She had been assigned to her first one five years ago in Knoxville. The missing boy, Johnny, was eight years old and autistic, and he had vanished from his backyard. A scent dog was summoned but was two hours away.
She walked across the property toward the woods behind. With the temperature dropping, she had no time to waste. Knowing autistic children often walked in straight lines, she did the same for almost an hour before she heard the rustle of leaves. She turned around and saw something moving. She called out the boy’s name. That’s when she saw the red shirt and the crop of blond hair. She had found him, cold, hungry, and scared.
She wished she could say that all her cases had turned out so well, but too many, as far as she was concerned, had ended up unsolved. But somewhere along the way, she had earned a reputation as a solid investigator.
“Who’s missing?” she asked.
“There’s been a car accident. There’s a child on the scene, but the driver is missing, and I need you to check it out.”
She rose, reaching for the jacket slung over the back of her chair. “Is the Key Killer involved in the accident?”
“No. This has nothing to do with him. There’s not much you can do with that case at the moment, and I need you now.”
Her heartbeat kicked as her mind instantly filled with dozens of questions about the child, the absence of an adult, and the condition of the car. She pulled in a breath, taming the rush of adrenaline. “What is the child’s medical condition?”
“She appears to be fine but is confused and upset.”
“Is she talking?”
“No.”
“Why is TBI being called in? This should be a case for local police.”
“There’s something the local police want us to see in the trunk of the car,” Jackson said. “Since we rarely have a genuine profiler in our office, I thought it would be helpful if Ramsey is on scene as well.”
They passed the conference room’s glass wall where Ramsey had set up temporary shop. He was standing, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he stared out the large tinted window overlooking the former Freemason foster home. Melina knocked on the glass to get Ramsey’s attention. Turning, he held up an index finger, signaling her to wait.
Annoyed at the delay, she turned to Jackson. “What’s the something?”
“I’m going to let you both see it for yourselves. If it’s really what they say it is, we’ll need Ramsey.”
Ramsey ended his call and rose, pushing down his shirtsleeves as he crossed to the door. “What’s going on?”
“There’s another case,” Jackson said. “I’m going and so is Shepard. I’d like you to come along.”
Ramsey frowned as if he were mentally shifting priorities with the flip of a switch. “Sure.”
He shrugged on his coat, carefully collected his files, and arranged them in his briefcase. His suit coat gently flapped as he approached.
“What are we headed into?” Ramsey said.
“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” Jackson said.
“Boss wants us to see it for ourselves,” Melina said.
“Understood,” Ramsey said.
“I’m in a white SUV,” she said to Ramsey. “Separate cars might be more efficient this time.”
“Roger.”
The three divided, each moving at a clipped pace. Ramsey had his phone to his ear again as he angled into his car, and Jackson headed toward the exit as she jogged to the far side of the lot lovingly known as Siberia.
As Melina started the engine, Jackson was gone, but Ramsey’s vehicle waited at the parking lot exit. When she drove up behind him, she caught his gaze as he glanced in his rearview mirror. The intensity in his eyes was direct and cutting. He shifted his attention quickly back to the road, but as he drove and she followed, she knew he was as keen a hunter as the Key Killer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, August 24, 5:15 p.m.
Ramsey saw Shepard in his rearview mirror, gaining on him and then taking the lead as they merged their cars onto the interstate. She wove in and out of traffic, moving quickly toward the accident site. There was no quit in this woman.
When he was not trying to keep up, he recognized some of the scenery, but found the metro area had changed since his last visit seven years ago. More buildings, strip malls, and people on the road than he remembered, but a growing local economy drew more residents who strained roads and local infrastructure. He missed the slower pace of yesterday. But as his dad used to say, nothing stayed the same.
Shepard skated through a yellow light that turned red quickly. He stopped, watched her car turn left and out of sight. A text from her hit his phone. It contained the location of the accident.
He plugged it into his GPS and when the light finally changed, he followed the prompts, which guided him into a residential neighborhood.
The houses were small but stylish. Many had front porches deep enough for two rockers. The yards were filled with tall, mature oak trees and green lawns faded by the August heat. He guessed this neighborhood had been built in the late 1940s.
He spotted Cox Road, the location of the accident, and took the left despite the GPS’s warning to reroute. He savored a moment of superiority over the machine until the road dead-ended into a wooded cul-de-sac.
Cursing, he threw the car in reverse and was ready to rush back to the main road when he caught the flash of blue lights on the other side of a bank of trees. GPS had been right. The road was divided by a narrow stand of thick trees.
GPS reactivated, he turned the car around, got back out on the main road, and this time allowed the GPS to take him around the block until he spotted the other side of Cox Road.
After a curve in the road, flashing blue lights signaled the collection of cop cars up ahead. He nosed his car in at the back of the line behind Shepard’s, shut the engine off, and got out.
He clipped his credentials to his waistband and strode toward the group of uniformed officers standing by a late-model Ford SUV that had slammed right into a collection of mature trees. The front end had taken a direct hit, totaling the car. Smoke and steam hissed from the engine, but there was no fire.
He squared his shoulders and headed toward a big burly man dressed in a brown-and-tan sheriff’s uniform. The officer was talking to Shepard and Jackson.
There was more salt than pepper in the sheriff’s hair. A paunch and deeply lined tanned skin placed him in his late sixties. Judging by the way the sheriff glared at the wrecked car, he was counting his days to retirement.
Shepard cleared her throat as she looked at Ramsey. “Glad you could join us.”
“Got turned around a bit,” he said with a slight grin.
“Ah.” She turned to the man beside her.
“Agent Ramsey, I’d like to introduce you to Sheriff Alan Jones.”
The sheriff’s scowl deepened as he took Ramsey’s hand.
The old man arched a brow in a way that was supposed to make Ramsey feel like a rookie fresh from the academy, an outsider, take your pick. Ramsey had seen it all.
“Agent Ramsey is working with TBI on another case,” Jackson said. “He’s here to offer his expertise.”
“Lucky for us,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Agent Jackson said something about a missing driver.” Shepard’s tone was crisp.
Sheriff Jones shook his head. “Correct. No sign of the driver. The minor has been transported to the hospital. The EMTs took the girl away about fifteen minutes ago. She suffered only minor cuts and bruises, but the EMTs wanted the doctors to do a full workup just in case.”
She glanced toward the mangled gray car. “How old is the girl? What’s her name?”
“She says her name is Elena Sanchez. Says she’s six but she looks younger.”
“Did she say who was driving the car?” Ramsey asked.
“She won’t say. We barely got her to tell us her name. She doesn’t seem to trust cops too much.”
He looked around at the cul-de-sac with the car jacked up on a two-foot-high stump covered in tall grass. The front section was molded around a big oak.
“Who called it in?” he asked.
“Neighbor closest to the crash,” Sheriff Jones said. “The woman heard a car screeching past and then a loud bang. She said they get a lot of traffic even though the neighborhood prevented the road being cut through to the other side. Mother with kids raised holy hell when the Department of Transportation started clearing trees because she didn’t want it to become a major shortcut to the interstate, which is blocks away.”
“This can’t be the first time this has happened,” Ramsey said.
Sheriff Jones nodded. “Neighbor said a half dozen drivers have tried to make it across in the last year alone. Forensic guys estimate the speed was at least forty miles per hour based on the damage done to the engine. Way I see it, the driver was distracted, complacent, and speeding. No surprise here.”
The other side of Cox Road led to the main highway. “Did anyone see the driver?” he asked.
“No.” Sheriff Jones flipped through a notebook. “The neighbor, Pam Piercy, said that by the time she reached the car, the driver was gone. The kid was crying so she shifted her attention to the child.”