The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

“If you’d not gotten the job in Seattle what would you have done?”

“I’d have come back to Austin. My grandmother owned a dress shop here, and I was going to work with her.”

“She was disappointed when you told her about the Seattle job.”

Lara folded her arms over her chest. “No. She was thrilled.”

“You kept up with most of your friends from back in the day in Seattle?”

“No.”

“What about Austin? You spent summers here, right?”

“I only had a couple of friends from my summers here. My cousin Cassidy and Jonathan.”

“I remember a Johnny visiting you in the hospital.”

“Good memory. Johnny did come up after my attack. Grandmother couldn’t travel so she asked him to come.”

He frowned. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Odd questions.”

The tension in his shoulders eased. “We cops are full of odd questions. Always trying to understand the facts.”

“So are you giving up on the case?”

“Not giving up, but I’ve got business in Seattle that I have to take care of.”

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t know. You take care of yourself.”

“Sure.”

She and Lincoln watched him leave. “I’ll never understand that man.”

Beck had been weeding through the old case files on the animals that had been mutilated or killed for ten Septembers in a row. He’d started with the most recent and worked his way back. Nothing of note in the recent years; however, a file dating back fifteen years contained the name Edna Bower. Lara’s grandmother.

“Damn,” he muttered as he sat straighter.

Lara’s grandmother had filled out a report saying her hound, Rex, had been killed on her property. The old dog had been stabbed at least twenty times, and his mutilated body strung from a tree. No one had ever been arrested for the crime.

Beck sat back in his chair. Fifteen years ago. Lara would have been fourteen and in early September would have just left Austin for the year.

What had she said in her session with Dr. Granger? She’d been hiking with Rex and her friend Johnny. Johnny. He dug through Raines’s old police files. The cop had noted that a Johnny Matthews had visited Lara in the hospital.

Santos appeared in Beck’s office just after one. The day’s heat had curled the edges of his short, dark hair and left a fine bead of sweat at his temples. “We finally got the security tapes from the university parking lot.”

Beck glanced up from files. “Does it show the kid slicing Lara’s tires?”

Santos handed Beck the CD. “Pop this in your computer and have a look.”

The tone of Santos’s voice had Beck raising his gaze. Without a word he took the CD and pushed into the drive on the side of his computer. The icon popped up and he double clicked on it.

“This was shot when most kids were in class. A little after noon. According to security this is when foot traffic is lowest in the lot.”

“This is the only camera on that lot?”

“There are four cameras on the lot. Three were disabled. This camera is difficult to see from the ground, and easy to miss.”

The color image was recorded from a camera that was across the lot. Leaves blocked the bottom part of the image, but he could see Lara’s dark truck parked near a shade tree about fifty yards from the camera. He kept his gaze on her truck. Seconds passed. And then there was the flicker of movement in the bottom left corner. A figure wearing a university hoodie moved toward the back tire of her truck and squatted. The flicker of a knife blade caught the sunlight seconds before the blade sliced into the tire.

“This isn’t Tim Gregory,” Beck said. “The frame is too slight.”

“Just wait. It gets better.”

The man twisted the knife in the tire and carefully closed the blade into its sheath before rising. He kept his head bowed, his hands clenched into fists as he watched the tire deflate.

Beck leaned forward, wishing he could reach into the computer, grab the guy by his jacket, and slam him into the hood of the truck. He flexed his fingers. “Turn around, you son of a bitch.”

Santos’s sharp gaze held the image. “Wait for it.”

The man stepped back from the car and turned his face toward the camera. The distance might have made it difficult to identify him if Beck didn’t immediately recognize him. “Son of a bitch.”

Santos’s grin had a feral edge. “Ain’t that a pisser?”

Darkness and fury flared. “Let’s pay him a visit.”

The next hour and a half flew as Lara cleaned up her supplies. She managed to run a brush through her hair before hustling Lincoln into her truck and driving to Jonathan’s. When she pulled up in front of Jonathan’s place, she checked her watch, grimacing when she realized she was ten minutes late, thanks to thick southbound traffic. She got out and Lincoln bounded out, barking, his tail perked as he sniffed and snorted at the air.

She hurried to the front door and rang it. His land was adjacent to hers, but distance between neighbors in this part of Texas was measured in miles not feet. Her house was a good ten miles from his.

His parents had built his house, but he’d completely remodeled the place. Not only had he put an addition on the back of the house, he’d gutted the kitchen, upgraded the plumbing and wiring, and added a pool to the backyard. The house’s style might have been casual ranch before the remodel, but now it was sleek layers of glass, wood pieces he’d created, and marble. Too modern for her tastes, but very Jonathan.

The front door snapped open. Jonathan wore khakis, a white button-down, and loafers. A gold wristwatch winked as he leaned casually on the doorjamb. “You look happy. Beaming almost.”

“Just glad to be working.”

He stepped aside, allowing her inside. “Good to see the light in your eyes. Good to see it.”

She turned and called to Lincoln, who came bounding up to the front porch. “Do you want him to stay outside?”

“I’ve got a nice air-conditioned utility room with a big chew stick waiting for him.”

She rubbed Lincoln between the ears. “Those are magic words for him.”

Minutes later Lincoln was settled with his big chew in the utility room, and she was sitting out on his back patio while the grill heated, sipping wine.

“Lots of veggies for you,” he said. He leaned back in the black wrought-iron chair, pleased with himself.

“A man after my own heart.”

“And brown rice, too.”

She swirled her wine. “You know all the summers I visited, I don’t think I ever visited your home.”

He shrugged. “I can’t believe that. You must have been here at some point.”

“I don’t think so. I only remember you at Grandma’s house.” An old memory flashed. “Your visits were always memorable because Grandma’s dog, Rex, barked a lot.”

He smiled. “That old hound never did like strangers.”

“He could bark.”

Jonathan sipped his wine. “I haven’t thought about Rex in years. Whatever happened to the dog?”

“Grandma said he ran off right after I left one summer.” The memory made her frown. “I always suspected that Grandma had him put down, but she swore he just ran away.”

“Happens.”

She’d spent many a summer feeding that old hound scraps from the table, walking him, and pouring out her feel

ings to him.

Shoving aside an abrupt sadness, she moved around the deck, which smelled of freshly cured wood. “You’re a true artisan, Jonathan. This woodwork is amazing.”

“Thanks. I do try.”

“So tell me about some of your latest projects.” Best to keep their conversation light and easy. She didn’t want Jonathan to assume that they’d ever be more than friends.

“I’ve got several big decks. Each will keep the crews and me busy for the next six months. I’ve also got several custom furniture sets I’m building. After that we shall see.”

She smoothed her hand over the railing. The soft browns of the wood grains jumped out. “So what is your secret to making the wood look so rich?”

“Tongue oil.”

“Really.”

“Takes longer to apply but well worth it.”

She leaned down and inhaled the scent of the wood. The aroma touched a dark and hidden memory. Chains rattled. A lock turned. She’d smelled this before. She inhaled again, reaching for the memory that flickered bright just beyond her fingertips.

“It smells like lemons,” she said.

“I add the scent in because it’s so popular with clients.” Her mind tripped forward into the shadows reaching, grabbing, and then it embraced the nightmare she’d had the other night. The man’s heavy weight crushed the breath from her lungs. Rough hands. A bandaged hand scraped over her pulsing jugular. And he smelled of... lemons.

Lara’s chest tightened and for a heart-pounding moment her vision went white, and she thought she’d pass out. Slowly the spots cleared, and she set down her glass. She thought about her car still parked in his driveway.

“I remember when you were a kid you liked vanilla ice cream,” he said.

She touched her temple with a trembling hand. “Yeah, I did.”

Jonathan couldn’t have been the Seattle Strangler. He had lived in Austin at the time. Slowly, she turned to face him and moved toward the table.

Beaming, he held his glass to his lips. “You’ll be proud of me, I got a soy version.”

She glanced into her wineglass, her stomach curdling. “That’s sweet.”