A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Do you want to be on it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
More silence settled between them as they played an invisible game of chicken. Would she stay silent? Or would she admit that catching monsters was how she justified her existence and eased her crushing sorrow for the brutalized girl who’d died giving birth to her in the desert?
“All I can say is that I love the work,” she said.
“Working on my team isn’t easy, Agent Crow.”
Membership on his team meant long hours and unearthing evidence in horrific cases. Ramsey’s agents had a front-row seat to a brand of darkness that most law enforcement officers never saw.
“No one outworks me,” she said. “I settled so many cases in Kansas City, Seattle, and Denver because I took risks and didn’t give up. I’m here now because I don’t give up. I’m the proverbial dog with a bone when I get my hooks into a case.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. “In the weeks you’ve been with ViCAP, you’ve picked up on several patterns in cases around the country.”
She wasn’t here for a pat on the back. “Are you going to ask me about the case file you sent me? The one I studied last night until one a.m.?”
Intrigued, he sat back in his chair. “Tell me about the case.”
She was relieved. They were sailing into the safe waters of murder. “Last week, the skeletal remains of Tobi Turner were discovered in a Shenandoah Valley barn. The teenage girl went missing fifteen years ago. Sheriff Mike Nevada, the new county sheriff and a former member of your team, requested the FBI’s assistance after DNA found on the girl’s backpack matched the DNA of an unknown serial rapist active in the summer of 2004, three months before Tobi vanished.”
Ramsey didn’t look impressed. “Continue.”
Macy carefully crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Unfortunately, this offender isn’t in the CODIS system.” CODIS, the Combined DNA Identification System, was a database of DNA collected from prisoners and arrestees. “Tobi Turner and the rape victims all had a similar look. Slender, dark hair, and petite.”
“Anything else?”
“I did a data search of the Deep Run area in 2004. There was another girl who also vanished two weeks after Tobi. Her name was Cindy Shaw. She was mentioned in a two-paragraph article. The headline read ‘Second Girl Missing?’ There were no follow-ups to that article.”
He frowned. “Cindy Shaw was not in the file I gave you.”
“I always dig deeper than the file.”
“Why is Cindy Shaw significant?”
“Ms. Shaw may not be, but she attended Valley High School with Tobi Turner, she had long dark hair, and she vanished. No missing person report was filed on her behalf. Her last known address was a low-income trailer park. I suspect she was an at-risk kid, and when she disappeared, no one cared.”
“Not all poor girls who go missing are kidnapped, raped, and murdered.”
The reference alluded to her birth mother. And if it was meant to sting, it did. But a little more pain in an overflowing bucket didn’t really matter. “Every case surrounding the time period of Tobi Turner’s disappearance has to be questioned and examined.”
Ramsey looked almost impressed. “What do you suggest I do?”
So there it was. Her shot.
Discipline kept her from scooting to the edge of her seat. “I’d like to go to Deep Run and look into all these cases. I’m a fresh set of eyes, and as you’ve already suggested, I have a knack for detail and pattern.”
Ramsey regarded her for several beats before he said, “I’ll send you to Deep Run for five days. I want to see what you come up with.”
The green light warranted a fist pump, but she resisted. This was a test. Ramsey didn’t care about a personnel manual’s BS questions or boxes that needed checking. The field would tell him.
“Should I check in with my superior downstairs?” she asked.
“No. I’ll clear it with him,” Ramsey said.
“You won’t be disappointed,” she said.
He raised an index finger. “I’m not looking for a cowgirl who’s going to ride into town, shoot it up, or get herself killed. I want you to dig up solid intel, and then you’ll debrief the team at Quantico next Monday. I still don’t know if you’ll make the cut,” Ramsey warned.
She hadn’t scored, but she had the ball. Time to take her best shot. “Like I said, you won’t be disappointed.”
“I saw just the slightest limp as you crossed the parking lot. You do a hell of a job hiding it.”
She glanced out his window, which overlooked the lot. “I qualified for the mile run time and retained my expert status at the shooting range.”
“Both scores have dropped since the attack.”
“I can hold my own.” She would not apologize or make excuses. She was done talking.
He studied her. “Hell, I can’t think of many people who would come back after what happened to you.”
“That’s ancient history. All that matters now is this case and me proving I belong on your team.”
“Glad you feel that way, because I can’t cut you any slack. Five days, Special Agent Crow. We’ll both know if you make the grade.”
She resisted the urge to uncross her legs and relieve the pressure on her nerves. Instead, she grinned. “I’m up to the challenge.”
“You’ll be working with Sheriff Mike Nevada.”
“I assumed as much.”
“Didn’t you work with Nevada when he was with the bureau?”
“Our paths crossed in Kansas City. He was searching for a serial killer who preyed on prostitutes trafficked along I-35. I was trying to catch the man pimping the girls. Turned out we were hunting the same guy.”
Crossing paths with Nevada. It was a nice euphuism for sex between two commitment-phobic agents. They had ended whatever it was they’d had on good terms, but walking away from him had been the only time she’d resented the job. “Nevada was a first-rate FBI agent, and I imagine he’s just as good a sheriff.”
“I’ll let him know you’re on your way. Stay in contact,” Ramsey said.
She rubbed her hand over her right thigh. “When do I leave?”
“Today. Pack your bag and hit the road.”
She checked her watch. “Will do.”
Ramsey’s smile was polite, but he clearly had his doubts.
Nevada stood in the sheriff’s office staring at the bare walls marked by the outlines of dozens of pictures that had belonged to the former sheriff. Outside his office, a painter opened a fresh drop cloth, and soon all traces of the last sheriff would be gone. It was now his turn to leave his mark on the community. Moving down to the conference room, he reached for the conference-room phone and dialed Jerrod Ramsey’s number.
Ramsey picked up on the first ring. “Agent Crow just left my office.”
“Is she coming to Deep Run?”
“She’s on her way. Should be there by one.”
“And she knows she’s working with me?” He never made small talk.
Jerrod paused a moment. “Why wouldn’t she want to work with you?”
He selected his words carefully. “We disagreed on investigative methods in Kansas City.” They’d also slept together.
“Can you work with her?”
“Yes.”
A beat of silence pulsed through the phone.
“That’s all that matters,” Ramsey said.
“How is she since the accident?” Nevada asked.
“I’m not going to lie, the accident changed her. She’s lost weight, and there’s a limp.”
Heaviness coiled around him. “She’s meeting me at the barn where the body was found, correct?”
“Yes,” Ramsey said. “I need a team player, Nevada. You know better than anyone that the members of my team are called upon to work as a unit. They need to know each has the other’s back.”
“Crow’s independent as hell.”
“So I’ve gathered. We’ll talk next week, and you can tell me if I should hire her or not.”
Nevada watched as the paint crew moved into his office. A good word from him would land Macy a spot on Ramsey’s team. But he knew better than anyone that the job would take a piece of her soul. “Will do.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday, November 18, 8:20 a.m.
Macy concentrated on her gait. One step. Two step. Ramsey was watching and no doubt second-guessing his decision to give her a try.
When she pushed through the doors of her building, her shoulders relaxed, and she took a deep breath. She passed through security and walked to her office in the basement.
She hated the windowless space. It was a reminder of her Texas screwup and a glimpse into her future if she didn’t crack the case in Deep Run. The possibility of doing real work was exhilarating, and she was anxious to grab what she needed and get the hell out into the field.
“Macy, have a look at this.”
Macy turned to the young woman sitting in front of a computer screen. Andrea Jamison, or Andy to the basement dwellers, was a pleasant young woman who never minded hours in front of a computer screen double-checking or inputting data. Slightly round with brown hair and thick-framed glasses, Andy had a wicked sense of humor and, in a showdown of bar shots last weekend, had handily beaten Macy.