Cut and Run (Criminal Profiler 2)

When they left the room, Faith said, “Test my DNA against Garnet’s.” The idea that that man could be her biological father was nearly unbearable.

Hayden stared at her a long moment. “All right. Did you ever test your DNA against Russell McIntyre’s?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” He wouldn’t have been the first man to father a child and then adopt it. “It wasn’t a match.”

Hayden walked Faith to her car, and he was glad to have her back in the sunshine. She’d been stoic in the forensic lab, but she’d grown paler as the technician had clicked through the photographed pages.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Back to the office. I feel helpless at home or at Macy’s bedside. At least at the office I’m doing something productive.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I could say the same for you, Captain.”

“I’m used to the long hours.”

Without thinking, she reached up and brushed the strands of gray hair over his temple. He liked it when she was close and fussed over him.

“If you have time, come by my house tonight and see me.”

God, but that offer was tempting. He’d like nothing better than to bury himself in her. “I can’t make any promises.”

“I know. But if you get the chance, stop by. The chances of me sleeping are slim.”

“All right.” And then he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. She didn’t pull away but held steady. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently before she got into her car and drove off.

In his car, he sat for a moment, savoring the faint scent of her perfume. Drawing in a breath, he glanced at his cell, expecting to see a text or call from the judge’s office. When he didn’t, he was ready to hit redial when the phone rang. It was Detective Lana Franklin.

“Detective. What can I do for you?” he said.

“I have a homicide you’d be interested in seeing.” Her tone was clipped and adamant.

“Can you give me the stats? I’m on my way to another location.”

“You’ll want to detour to my scene. The victim’s name is Heather Sullivan, age forty-nine. A pay stub in her car is from Second Chances. Her trunk is filled with baby diapers and supplies.”

Heather Sullivan worked for Garnet. “I’ll be right there.”

He pulled up under the I-35 underpass to a collection of first responder vehicles. Blue and red lights flashed upon the concrete underside of the interstate. As he exited his SUV, he settled his Stetson on his head before walking toward the yellow crime scene tape where Detective Franklin stood.

“Detective Franklin,” he said.

“Lana. Thanks for coming.”

“What do you have?” he asked.

The forensic van was angled behind her, so the vehicle blocked his view of the body. A cement culvert ran under the bridge and, due to a few storms last week, remained dotted with puddles and trash. A forensic technician’s camera flashed as she moved around the body. The cars on the interstate thundered overhead, oblivious.

“Tell me what you have,” he said.

“An anonymous male caller contacted the 911 center about two hours ago. He reported the body’s discovery.”

“And he didn’t leave a name.”

“He did not. The phone he used appeared to be a burner. Untraceable.”

“Okay.” He reached in his coat pocket for black latex gloves and worked his hands into them as he followed her around the forensic van and saw the body of a woman who lay on her back, her arms outstretched. Her body had been burned over 70 percent, but her face remained intact. Through the black char, he deduced she’d worn booted heels, blue jeans, and a red shirt. Just above the burn line, he saw the tops of letters that spelled SECOND CHANCES.

Her throat had been cut multiple times, and the injuries had spilled out a halo of blood on the ground around her pale, almost translucent face. He could see her body had also been stabbed in multiple locations.

Hayden approached the body, careful not to step in the blood as he studied the victim’s rough-cut nails, now bluing at the cuticles. Rigor had set, and the limbs were rigid. Rough guess, he’d say this woman had been dead twelve to twenty-four hours.

“Heather Sullivan has lived in Austin for the last thirty years. Her car is up ahead to the left. There’s nothing remarkable about it except for the pamphlets in the trunk. They’re all focused on adoption. She even has a scrapbook filled with smiling childless couples. Ms. Sullivan is not a social worker and has no affiliation with any adoption agencies. Last we spoke, we were talking about kidnapped women whose babies had been taken. Now I have a dead woman pretending to be an adoption counselor. Hell of a coincidence.”

Neither of them believed in this kind of chance. “I should have a search warrant for Second Chances within the half hour, and if I don’t, I’ll be banging on a judge’s door.”

Notification of Hayden’s search warrant arrived minutes after he left Heather’s crime scene, and he immediately contacted Brogan, as well as local uniformed officers. Twenty minutes later, two Rangers stood on the sidewalk outside the bar as two marked cruisers pulled in behind them, their lights flashing.

The bar was still dark, and the neon CLOSED sign flickered in the window. While Brogan and Officer Holcombe offered cover, Hayden tried the door and discovered it was still locked. Holcombe returned to her cruiser and retrieved a crowbar and handed it to Hayden. Nodding, he wedged the end of the bar between the lock and the doorjamb.

As Holcombe moved back and drew her gun, he worked the back-and-forth prying at the wood until the front door popped open. The chime from a security system sounded but did not go off. Whoever left this place last had not set it.

Hayden set the crowbar aside and flipped on the lights. He pulled his service weapon and, along with Brogan, moved slowly into the main room of the bar, while Holcombe remained behind to cover their backs. Building searches could be a real mixed bag. Sometimes there was nothing, and all the hype was for just that. And then there were those times when someone was waiting on the other side of a door with a loaded gun ready to blow their heads off.

In these critical moments, all were aware that they were on the suspect’s turf and anything could go wrong.

The scents of stale beer and cigarettes mingled as they crossed the wide-planked floor toward the bar. Hayden’s gaze was drawn to Paige Sheldon’s missing person flyer.

“I can’t wait to find him,” Brogan said.

“Odd to be closed,” Hayden stated.

“Garnet’s day isn’t starting well, considering one of his employees is in a body bag on her way to the morgue.” Brogan rubbed the back of his neck. “When the hair on the back of my neck rises, it’s always a sign of trouble.”

“What’s it doing now?” Hayden asked.

“Dancing like demons.”

Hayden looked behind the bar, making sure it was secure, while Brogan searched a small closet used for storing supplies.

Hayden pushed through the saloon doors into the kitchen. There were stacks of dirty cups, glasses, and plates on the counter next to a large stainless steel sink, as if someone had been interrupted before the evening cleanup could be completed.

They searched a pantry stocked with paper products, boxes filled with Second Chances matches, large jars of cherries and olives, canisters of peanuts, and extra cases of whiskey and vodka. A mop and several brooms leaned in the corner, and a box overflowed with a blend of Fourth of July, Saint Patrick’s Day, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day decorations.

“He’s got to have some kind of an office,” Brogan said.

Hayden moved toward the closed door on the far side of the kitchen, his weapon raised and body coiled. Brogan stood to one side of the door as Hayden gently pushed it open and found a long set of stairs that led down to a basement.

He clicked on a light and moved down the stairs. The deeper he descended, the stronger the coppery scent of blood and urine grew.

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At the bottom, he glanced over his shoulder to the right and saw a large desk covered with stacks of papers, a half dozen coffee cups, a pizza box with one slice remaining, and an older laptop. No sign of Garnet.

He and Brogan shifted to the left, searching as they moved to an alcove behind the stairs, where they discovered Garnet’s mangled body lashed to a chair.

Garnet’s hands, still tied to the arms of the chair, were broken in several places. The dead man’s left knee was twisted at a cruel angle, his right knee swollen and bruised. Blood and urine pooled under and around the chair. None of these injuries had killed Garnet. What had finally finished him was the slice across his throat. The cut ran from ear to ear.

Frustration rushed over Hayden as he stared at the dead man’s gaping mouth and glassy eyes staring toward the ceiling. If he’d had any doubts that Garnet was the key to those graves and to Josie’s disappearance, he didn’t any longer. Someone else had figured out what Garnet and Heather were doing, and they’d dished out their own brand of justice.

He holstered his gun before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling on latex gloves. Brogan did the same. The bar was now officially a crime scene.

“Wonder who got to him first?” Brogan moved to the back door that led to the alley and checked it. “It’s locked, but that’s easy enough to do as you’re going out the door.”

“The front door upstairs was locked, which means the killer had to have left through the back door. Let’s hope the security cameras facing the alley recorded whoever it was.”

Hayden cataloged the man’s injuries. “He didn’t die quickly, and it looks like he might have been trying to keep his secrets.”

“That still might have given him time to kill Heather,” Brogan said.

Garnet could have killed Heather, but in light of the torture he’d endured only a few hours ago, it was highly unlikely. “I don’t think so. Garnet might have been taking the girls, holding them and even killing them, but there’s another player in this game.”