Web of Justice (3 page)

Jake glanced over at the paper. Edgar had written down Jasmine’s name and phone number, along with the address for Phil’s and the names of the two other girls who worked there. Annie tucked the paper into her notepad.

“Do you know if this building has any security cameras?” Jake asked.

“Not a chance. This place isn’t maintained all that well. We’re lucky to have enough heat in the winter. Spending money isn’t a top priority around here.”

“Maybe Phil’s has some cameras,” Annie said, making a note in her pad.

“Do you think it’s possible Olivia might’ve gone on an errand before she came home?” Jake asked.

“I doubt it. She called me from work at six and didn’t mention it. Besides, she always comes straight home at nine.”

Jake sat back and squared an ankle over one knee, stroking his chin in thought. Phil’s was a couple of blocks away, and if Olivia had been abducted, it must’ve happened somewhere between Phil’s and here. There was one obvious route she would’ve taken home.

“Do you know what Olivia was wearing?” Annie asked.

“All the waitresses at Phil’s wear the same uniform. A white blouse with a short red skirt.”

Annie jotted something in her notepad. “Does she wear it home, or change there?”

“She puts it on before she leaves here, then wears it back home after work.”

“Do you have a recent picture of your wife?” Annie asked.

Edgar rose to his feet, crossed the room, and rifled through a drawer in a small cabinet near the kitchen doorway. He returned a moment later with a photograph. Jake leaned forward, took the photo, and studied the close-up shot of Edgar and Olivia sporting wide smiles, their arms around each other as they faced the camera. Olivia’s long black hair hung below her shoulders, framing a pretty face.

Edgar’s worried expression grew more intense and a deep frown crossed his brow. “You don’t think she’s been … kidnapped, do you?”

Annie took the photo, tucked it into her notepad, and glanced at Jake before answering. “We hope not, Edgar, but there don’t seem to be any other possibilities. If you’re sure Olivia didn’t go anywhere without telling you, then she might’ve been taken by force.”

That seemed to worry Edgar more, and he took a sharp breath. In a moment, he breathed normally, but the worry remained in his eyes as he asked, “But who? Why?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Jake said. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”

Edgar shook his head. “I’ve been running it through my mind all night, and I can’t come up with any logical conclusion. It doesn’t make sense.”

Jake slipped a business card from his shirt pocket, stood, and handed it to the overwrought man. “Call me if you think of anything. In the meantime, we’ll look into every lead we can find.”

Annie picked up the recorder, switched it off, and dropped it into her handbag. “I hate to discuss money at a time like this, but we’ll need a small retainer.”

“Of course,” Edgar said. “I understand.” He left the room and returned a few moments later with a check, handing it to Annie. Jake glanced over. The check was for two thousand dollars, enough to make a good start.

Annie tucked the check into her handbag along with her notepad and pen, then stood and followed Jake to the front door.

“Will you let me know if you find anything?” Edgar asked. He wrung his hands, his slumped shoulders showing the strain he was under.

“Of course,” Annie said. “We’ll get on it right away. And if we don’t find anything solid by this evening, we’ll talk to the police about getting involved.”

Jake added, “If we come across any evidence your wife might’ve been taken against her will, the police’ll get involved immediately.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” Annie said.

“Thank you,” Edgar said in an uncertain voice. “I’ll be home all day.” He opened the door and let them out, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Though Jake felt for Edgar Bragg, he was always ready for a new challenge, and he was raring to get started. He looked at Annie. “I guess the obvious place to start is Phil’s. That might be our best lead.”

“That might be our only lead,” Annie said.

Chapter 4

Tuesday, 11:06 a.m.

TERESA HANSON slipped out the rear door of the Commerce Bank, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a pack of smokes in the other. Slipping a cigarette from the pack with her teeth, she poked it into her mouth and crossed the narrow lane at the rear of the building.

She was determined to give up the habit one of these days; she just couldn’t afford it on a bank teller’s salary. With the ever-increasing price of cigarettes, it was getting harder to maintain her one and only vice. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

Navigating down the alley, she passed a row of employee vehicles, dumpsters, and chained-up bicycles, and stepped onto the sidewalk. She paused and flicked her lighter, taking a deep drag of the soothing smoke before crossing the street to the small neighborhood park where she could relax for a whole fifteen minutes.

She headed to her usual spot, pleased the bench was unoccupied. Dropping onto the wooden seat, she kicked off her shoes and relished the cool, luxurious grass under her feet. She sipped her coffee, enjoying her smoke and the occasional sounds of nature in the secluded little place in the middle of the city.

Above her, an overhanging tree kept off the heat of the sun. A faint breeze circulated the warm air in and around the towering trees and rows of evergreens. She caught the sound of a squirrel’s claws biting into bark as it skittered up a tree, and somewhere behind her, a dog whined.

Light sounds of traffic came from the main street as cars dashed to and fro going who knows where. A girl on a bicycle breezed down the side street fifty feet away, and still, the dog whined.

Then the whimpering sounds of the animal ceased, and she heard the padding of canine feet behind her, coming closer. She turned in her seat. A small dog raced toward her, its collar tags jangling as it tore across the grass.

Teresa didn’t know much about dogs, but it looked like a terrier to her. It skidded to a stop, its almond-shaped eyes sparkling with life and intelligence as it watched her, its stubby tail between its legs. The whining began again.

Teresa stretched out a hand. “Hi, pup. What’re you doing wandering around here all by yourself?”

The dog moved in with caution and sniffed her hand, then backed off. It paced and whined, then circled to the front of the bench.

“What’s the matter, pup?” Teresa said, turning to face the animal. She leaned forward. “What’s bothering you?” She glanced across the lawn expecting to see the dog’s owner, but no one was there.

The anxious animal tore away, then stopped short and whined again, then returned. It panted, paced, and circled, stopping now and then to let out a short, urgent bark, its eyes never wavering from hers.

Teresa glanced behind her toward the direction the dog had come from. No one was in sight, but the animal seemed eager to get her attention. Maybe it’d chased a cat up a tree and wanted to get at it, hoping she would help.

But the urgent whine seemed much more than that. Perhaps the animal’s owner was in some kind of trouble.

She slipped her shoes on, butted out her smoke, and dropped her empty coffee cup in a garbage bin at the end of the bench.

She paused a moment and looked at her watch, unsure if she should follow the animal, or get back to work so she wouldn’t be reprimanded for being late returning from her break.

There was no doubt the dog was trying to get her attention. It crouched down ten feet away, its chin on its front paws, watching her, waiting for her. She took one step toward the animal and it leaped up, bounding away. Then it stopped again, its eyes on hers, still waiting, watching, and whining.

Teresa followed the animal, curious to see what it wanted. The dog trotted ahead, stopping often to make sure Teresa was still following. And she did, across the expansive lawn, around a row of well-trimmed cedars, and behind a lofty oak.

The dog stopped and so did she. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she caught her breath. She stifled a scream and stood frozen, taking short, quick breaths as she stood beside the whining dog, staring at the horrific sight in front of them.

A woman lay flat on her back, her arms folded across her chest, her fingers intertwined.

Her short red skirt and comfortable shoes, along with the snow-white blouse, neatly arranged as though great care had been taken, were all in contrast to the horrendous sight of the woman’s tortured face, the leather strap digging into her neck, and her completely shaved head.

She looked like she was resting, but the unseeing eyes and the pale white skin told Teresa otherwise.

The woman was dead.

Teresa took an uneasy step backwards, transfixed by the sight, unable to look away. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened her eyes and moved forward, crouching by the body. Just to be sure, she would check for a heartbeat. But it was no use. The moment she touched the cold skin, she realized no one could help the poor woman now.

Teresa stood and gazed in horror a few seconds before turning away from the unnerving sight that would be burned forever in her mind.

“Come on, pup,” she said, her voice quivering as she spoke. She lit another smoke to calm her jumping nerves, then reached a shaky hand toward the dog. “Let’s get out of here.”

The animal followed dutifully at her heels as she left the gruesome sight behind, made her way back to her favorite bench, and called 9-1-1.

Chapter 5

Tuesday, 11:37 a.m.

HANK WAS IN THE break room when a message came in to dispatch. According to the officer who poked his head into the room and handed Hank a sheet of paper, there’d been a homicide. Hank was needed on the scene.

The detective crumpled up his coffee cup, pushed back his chair, and called Detective Simon King.

“There’s been a murder,” Hank said into the phone when the cop answered.

King emitted a loud yawn. “Just finishing up an interview. I’ll meet you there.”

Hank gave him the location and hung up. In the past, Hank had worked alone, but his increasing workload had forced him to depend on King more often than he liked. Not that the younger cop was useless—he had his good points—but he lacked finesse. Diego had teamed them up for reasons of his own, and King grudgingly surrendered to Hank’s lead with a minimal amount of nudging.

Hank stood, tossed his cup into the waste bin, grabbed his briefcase from his desk, and made his way back to the parking lot behind the precinct.

He glanced at the address as he drove from the lot. The scene of the incident was located in a small park on the east side of town. Having been a beat cop for three years, then a detective for fifteen, he knew the city inside out. And he knew exactly where the park was.

Five cruisers were parked along the street when Hank arrived. First responders had secured the scene, and three or four uniforms kept back the curious public. Hank pulled his Chevy in beside the coroner’s van and got out.

The Channel 7 Action News van had parked just past the row of police vehicles. Lisa Krunk was the last person Hank wanted to see. The annoying reporter strained at the police barrier, waving her mike around, attempting to get the attention of one of the officers. Her cameraman, Don, had his equipment out, capturing images of the scene.

Lisa spied Hank, waved, and started a purposeful stride his way. The detective avoided eye contact and kept moving. He didn’t want to get roped into giving an interview at the moment, especially since he didn’t know any more about what’d happened here than she did. He wasn’t about to discuss hypotheticals with the nosy newswoman.

Maybe he’d spare her a few minutes before he left. Maybe.

“Detective Corning,” she called, still beating a path toward him, her mike shoved out in front of her.

He ignored her, ducked under the yellow tape, and was directed to an area a hundred feet further in.

CSI was documenting the scene with painstaking care. Evidence markers were scattered in a variety of places. A photographer knelt down, snapping shots. Other investigators milled about, taking notes, bagging evidence, and discussing what it all meant.

Hank approached a tall, gaunt man holding a clipboard. Even at six feet tall, Hank had to raise his chin an inch or two to look lead investigator Rod Jameson in the eye. “Morning, Rod,” he said.

Jameson gave a one-sided grin and spoke in a deep, hollow voice. “Afternoon, Hank. We’re just about done here.” He turned and pointed toward a row of evergreens. “You’ll find the vic behind those trees.”

“Thanks, Rod.”

Hank turned when he saw a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. King strode toward them, then stopped and nodded hello, finger-combing his long, greasy hair back.

“Hey, King,” Hank said, giving the cop a quick glance. With his three-day-old beard, his worn-out jeans, and his faded black t-shirt, he looked more like a drug dealer than a cop. In the past, King had been a narc, working undercover as much as possible, busting druggies and drug lords. In that vocation, his daily attire had been an asset, and Hank had long ago given up demanding King invest in some new clothes.

Hank turned and went behind the row of cedars, King following, and they approached the grisly sight. The victim lay on her back, her body arranged as though placed there by an undertaker. Except that her eyes were open, staring blankly at the foliage above, and the leather strap around her neck made it clear what the cause of death had been.

But the most curious thing was that the victim’s head had been shaved. Short wisps of hair stuck out at awkward angles. It was obvious the woman’s haircut hadn’t been done by a professional, and it was unlikely the victim had done it herself.

That left one possibility. The killer had shaved her head, and there was no doubt in Hank’s mind the hair the postman had delivered that morning had come from this victim.