Hold on to Me (3 page)

The administrative office of the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department turned out to be a literal hole in the wall. The squatty two-story building behind the local courthouse was undergoing renovations, and the door and part of the wall had been detached at the office entrance. At the top of the wide concrete steps, Caitlin removed her sunglasses, the memory of Lauree King’s sobs still ringing in her head.

Tick held the thick piece of construction plastic flapping in the rough opening, allowing her to precede him into the chaos. A new glass door leaned against the wall, waiting to be installed. The whine of a circular saw carried up the stairwell at the end of the hall. Deputies milled, passing good-natured insults as first shift prepared to go home and second shift got ready for duty.

“I need to grab the case files.” Tick bypassed the front desk with a curt nod at the young officer there and ushered Caitlin into the hall with a gesture. He disappeared through the open door of a closet masquerading as an office adjacent to the squad room. Somewhere downstairs, a board crashed to the floor.

Caitlin surveyed the squad room, a tight, drab area with a smattering of desks. A long counter along one wall held officer mailboxes and a coffee station. A door on the opposite side of the room mirrored Tick’s other than the six-pointed sheriff’s star stenciled on it. Reed’s office, obviously. Beside the coffee counter stood a third door, open to the hidden room beyond.

“Damn it.” Tick stalked from his office, grimacing. He ran a hand through his hair, and Caitlin suppressed a surge of affection. How often had she seen him do that over the years, when he was tense or frustrated? He needed a haircut, the black strands falling onto his forehead in tousled disarray. Her fingers itched to touch them and see if they were as thick and soft as she remembered.

Enthusiastic hammering echoed up the stairs. Tick strode to the doorway by the counter and she trailed him into a makeshift conference room. Mismatched office chairs flanked a scarred wooden table, and on the wall, a dingy whiteboard and buckling cork bulletin board hung next to a large map of the area. Ancient water stains marred the ceiling tiles.

“Cookie, did you take the folders off my desk?”

At Tick’s voice, Cookie and Jeff Schaefer both looked up, Jeff from the crime scene report he was writing, Cookie from the file he was perusing. He blinked, obviously trying for an innocent expression, although the impish light in his eyes killed the attempt cold. “Yeah. Why?”

Tick opened his mouth, closed it and shook his head, jaw clenched. Caitlin leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. Cook knew Tick well enough to be aware of his territorial tendencies. This was the second time today she’d witnessed the investigator pushing Tick’s buttons, although the aggravation hinted more at good-natured male teasing than any real malice. Definite history there, she realized, her curiosity aroused.

Jeff dropped his gaze to his report again. His pen scratched across the paper. Tick stepped forward to lay out the remaining case dossiers on the table. His lean body was tense, his movements jerky. Caitlin folded her arms over her midriff. The last time she’d seen him that uptight had been during the Reese rape case, more personal to him than anything he’d ever worked before.

How much of that taut, vibrating stiffness was because of her? She’d hurt him badly, she knew that, but she’d had a damn good reason. And it had been months. Surely, this was case-related stress…

A different awareness prickled over her skin. Apprehension gripping her stomach, she glanced to her left and found Cookie watching her.

Watching her watch Tick.

Discomfited, she held his gaze but he didn’t look away. He studied her, his gray eyes sharp and assessing, openly interested. Oh, God. How much of her emotions had been on her face?

She lifted her chin and tried staring him down with her coldest bureau expression, the one that had reduced plenty of other officers to flustered incoherence. Unperturbed, he grinned, rubbing at his chin with thumb and forefinger, still examining her like she was a particularly fascinating specimen.

The sudden silence sank into her consciousness. Jeff’s pen had stopped moving and paper no longer shuffled under Tick’s edgy movements. She was sure the visual power struggle between her and Cook had both men’s attention.

Damned if she’d break first, though.

With a deliberate movement, Cookie turned his head, leaving her with the impression he was merely shifting his attention somewhere more interesting rather than conceding. He met Tick’s narrowed gaze, his grin morphing to a smirk. Tick’s face darkened with a scowl, nostrils flaring slightly as he looked from Cookie to her.

Stepping forward, she flipped open the file folder labeled Jane Doe. She winced. A stark crime scene photo stared up at her and her gaze traced over the crumpled form of the young woman’s body. Long hair blew across the face but didn’t disguise the staring eyes, wide open in death.

She cleared her throat. “Any idea who she might be?”

Cookie kicked back in his chair, picking at his teeth with a thumbnail. “Nope. We pulled nationwide missing person reports, but didn’t turn up anything yet.”

Sadness shivered over her. This never got any easier, seeing the anonymous victims, wondering if anyone missed them, loved them, looked for them. “She had to come from somewhere.”

Schaefer pointed at the bulletin board outside Tick’s office, just visible through the open door. Missing fliers covered every inch. “Lots of runaways move through here on their way to Atlanta. They all think they’re going to make it big up there.”

She flipped the photo over, glancing at the officer’s report underneath. Deputy Chris Parker, first on scene. The girl’s nude body discovered in thick underbrush. No trace evidence recovered from the scene or the corpse. “Where was she found?”

“Devil’s Hole.” Tick tapped the large map hanging on the wall. His voice remained angry and subdued, the line of his body still carrying the tension he’d taken away from the King residence. “Ten, eleven miles from here. Couple of miles down Jackson Dairy Road.”

“Jackson Dairy isn’t far from US 19, is it?” she asked, eyes narrowed as she studied the map. “Sharon Ingler’s body was just a mile off from there.”

“Right.”

“And the area where you found the girl today is only a mile or so from the same highway.”

Cookie nodded. “Yeah, but she could have gone into the river anywhere. What are you getting at?”

Tick frowned at the map. “Not anywhere,” he corrected, tracing the snaky blue line of the Flint River with his finger. “She had to go in between the power dam and Plant Chandler.”

“Ah, shit.” Cookie pulled a tin of smokeless tobacco from his back pocket. He looked at it and laid it aside, his sigh regretful. Instead, he rummaged in his shirt pocket for a pack of gum. “That’s still ten miles of river.”

“Yes, but where are your access points?” Caitlin rose to stand by Tick, looking more closely at the map, her shoulder brushing his arm. His body heat radiated through her thin silk blouse, warming her. Awareness hummed inside her, ears attuned to his even breathing. “I mean, where would someone be able to put the body in without being noticed?”

“Here.” He reached around her to point to an area just over the county line. Sheltered by his lean frame, her senses full of his male scent, she struggled to focus on his words. Memories of his tenderness with Lauree King wafted through her mind. What would it have been like, to have that strong, gentle support when she’d needed it most? She shrugged off the thought and straightened, tuning in to his voice more closely. “Probably anywhere along Veteran’s Park. The woods off Highway 3. And the public boat ramp off Radium Springs Road. Maybe the crime lab can lift bacteria or chemicals from her body. If so, one of our Department of Natural Resources biologists might be able to tell us where she went into the river.”

“And all this tells us what?” Schaefer joined them.

Caitlin glanced at him, his dark brown brows drawn together over earnest blue eyes. He was younger than Tick and Cookie, late twenties, thirty maybe, but his slow, methodical demeanor made him seem more mature than his age.

“He’s most likely working the highway. He’s dumping where he can get in and out without being noticed and where he thinks the bodies won’t be found for days or even weeks. Obviously, he’s not as good at picking dump sites as he thinks he is.”

Schaefer’s expression turned sharp and interested. “Why do you say that?”

“If he was that good, you wouldn’t have two bodies in as many days.”

“Unless he wanted us to find them that quickly,” Schaefer said with an off-hand shrug.

“True.” Caitlin held his gaze a moment. “He could merely be getting bolder.”

“He?” Cookie brightened and straightened in his chair. He chewed harder, popping his gum. “So, we’re looking for just one guy.”

“Don’t get excited,” Caitlin said. “It might be one person. Or it might be four deaths that are coincidentally alike. If it is one person, he probably won’t be easy to find.”

“Coincidence, my ass, with those bruises.” Cookie crossed his arms over his chest, his gray stare measuring. “You’ll be able to help us find him, right?”

“I’ll do my best.” She turned back to the files on the table. “But, remember, my job is to help you narrow your field of possible suspects.”

“Right.” Tick stepped away, his jaw tense. “Given the opportunity, you’ll take over.”

“Hey, works for me.” Cookie grinned. “Means less overtime on my part.”

“Probably more overtime on everyone’s part,” Caitlin mused aloud, skimming the autopsy report on the first victim, the Jane Doe discovered nearly two weeks before. Strangulation, no sign of sexual assault, bruising to the arms and torso. She looked up. “We’ll need to really work your command center—lay out the photos and reports, track your evidence—so we can get a feel for who this guy is.”

She met Tick’s hard eyes. “VICAP didn’t register anything?”

Schaefer pulled a printout from a folder. “A list of cases with the same MO. Most of which were out of state or already solved. I’ve been checking them out anyway.”

Sighing, she rubbed the tension knot developing at the base of her neck. “So tell me about Sharon Ingler and Amy Gillabeaux.”

Tick leaned against the table, arms folded across his chest. “Sharon’s daddy has a produce farm out on the highway. He’s got three sons and they all went to work farming with him right out of high school. Sharon was his baby and the only girl. Smart, graduated at the top of her class, received a full scholarship to the University of Georgia. Had all A’s her first semester.”

“Her daddy was proud, too.” Cookie drummed a pen against the table, his face pensive.

“I’ll bet.” Caitlin studied Sharon in the photo clipped to her file. The man with her had to be her father, his arm around her shoulder, the pride Cookie mentioned glimmering in his eyes. She tapped a fingernail against the photograph. Proud daddies were not part of her personal experience, but it was obvious Ingler had adored his daughter. “What happened?”

Jeff shrugged. “She came home for the summer. Her car was found along Highway 112. She’d broken down. Four days later, another farmer found her body in a culvert while he was clearing a ditch.”

“Ashleigh Hardison.” She frowned over the name on the witness report, a memory niggling at the edges of her mind. “Ash Hardison?”

“Yeah.” Tick’s terse voice had her looking up. He watched her, frowning. “Why?”

“Unusual name. I think he went to military school with my brother Vince.”

“Probably.” Cookie was folding his foil gum wrapper into an intricate swan. “He’s ex-army, not from around here. Moved into the area last year.”

“Small world.” She shrugged off the coincidence. “Did Sharon know Amy Gillabeaux?”

“Around here, everyone knows everyone.” Tick still watched her, his frown remaining. “They graduated together, had gone to the same schools since kindergarten, attended the same church. I’m sure they knew each other. Did they hang out in the same crowds? Probably not.”

Something about his voice raised a flag in her mind. “Why not?”

“If Sharon was the local golden girl, Amy was the town wild child.” Jeff’s expression twisted with distaste.

Tick shook his head. “She was a little spoiled, had her daddy wrapped around her little finger. She was smart, too, wasn’t far behind Sharon in class ranking, got into UGA as well. She just wasn’t interested in studying. She flunked out her first semester and Tommy made her transfer to the local state university. She liked to flirt and she liked to party.”

“She liked older men, too.” A taunting leer lurked around Cookie’s mouth. “Didn’t she, Tick?”

“Shut up, Cookie.”

Unease shivered along Caitlin’s nerve endings. “Were you involved with her?”

“No.”

Cookie rubbed a finger over his bottom lip. “Not for a lack of trying.”

On whose part? She swallowed the question and dropped her gaze from Tick’s. What he did, who he saw, was none of her business anymore. But he had to know he couldn’t work a murder case where he’d been involved with the victim.

“You have to tell her the story.” Wicked amusement laced Cookie’s voice.

“Holy hell, Cookie, sometimes you talk too damn much.” Tick’s anger seemed to hover in the air. “It was no big deal. Yeah, Amy made a play for me. The last time I had to go by to see Tommy, she met me at the door.”