Jo drummed her fingers on her thigh. “I know that. And still I can’t let it go.”
Candace’s laugh was brittle, strained. “You always did chew on problems when you were a kid. Don’t twist yourself up in knots by thinking too hard, Jo.”
She didn’t know what prompted her next question. “Did you ever know Harvey Lee Smith? I mean before he was arrested?”
Smoke wafted past a narrowing gaze. “How would I ever get to know a crazy man like that?”
Jo was an expert interviewer. She understood people and could find her way around any roadblock they put up. “I don’t know. I’m asking. He’s about fifteen years older than you, and he’s lived in the area for over thirty years, same as you.”
“Lots of people fit that description, Jolene. That don’t mean I know them.” Her mother shook her head. “You were always asking the oddest questions when you were a kid. Never satisfied. Always curious. Ellie took what I said at face value but not you.”
Her mom had a talent for pushing Jo’s buttons. She knew her better than anyone, which meant she knew her strengths and weaknesses. One of her weaknesses was any comparison to Ellie, her parents’ favored child.
Tension coiled in Jo’s gut as she struggled to voice fears she’d long held. “I’m not like Ellie at all. She’s a perfect blend of you and Daddy. But not me. I’m the oddball.”
Candace pursed her lips and chose to take another drag on her cigarette before grinding the stub into the ashes.
Jo summoned courage to say what she’d avoided all her life. “Lord knows I loved Daddy, but we didn’t have much in common. Sometimes I caught him looking at me as if I was the strangest puzzle he’d ever seen.”
“Your daddy was a good man.”
“I know that. And I’d never speak ill of him. But Momma, he and I . . . we never felt like . . . blood kin.”
Candace’s face paled a fraction. “That’s a terrible thing to say. Did that Smith man put that idea in your head?”
“It’s been there for a long, long time. I was too afraid to voice it. Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about the differences between Daddy and me.”
“You realize what you are saying about me?”
“Momma, I’m not passing judgment. Lord knows I made my mistakes.”
“Brody Winchester.”
Jo’s ire rose. Her mother had repeated this fact more than a dozen times during the years after her divorce. And as much as her temper begged to be unleashed, she kept her smile fixed. “Mom, was Cody Granger my biological father?”
Candace pursed her lips. “He was your daddy through and through, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, if you don’t have more to say. I have my receipts to finish. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
A wall of ice settled between the two, and Jo knew from experience that no matter how much she begged, pleaded or wailed right now, Candace wasn’t going to say a word.
Jo rose, kissed her mother on the forehead and left the salon.
It was after midnight when Brody lumbered into his apartment. It had taken hours to properly unearth the girl’s body before it could be escorted to the medical examiner’s office. Judging by her clothes, she’d worked on the streets, so the chances of a missing persons report or identifying her would be close to nil.
He tossed his keys on the kitchen bar and set his hat beside it. Drawing his gun, he ejected the live round from the chamber, pressed it back in the magazine and slid both into a kitchen drawer. He changed into old gym pants and a threadbare Texas baseball T-shirt.
As he peered in his refrigerator at the six-pack of beer and a half-eaten pizza still in the box, sadness settled in his bones. He grabbed a beer, sat on the couch and flipped on the television to ESPN.
He twisted the top off the bottle and tossed it in a trash can by the end table before taking a long swallow. He tipped his head back against the couch cushion.
This victim, according to the medical examiner’s assistant was fifteen or sixteen.
She’d been a damned kid.
He thought about the baby girl he and Jo had made and lost. Likely, she’d have been tall like her folks but would have had his olive skin and dark hair. He’d always hoped she’d be smart like her mother.
He’d been so pissed when Jo had told him she was pregnant. There goes my life, he’d thought.
So wrapped up in himself, he’d not thought about Jo and the impact a pregnancy would have on her life. She’d barely been scraping by when she was in college on scholarship. Her parents helped a little but had made it clear if she wanted college it would have to be on her dime.
He’d never asked her if she was scared or worried. He’d never done much, except marry her in a two minute justice of the peace ceremony. In his twenty-one-year-old mind, he’d been a damned hero because most wouldn’t have owned up to a mistake. He had. Now at thirty-six, he realized she’d needed emotional support. She’d needed him to hold her and tell her it would be all right.
Brody pressed the cold beer to his throbbing temple. He’d grown up a hell of a lot and knew for a fact that if faced with the same decision now he’d have handled it much differently. But what ifs didn’t mean shit and no matter how deep the regrets, he’d not done right by Jo.
Robbie didn’t really study Jo’s house every day. But he made a point to study the house at least once a week. He knew when water restrictions had forced her to quit watering and her lawn had died. He knew when she’d had the kitchen redone. He’d liked the shingle for the new roof. Often he wondered when she’d get around to cutting the pecan tree, which was eating into the foundation of her porch.
But in the last couple of months he paused to study her place more and more. He’d not been inside the house for a while, knowing too much lurking would catch someone’s attention. That was the problem with neighborhoods. Someone was always watching. But so many temptations were building inside of him. And soon he’d not be able to resist a tiny peek.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, April 10, 9:00 A.M.
The autopsy of Jane Doe revealed what Brody had suspected. She’d been buried alive like Christa Bogart. Unlike Christa, she’d showed signs of living on the streets, likely working as a prostitute.
All the evidence supported the theory that Smith’s apprentice had killed again. Brody had ordered a media blackout on the murder. No one was to talk to the press. No one. The only lines of communication Robbie and Smith had now were through the media, and Brody would be damned if they sent signals to each other.
He’d called Missing Persons as a matter of routine, not expecting to get a hit on this victim. To his surprise a woman named Keri Jones had filed a report on a girl named Hanna Metcalf, age fifteen.
Finding Keri Jones had proven difficult. She’d left no contact address, and the cell number she listed on the report had gone unanswered a couple of times. However, the fourth time he’d called, a gravelly voice said, “I’m listening.”
“Keri Jones?”
After a moment’s pause the woman said, “Who’s asking?”
“Sergeant Brody Winchester of the Texas Rangers. I’m calling about the missing persons report you filed on Hanna Metcalf.”
“Did you find her?” In the background he could hear traffic passing by.
“No. But I’m looking. Can we talk?”
“How do I know you’re straight up with me?”
“My guess is you used your real name on the police report, and that’s why you hesitated when I used it.”
“I didn’t think the cops would take the report seriously if they knew a hooker named Dusty Stardust had filed it.”
Prostitutes went missing often. Some left the area to find more work or warmer climates, some overdosed and others ended up with a bad john that killed them. Missing Persons didn’t invest a lot of energy in folks who lived on the street. “Can we meet?”
“I’m working.”
“Where?”
“Sixth Street.”
> “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
She hesitated. “There’s a coffee shop. We can meet there. Not good for business to have you around.” She gave him the address.
“Sure.”
Brody found the coffee shop. Outside stood a tall African American woman wearing a short, snakeskin skirt, a black tube top and a white, furry-cropped jacket. Thigh-high boots and a blond wig completed the look.
She spotted Brody in the telltale Ranger uniform and walked into the coffee shop. She took a table in the back, away from the front entrance. Brody sat opposite her in the booth.
“Appreciate you seeing me.” This close, Brody could see the lines in her face and neck. Life on the streets aged a woman like Keri, but he guessed her real age to be midthirties.
She searched the shop for anyone that might be staring. A waitress glanced in their direction but Keri shook her head. “Are you really looking for Hanna?”
He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a Polaroid of the girl in the morgue. “I have a picture I’d like you to look at.”
Keri tapped a long fingernail on the tabletop and braced. “Okay.”
Carefully, he laid it on the table. Keri dropped her gaze and looked at the girl’s facial image taken while she lay on the medical examiner’s table. Tense seconds passed as she stared, dry-eyed. Finally, she raised her head and her chin trembled slightly. “That’s Hanna.”
“You are sure?”
Keri turned it over. “That’s her.”
With trembling hands, she reached in her purse for a cigarette and lighter. Remembering a smoking ban, she tucked both back in her pocket.
Brody tucked the overturned picture back in his pocket and gave Keri time to process. “Is it that unusual for a working girl to vanish for a couple of days?”
“For most, yes. But not Hanna. She always checked in with me each night. Good kid. I looked out for her.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“She was special. Didn’t process like the rest of us. What she did on the streets didn’t touch her. A blessing, really.”
“How do you mean?”
“Mentally challenged, but also smart. Could remember all kinds of odd facts and figures. Ask her what the weather was like five years ago on any day, and she’d know. She was fifteen.”
“Did she use?”