The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

Cassidy smiled but didn’t appear amused. “Maybe the time has come to understand life.”

Lara arched a brow. “You sound like a shrink.”

“Maybe you need a shrink.”

The offhand comment struck a painful nerve, but she grinned. “Don’t all artists?”

Cassidy’s head tilted as if she picked up the dark vibrations under the words. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I said. You’ve changed since we were kids.”

“Life is change.”

Cassidy shook her head. “You’re not going to tell me what happened.”

“Cassidy, I’m here to look at the show, not talk about me.”

Cassidy opened the door to the gallery. “Follow me.”

The front side of the building had been completely refurbished, the old linoleum replaced with polished wood floors, whitewashed walls, and bright lights.

Relieved to be off the topic of Lara Church, she told Lincoln to stay in the back.

Cassidy’s boots clicked as she made her way down a side hallway. Many had questioned Cassidy’s business sense when she’d announced she wanted to own an art gallery, but so far she was doing more than just keeping her head above water. She was also making a name for herself in art circles.

“This opening is going to be good for you, Lara. Your pieces are stunning, and you are going to end up on the map.”

On the map. She’d done her best to stay off the map for the last seven years. “Be nice to sell a piece or two and put some money away in the bank. The idea of not living hand-to-mouth is refreshing.”

“With luck we will both make money. There is so much I want to do with this place.”

“You’ve done well for yourself, Cass. You’ve much to be proud of.”

She grinned. “And everyone thought the former cheerleader would piss away her inheritance.”

“I can only imagine what everyone says when my name comes up in conversation.” Mimicking a Central Texas drawl, she added, “Used to be so normal. Now wanders the country taking pictures of death scenes. Odd little lady.”

Both women laughed.

“Now I want you to close your eyes,” Cassidy said before they rounded the corner into the main gallery. “I want you to get the full effect when you see your work on the walls.”

Lara smiled even as butterflies chewed at her stomach. “Do I need to close my eyes? Kinda dramatic, don’t you think?”

“This show is dramatic,” she said, her tone growing serious. “This show is going to put you on the map in the art world.”

“How far on the map? I kinda like being the unknown.”

“Right smack dab in the middle of the map. Now close your eyes!”

Lara grinned but did as she was told. Cassidy took Lara by the hand.

“By the way,” Cassidy said, “get a manicure before Friday. Those photo chemicals you use, which create such magic on film, make your hands look as if they belong to a sharecropper. Don’t want customers distracted by the nails.”

“I’m an artist,” Lara said, opening one eye. “People expect me to be quirky.”

“Quirky with nice nails, if you please.”

Lara glanced at her nails, darkened by photo chemicals, and then slid her hands in her pockets. “I’ve not had a manicure in so long I don’t even know where to go.” Closing her eyes, she moved slowly down the hallway, worried she’d trip.

Cassidy laid her hands on Lara’s shoulders and turned her toward the right. “I’ll set up an appointment for you with my girl.”

A protest danced on the tip of Lara’s lips, but Cassidy cut her off. “Open your eyes.”

Lara drew in a breath and then opened her eyes. Every bit of wall space in the large, whitewashed room sported a Lara Church original. The black-and-whites, all taken with her bellows camera, were of murder scenes she’d seen over the last five years.

Drawing in a breath, she moved into the room, studying each picture with care. There was the double homicide in the Atlanta back alley. In that case the killer had used Molotov cocktails to incinerate three rival gang members. There was the stabbing on the Memphis playground. The shooting on Main Street in the small Utah town. All the places had seen death and in her view were changed by the violence. The Atlanta back alley still bore the scorch marks of the flames. A local women’s group had totally refurbished the playground save for one old swing as a memorial to the dead. And the business on Main Street in the small Utah town had added bars to its windows.

She’d photographed the sites at the times of the victims’ deaths. At night. Dusk. Noon before a rainstorm. The images had been powerful when she’d seen them developed in the darkroom, but seeing them collected and presented together took her breath away.

Lara’s throat tightened. “You’ve done a great job, Cassidy.”

Cassidy smiled. “No, you’ve done a great job. I just hung the pictures on the walls.”

“It’s more than that. You had a vision to put all this together. I’m not sure I’d have been brave enough to do it.”

“Sure you would, honey. I could tell when I first drove out to Grandma’s house that there was a hunger in your eyes. And as I remember, it didn’t take too much arm twisting to get you to say yes.”

She rescanned the images a second time. “I love the way you arranged them. I would have expected chronological.”

“I tried it that way, but it didn’t feel right. I opted to arrange by mood. From light to dark back to the light.”

Indeed the last print in the collection had been taken at sunset as the sun had cut through clouds and shone down on a tiny cross left at the site of a New York murder.

“I sent out press releases again today and followed up with calls. There’s a good bit of buzz, and I think we’re going to get some decent coverage.”

Yesterday those words would have given her pause, but today they sent a cold shiver down her spine. There was a strangler in the area. Was it the man who’d attacked her? And did he know that she was in town? Beck had said coincidences were bull.

“Why are you frowning?” Cassidy said.

She shook her head and smiled. “I guess I’m a little nervous about being in the spotlight.”

Even on the worst days after the attack in Seattle the cops had mercifully kept her name from the public. Not even Cassidy knew what had happened to her in Seattle. So, it would be impossible for a reporter to connect this show to that past. Right?

Cassidy laughed and hugged her. “Cuz, you better get used to the spotlight because it’s gonna be on you for years to come.”

Chapter 7

Tuesday, May 21, 2:46 PM

Beck sat at his desk staring at the notes he’d made on Lara Church. As soon as he’d gotten back to his office he’d run any check he could on her. From the Seattle files he had her Social Security number and date of birth, so he’d plugged both into the database. He’d discovered she’d had driver’s licenses in three states in the last seven years: Maine, Florida, and, most recently, Texas. There were no outstanding warrants against her, and she owned her black ten-year-old truck outright. He’d even visited a website set up for students to rate their professors. She’d received comments like “Tough but fair,” “Likes pop quizzes,” and “Hot!”

Looking locally, he searched the name Bower and found that she’d inherited her house from her grandmother, Edna Bower, eight months ago. Edna Bower had lived in Austin all her life and had had two daughters, Barbara and Leslie. Barbara had been Lara’s mother and according to records, she had died eleven years ago of a drug overdose. Her sister, Leslie, was also deceased. Leslie had shot herself in the head in a local motel sixteen years ago.

Seattle wasn’t the first time Lara had seen trouble.

He tapped his finger on the side of the notes he’d written on a pad by his blotter. His phone buzzed and he snapped it up. “Beck.”

“Sergeant,” the receptionist said. “I’ve got Gre

tchen Hart’s uncle on the phone. Line two.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded. “Thanks, Susie.” After a moment’s hesitation, he punched line two. “Mr. Hart, this is Sergeant James Beck.”

A grim silence. “Sergeant, you called me this morning about my niece, Gretchen.” His voice was tight, tense.

“Yes, sir,” he said, softening his voice. “I’m sorry this has to be done over the phone, but I’ve got some bad news.” He remembered when he’d faced Misty Gray’s mother and told the woman her daughter was dead. For the next three nights, the woman’s cries had echoed continuously in his head. “Gretchen was murdered.”

An anguished sob cut through the lines. “Jesus. What happened?”

“We are still putting the pieces together, but she was strangled to death.”

The man started to sob. “Are you sure it was Gretchen?”

“Yes, sir. We are sure.”

The next ten minutes was a painful loop of Beck repeating the news and Mr. Hart searching for some kind of way that the news could be wrong.