“Twenty-eight years old. Last known residence was Yorba Linda, California,” Sparks said, his voice distinct. “She’s a loner. Estranged from her family, no friends…we’re double-checking with a cousin who lives in Portland, if you can believe that. She’s already scanned and e-mailed the two photos of Gette she has. They’re not top quality, but they’re damned close to the computer-enhanced sketch we’ve got. We should have dental records faxed by the morning, though a positive ID will be tough because her teeth were filed down…We’ll be looking at jawbone structure, missing teeth, any hint of dental work remaining. The last time anyone remembers seeing her was last winter. She talked to the cousin around the end of January.”
“And no one’s missed her since?”
“The phone call wasn’t pleasant, which wasn’t unusual. Gette was unemployed and was asking for money again. The cousin—Georgina Sharpe—said ‘no.’ They argued, Gette spat out some expletive and hung up. Sharpe gave us the name of a few of Gette’s acquaintances and other family members, but so far, we’ve only talked to an aunt. Hasn’t seen or heard from Gette in nearly a year.”
Carter felt a little rush, the kind that kept him on the job. Whenever there was a chance that a case was breaking open, his senses came alive. “Where was Mavis Gette at the time of the call to her cousin?”
“The cousin isn’t sure, but she thinks Gette was hitchhiking up I-5 from California.”
“Hitching?”
“Yeah, well, we’re not talking brain surgeon material here. Dropped out of school in her sophomore year of high school, never done much since. Anyway, Sharpe thinks Gette said she’d gotten as far north as Medford. We’re already checking Sharpe’s phone records to see where the call actually originated, and with her last employer, a motel where she was a maid in Yorba Linda, and with anyone who knew her. She wasn’t married but had two losers for ex-husbands and a string of boyfriends, a couple of whom had criminal pasts, or at least the cousin says so…Not much more information now, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“Can you e-mail me the sketch?”
“Already done. Along with the report.”
Carter slowed for a corner, his eyes narrowing on the road as he listened. “I assume you’re checking out the Sharpe woman.”
“And her husband. She was a bookkeeper for an independent trucking firm. Her husband owns the company.”
“And the woman was hitching.”
“Yeah, we’re checking out all his drivers, but that’s a long shot, considering the fact that the wife called in.”
“Unless she’s suspicious.”
“We’ll see. I’ve already talked to the FBI, and the California State Police are going through her things, the stuff she didn’t clean out of her apartment when she skipped, but it’s been so long, the landlady could have sold or dumped whatever was left. Not much hope there, but who knows? As soon as the ID is confirmed, we’ll have a press conference. Maybe someone will come forward with more information.”
“Let’s hope,” Carter said. “I know it’s a long shot, but I’m going to talk to Lester Hatchell, see if Sonja knew the woman.”
“You still think the cases are linked?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Won’t hurt,” Sparks agreed. They talked a few more minutes, then Carter hung up, his mind working overtime with the possibilities.
He didn’t learn anything more, but, for the first time since the body had been found at Catwalk Point, he felt as if they were getting somewhere, as if he’d found a tiny toehold in the quicksand he’d been wading through, a toehold that could give out at any moment, he reminded himself.
A few minutes later he was home, had peeled off his gloves, jacket, and boots, stoked the fire, and settled in at the computer. He logged on, checked his e-mail, found several from Sparks, and opened all the attachments, a report, and a computer-enhanced picture of what Mavis had looked like.
She’d been a beautiful woman.
Even features, high cheekbones, strong chin…
Reduced to bones stuffed into a hollowed-out log.
Why?
Who had done this to her? A psychotic who happened upon her when she was hitching? Or someone she knew. He clicked on the photos sent from the cousin and saw the resemblance to the computer-generated image. Pretty damned close. The pictures weren’t very clear, Sparks had been right, but in the images was a woman in her early twenties, with a sullen expression, big eyes, and untamed brown hair.
“What happened to you?” Carter murmured, staring at the image for a few seconds before walking to the refrigerator and pulling a can of beer from its plastic noose. Cracking it open, he took a long swallow, then settled into his desk chair again. The woodstove was finally putting out some decent BTUs, and he was warm as he clicked on to the Sonja Hatchell information and pulled up a shot of Sonja. Just as he’d remembered her.
He wasn’t exactly a techno-wizard, but he knew enough about computers to cut, paste, enlarge, reduce, and put the images of the two women side by side. He couldn’t superimpose one over the other, but he didn’t need to. The resemblance was evident in their facial structure and as he glanced over their stats, they seemed more alike. Sonja was five feet, three and a half inches, Mavis at five feet four—same as the analysts had estimated Jane Doe to be. Sonja had a slim build. A hundred and twelve pounds. Mavis Gette’s last driver’s license, issued by the State of California, stated one hundred and fifteen. Close enough.
And similar to the height and weight of Jenna Hughes.
Not that the cases were related. There was no evidence to connect Jenna Hughes with Jane Doe or Sonja Hatchell.