The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

No answers had surfaced that night, or the next. But the need to keep shooting remained. Her cameras got fancier, more sophisticated, but none gave her the feel she needed. And then she’d visited a Chicago auction house selling old photographic equipment. The trip had been more of a curiosity than a mission until she’d seen the hundred-and-fifty-year-old bellows camera. Instantly drawn to the camera, she’d bid high enough to win the camera and drain her savings.

The digital camera had forgiven her amateur photographic skills, but the bellows camera had no patience for novices. She’d found a photographer in Pennsylvania who taught her how to prepare her glass negatives, shoot her images, and develop the smoky, moody pictures that so suited her subject matter.

Lara scribbled down the address of the murder scene and grabbed her keys. “Ride in the car?”

The dog perked up immediately and bounded out the front door to her black truck. He sat by the driver’s-side door barking and wagging his tail while she fired up the engine and the car’s air-conditioning. She loaded her camera equipment into the back of the truck along with a cooler of water in the backseat.

She slid behind the wheel, shifted into drive, and headed toward the main road.

Traveling to the murder scene took forty-five minutes and by the time she arrived the sun was high in the sky and the air hot.

Lara pulled off the highway. A glance at the rolling landscape told her the light was not right. The sun was too high. But later, maybe at sunset.

Still sitting behind the wheel, she snapped digital pictures of the road, her truck, and the area around it as she tried to get a feel for the area. In the distance she spotted a slight flap of yellow, which she guessed was crime scene tape left behind by the police.

Shutting off the engine, she locked the car and with Lincoln headed toward the hint of yellow. Gravel crunched under her boots as Lincoln dashed ahead. She stopped ten feet short of the yellow tape. The tape looked fresh, as if the cops had returned to the area to renew their search. Made sense if they were looking for a connection between the two murders.

Pulling off her sunglasses, she stared at the low-lying grass in the center of the tape; it still appeared to be matted down. She squatted and set her sunglasses on a rock.

Was that the impression of a body? She started to snap pictures moving in a counterclockwise fashion around the site. Later, she’d load the images on her computer and then determine which angle would work best for the bellows camera and tripod.

When she’d snapped over one hundred images she lowered the camera and without the lens’ protection stared at the ground. A woman had lain here, perhaps dead, perhaps dying, as someone had knelt over her and wrapped strong fingers around her neck.

She closed her eyes as she’d done a hundred times before and tried to imagine her attacker. The cops had said that she’d had no defensive wounds, but there’d been skin under her nails. She’d fought.

The Strangler had brought her to the wooded location off Route 10 and had laid her on the ground. What had happened next? Had he straddled her before he wrapped fingers around her neck? Had he been in a rush or had he enjoyed slowly watching her fade away? She glanced at her hands, wondering where she’d scratched him. She prayed it had hurt him like hell.

Lara could not remember.

A honking horn from the highway snapped her back to the present. Sweat dampened her brow and the sun had left her pale skin pink. “Lincoln!”

The dog appeared over the ridge and ran toward her. The two hurried to her truck, where she replaced her camera in its bag and then filled a water bowl for Lincoln. Her hands trembled slightly as she held her own bottle to her lips and drank. The liquid cooled her body temperature but did little to ease her nerves. She did not like this place, though at dusk she would return to shoot the same scene in the fading light.

And so here she was, trying to put down roots, let go of the past, and live. She glanced toward the yellow tape and the grass that looked a little matted.

Here she was.

But where was he?

Beck spent the better part of the day reading the Raines file on the Seattle Strangler. The case files were detailed and precise. The observations were thoughtful. Raines had not taken any shortcuts. There was no doubt that Raines had been one hell of a cop.

As he’d sipped a fresh cup of coffee, he studied a seven-year-old picture of Lara that had been taken right after the attack. It was rough. Not only was her neck black and blue, but also her eyes were so bloodshot their vivid blue was lost. Notes indicated that an internal examination confirmed rape, though no semen had been found in or on her body. There was DNA under her fingernails, but the sample didn’t match any known DNA on file.

Anger twisting his gut, Beck closed his eyes and rubbed calloused fingers over a brow. He willed memories of the gun-toting Lara Church to elbow aside images of the sad, broken woman in these police photos. Seeing any woman hurt bothered him. Seeing Lara Church bruised and battered cut deep.

His phone rang, pulling his thoughts back. “Beck.”

It was the officer at the front desk. “There’s a guy named Raines out here to see you.”

Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not have time for this guy. However, to ignore him invited trouble. “I’ll be right down.”

He rose, rolled down the sleeves of his white shirt and fastened the cuffs, and slid on his coat. He took the elevator down to the lobby and found Raines talking to the officer on duty.

Raines was relaxed as he and the duty officer shared a joke.

“Raines,” Beck said.

The detective looked up, wished the officer behind the desk a good day, and moved toward Beck with a confident stride. He’d showered and shaved and was alert.

Beck extended his hand toward a bank of chairs in the lobby. “Raines, caught any sleep?”

He eased into a chair as if he owned the place. “You get caught up on your rest while you were on leave?”

Beck sat down, irritation snapping. “Been doing a little homework.”

Raines grinned. “For what it’s worth, I’d have done the same if I were in your shoes. You shouldn’t have been benched. I’d have kept trailing Dial.”

Beck didn’t need Raines’s approval. “Others didn’t see it that way.”

Raines was relaxed as if they were old friends. “Fuck the rest. You got justice for that kid and put that piece of garbage in the ground. That’s what counts, not the shit the media spins.”

“You’ve had your issues with the media.” The statement didn’t require research. If he’d been lead investigator on a serial murder case, the press would have been all over him.

“I have.” He shook his head. “And if you end up with more strangled bodies, you’ll learn how hellish the press can make your life.”

“What’s the point of this chitchat?”

Raines chuckled. “Direct. Good. Saves time. Did you go and see Lara Church?” His voice sounded crisper, stronger and all business.

“I did.”

“And?” Raines spoke to him as if they were partners.

“And nothing I can discuss.”

“Ah, come on, Beck. I gave you Lara. I didn’t have to, but I did. At least tell me if she remembers?” When Beck didn’t answer right away, he added, “I’d ask her myself, but I’m afraid she’d shoot me on sight. I made her life tough in Seattle. In fact, I blame myself for her leaving town. I pushed too hard, and she couldn’t take it.”

“She’s no wilting flower now. She’s grown some steel in her back.”

Raines cocked a brow and nodded. “Good. I’m glad. She’s gonna need it if the Strangler is back. She might not believe it, but I liked her. She’s talented and didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“No.”

“Was she of help to you?”

Same question asked differently, just like a good homicide detective. “She told me to get lost.”

Raines shrugged. “She was anti-cop by the ti

me she left Seattle.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

“If you keep at her, she’ll come around. Not remembering plagued her. I’ll bet that her curiosity will get the better of her, and she’s going to want to figure this out.”

“I’ve every intention of visiting her again. If she’s got any memory locked in that head of hers, then I want at it.”

“Go easy, or she’ll spook.”

Beck shook his head. “I did a little reading up on her. She’s put down roots in Austin. She’s teaching photography at the university, and she’s got an art show opening this Friday.”

“I saw the notice in the morning paper. The show’s called Mark of Death. Interesting topic.” Raines tugged at a loose thread on his cuff. “She might not remember Seattle, but it made an impression.”

Beck leaned forward. “Stay away from her. I don’t need you mucking up this investigation.”