The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

She glanced up at the large clock positioned above the stainless steel sinks. Five forty-five. Class started in fifteen minutes. “I’ve still got the glasses to run through. And we’re shorthanded since Gretchen . . . left.”

He wiped his hand on his white apron. “I’ll do the glasses. Don’t be late for class.”

“You sure? I can be a little late.” She didn’t want to lose this job. She’d be eighteen soon. Her father would stop paying child support and there’d be no reason for her mother and stepfather to keep her around.

He nudged her away from the dishwasher. “Go or you are fired.”

She grinned as she untied her apron and hung it up. “You’re the best.”

Chuckling, he loaded glasses into the next tray to go into the dishwasher. “That’s what I keep telling everyone.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow right after school.”

“Can’t wait.”

Danni grabbed her backpack from Mack’s office, hoisted it on her shoulder, and hurried across campus toward the brick building that housed the art department. She’d not stopped to analyze why she liked the class. Likely it had more to do with its unstructured nature. Adjunct Professor Lara Church expected her students to work hard, but she had no desire to babysit. Art was subjective, she’d say, but it was also time-consuming and hard. If you put the work into her class, you’d do well. If not, your grade would suffer.

Lara’s speech had hardly put the fear of God in Danni. She’d seen enough shit in her life not to be intimidated by Lara Church. But in Lara she’d seen another wounded soul whom she happened to like.

The photography classroom was large with long, wide windows that allowed lots of sunlight. It was furnished with ten big wooden worktables that each could seat four students. There were twenty-five students in the class, which often meant she could claim an entire table for herself. She liked working alone. Other than a couple of other kids, most were jerk-offs. Jocks, cheerleaders, deadheads looking for that easy A from the school’s greenest professor.

So far, most of the kids were just getting by and would be hard-pressed to finish their portfolios in the next week and a half. Danni had had to pawn several bracelets to get the money for her digital camera, but she’d more than gotten her money’s worth. She’d snapped thousands of pictures over the semester and was kinda pleased at the way her own portfolio was coming along. Who’d have thought Danni Smith, the kid who hated high school, would ever be thriving in college?

The kids ambled into the classroom and took their seats. The jocks tended to stick together, and they always sat close to the cheerleaders’ table. Everybody was always looking to score.

At exactly seven o’clock Lara Church breezed into the classroom, a coffee in one hand, backpack on her shoulder, and her dog, Lincoln, in tow. Danni was pretty sure that dogs weren’t allowed in the classroom, but Lara had not cared about rules. Lincoln stayed with her.

“Today in the darkroom I’ll be looking at edging and burning techniques.” She set her coffee on her lectern and her backpack on the floor beside her. Lincoln stretched out and went to sleep. “But before we head into the darkroom I wanted to toss out a word of caution. I was having a look at the photos some of you downloaded to the class site, and I see you’re having a little trouble with mood. Too much light. Flat photos. Washed-out images. Many of the photos will need to be redone, but I’m on hand as always to answer questions.”

A bit of sniggering from the cheerleaders had Lara tensing. “You all are adults and can use your time this evening as you wish, but I’ll expect you to upload your pictures to me by eight tomorrow night. No photos means an F. And, please, no photos taken earlier in the semester. This last portfolio is about applying what you’ve learned.”

A tall jock named Tim yawned and checked his watch.

“If you need to leave, Mr. Gregory, go right ahead. But I should remind you that you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Tim winked at a cheerleader. “Whatever.”

“Your failing grade. Not mine.”

The football jock leaned back in his chair, narrowed eyes glaring at Lara, who appeared unconcerned by his angry stare. Instead of backing down, she tossed out one or two more instructions and dismissed the group to the photo lab.

Danni grinned, not sure if Lara’s dismissal of Tim was super brave or just crazy.

Beck arrived down in San Antonio just after seven, parked at the Ranger offices, and climbed the steps to Santos’s office. He found Santos at his desk, leaning forward and frowning over paperwork.

“That bad?” Beck said.

Santos glanced up and shrugged. “I hate paperwork. Hate. It.”

Beck laughed. “What cop doesn’t?”

“You’d think it would get easier with time.”

He eased into the chair in front of Santos’s desk.

“I had an interesting visitor,” Beck said. He updated Santos on Raines’s arrival and his own visit to Lara Church.

Santos leaned back in his chair. “What’s Lara Church like?”

“She’s wound a little tight when she’s approached by a stranger. She held a shotgun on me.”

Santos raised a brow. “And?”

“I convinced her to put it down.”

“And you didn’t arrest her?”

“Having read her file I’m not surprised by her reaction. The Strangler left her in bad shape.” He listed key details related to the seven-year-old attack. “The Texas victims fit a profile that is more like Lara than the Seattle victims. Students. Ready to move out of state.”

Santos nodded. “The killer’s tastes changed.”

“Seems so.” He flexed his fingers. “Did you go back to the first victim’s site and look for the penny?”

“We looked. Took metal detectors. But we didn’t find it.” He tapped his index finger on his desk. “But we got a lot of rain last month. Gulley washers. Could have washed away.”

“Send more officers out there. Work the area like an archeological dig. I need to know if the first murder is connected to the second.”

Santos nodded. “I’ll have another team out there tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“So what is the deal with Raines?”

“First stab, I’d say he’s a lot like us. A cop with a case that got under his skin that he can’t forget.”

“He came a long way to follow up.”

“How far would you go to track down a killer?”

“A guy who kills women.” Santos’s expression turned pensive. “Damn far.”

“He’s not the kind of guy that will sit and wait for my report. He believes this is his case.” Beck flexed his fingers.

“Escort him to the border.”

Beck rubbed the back of his neck. “He might be of help.”

“Odds are he’s going to be more trouble than he’s worth.”

Lara nodded to the students as they filed out of the classroom and back through the classroom. Danni, the girl who usually sat alone in the back, hefted her backpack on her shoulder, eyes downcast, left the room without a word.

The kid was a bit of an odd duck, but perhaps that was just being a high school kid in a college setting. She didn’t say much, could get hostile if approached by other students, and had disaster written all over her. Yet, she was brilliant when it came to photography. She had an eye for setting and detail that none of her other students had. Sure, some had the techniques mastered, but they failed to inject emotion into their work like Danni.

And considering the girl had not even known how to use her camera when she’d arrived ten weeks ago, her progress amazed Lara. Teachers at the university often talked about students. There were always a handful that made the grades without effort, and then there were the kids who didn’t quite care. But the kids who kept the teachers returning to the classroom were the rare ones who worked hard and wanted to learn. Danni was one of those students.

A knock on her door had her lifting her head to a frien

dly face. “Jonathan.”

Jonathan Matthews’s family had lived on the land that adjoined her grandmother’s. There was an eight-year age difference between them, but he’d always been kind. The summer before her senior year of high school they’d become friends when he’d hired her to work part-time in his woodworking shop. After her attack, her grandmother, too ill to travel, had sent Jonathan to check on Lara.

When he’d arrived at the Seattle hospital, she’d been sitting up in her bed, stiff and so afraid. She could still remember him lingering in her doorway as if he just didn’t know what to do, his large hands gripping the umbrella in his hands. She’d held out her arms to him and he’d gone to her immediately, holding her close and enveloping her in his scent, a combination of fresh pine and linseed oil.

“Lara, I’m so sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I should have been there for you.”

Her voice caught in her ragged throat. “Jonathan. How did you know?”

“Your grandmother called me.”

She wept, letting loose of the grief and hurt. “Thank you.”