The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

Her gaze returned to the picture, studying the man’s grinning face and the young girl. The man’s thick dark hair brushed off chiseled features that had earned him the nickname Devil.

He draped one relaxed arm over Julia’s shoulder. She was wearing a white soccer uniform that was covered in mud. Her knees were muddied and her braids plastered against her face with sweat. The sky was clear, and there were green soccer fields in the background. She remembered the game. It had been one of her best, and she’d defended against three goals.

The little girl leaned easily into her father, savoring a rare father-daughter moment. He’d not been around most of her life until those last few years when he’d left narcotics and joined homicide. She was still getting to know him, to trust that he wouldn’t take off again.

“You recognize it?” Novak asked.

She cleared unwanted emotion from her voice. “It’s the last picture taken of my dad and me.”

CHAPTER THREE

Monday, October 30, 12:30 a.m.

Julia stared at her father’s smile. Of all the pictures she’d seen of him, he’d never looked happy except for this one. It was their one perfect moment, and now a goddamned crime scene had tainted it.

“How—” She cleared the emotion from her voice again, aware that Novak and the forensic tech were watching her. “How did this picture end up here?”

“That’s my question. Do you know this woman?” Novak asked.

“No. Or if I did, I don’t remember.” How had this woman gotten this picture? “She’s been here over two decades?”

“The receipt in her pocket dates back to November of 1992.”

“About eight weeks after this picture was taken.”

“I recognize the setting. My daughter played soccer.”

Novak had a kid. She should have known, but neither had talked about themselves beyond establishing that they were both single. The new information surprised and intrigued her. She reminded herself the less she knew, the easier it would be when it ended between them.

“I’m hoping the medical examiner will be able to give us a better date. I’m running the woman’s name through the police database to see if she had any record.”

Julia studied the woman’s driver’s license picture. Pretty. Round face. Red hair. She was smiling. Back in the day, DMV took color pictures and allowed a smile.

“No idea why she might have this picture?” Novak asked.

“No clue. I was seven when my dad died, and though she clearly knew me, I don’t remember her at all. My mom died three years after Dad, but I can ask my aunt and see if she knows her.” She snapped a pictured of the ID.

Novak shoved his hands in his trousers and rattled loose change. “When exactly did your father die?”

“November 1, 1992. Shot himself.”

“The anniversary’s in a couple of days.”

“So it is.” Anyone who worked homicide had heard about Jim Vargas. Cop communities were like small towns. Secrets got around. “How long have you worked homicide? Six, seven years?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve heard the stories.”

“Sure. I heard.”

To Novak’s credit, he’d not asked her about her father. She put the purse back in the evidence bag and handed it to Novak. “My aunt has a good memory for faces. If anyone remembers this woman, it will be her.”

“She’s local?”

“She owns the bar below my apartment.” He was very familiar with the back staircase that led to her place. Thankfully, he had enough tact to not comment in front of the technician.

“Your aunt owns the restaurant?” he asked.

“And the building for about forty years.”

“I’ve eaten at that restaurant. Great burgers.”

“I’ll pass compliments on to the chef.” She pulled the picture up on her phone. “My aunt’s name is Cindy Stafford. She’s my mother’s sister, so not everyone makes the connection to the Vargas name.”

“Have you seen another picture like this one?”

“In a box. After my mom died, I went on a mission to find all the pictures I had of my parents. My aunt handed me a small box that contained a paltry collection of Vargas family memories. Dad was gone a lot when I was a kid, working undercover operations.”

“You still have the other family pictures?”

“I’m sure they’re around somewhere.” She shook her head. “This is a bit ironic.”

“How so?”

“I had some time on my hands earlier this year and was cleaning out my aunt’s attic. I found several videotapes that got me to thinking about the Hangman’s case.”

“What kind of tapes?”

“Tapes Jim made while he was investigating the case. They made me want to have a look into the case again. That’s why I’m taking some time off this week. I’m going to do some digging.”

“You call your father Jim?”

“I have since he committed suicide.”

“Why?”

“Easier to distance myself from a Jim than from a Dad.”

Novak studied her a beat, and she knew he was trying to get a read on her. But she was too good to give him any clues.

“The cases happened in Richmond. I can help,” he said.

“Thanks, Novak. But I have this.”

His jaw tightened, released, but he didn’t comment.

She drew in a breath. “What else do you have?”

“An abandoned house in a run-down section of the city is a great place to hide a body. I talked to a couple of curious dog walkers while I was waiting for you. This building has become the place for kids to drink and for vagrants to sleep. They were glad to have new ownership.”

Julia studied the victim’s hollowed face. Who are you? And how do you know my father and me?

The forensic technician’s

phone buzzed, and she answered it. “The medical examiner is here,” Natasha said. “Twenty-five years entombed in a basement qualifies as unusual enough to warrant a medical examiner’s visit.”

Julia felt Novak’s gaze on her as she shifted her attention back to him. “Thanks for the call, Detective. I’ll ask my aunt if she recognizes the picture taken of me or the victim.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Of course.”

She extended her hand, and he wrapped strong fingers around hers and studied her closely. “I’ll be in touch.”

She moved out of the confined basement space up the stairs to the front door and out to the porch. The sky was starlit and the moon full. Five hours until dawn was a lot of time to think. She drew in a breath.

Her father’s life had been shrouded in secrets. Her mother had always said it was a holdover from his undercover work. The strain of those secrets coupled with long absences and rumored affairs had finally been too much for her mother. Shortly before Julia turned seven, Amy Vargas moved out with her daughter. Just as her parents were considering reconciliation, Jim killed himself.

She looked back at the old house as Novak stepped onto the porch. The look in his eyes was unsettling. He wasn’t looking at her like she was a cop, colleague, or lover. Instead, his gaze was guarded. He knew she didn’t like to talk about herself. Now, he had to be wondering what she was hiding. She was a part of his investigation.

The medical examiner’s gurney rattled, and she looked up to see Dr. Tessa McGowan. Julia raised her hand. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Tessa smiled. “Agreed. Next time a cozy tapas bar.”

Julia held up a thumb. “Done.”

She checked her watch, sensed Novak’s gaze, and looked back at him. “I’m in court later this morning, but I’ll get back to you.”

“You know how to find me, Julia.”

Novak followed Dr. McGowan and an assistant to the basement. He stood outside the small room so the two had time to adjust to the scene. She issued firm commands as her assistant unzipped the body bag and opened the sides to make way for the bones. The two laid the bones in the bag while Natasha Warner worked the scene.