is on the way.”