This killer would not let a setback stop him. He was modifying his tactics. He was always looking for an advantage while also being careful. The chances of finding usable evidence were slim.
Until his aborted abduction of Shepard, this killer had played his cards perfectly. Now that he had failed and been injured, he was not likely to forget the woman who had caused both.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday, August 24, 4:30 p.m.
Melina was back in her office, free to return phone calls, while Ramsey did the same from the conference room. She was grateful to have some distance from him. He was intense and not easily approached, and small talk was not her friend. Ultimately, he would evaluate her work on this case and report back to Jackson.
She scrolled through the messages and returned her mother’s call first. “Mom,” she said, trying not to sound impatient.
“A little bird told me you’ve been on desk duty.”
“Who?” She rose and looked around the office. No one was watching, but she did not doubt her mother had connections.
“Like you, I don’t rat out my confidential informants.”
Melina heard the smile in her mother’s voice and decided to dial back the tension in her own tone or her mother would lock in like a guided missile. “How’s Dad?”
“On the mend.”
“Did you throw away the old ladder?” Her newly retired father had decided he was perfectly capable of putting siding on their thirty-year-old house regardless of his seventy years. He had fallen off the rickety ladder two weeks ago and broken his foot. His doctor had said he would fully recover unless he pestered his wife too much and she killed him.
“I tossed it in the garbage the day after the fall. I wanted to set it on fire, but we’re in a drought.”
“Good call. Can I do anything?”
“Nothing time and a little bourbon for me won’t fix.”
Quirky inside jokes brought down Melina’s blood pressure because they reminded her that she had family behind her. Despite a couple of moody teenage years, she had always cherished her place in the Shepard clan. Her mother understood all this, and clearly suspected that desk duty meant something had gone down.
“I’ll be by on Sunday,” Melina said.
“If you can manage it. I know work gets busy.”
“Never that busy.”
“Bring a few good war stories home to your dad. You know how much he enjoys them.”
This current case was right up his alley. Well, except for the small part that included the near murder of his only child. “Will do, Mom.”
“Love ya, kid.”
“Love you.” She hung up, knowing she had hit the jackpot when Molly and Hank Shepard had adopted her.
Twenty-eight years ago, when Hank Shepard had been a uniformed officer for the state police, he had received a call that a little girl had been spotted on the side of the northbound lane of Route 25. He had been five minutes out and had responded.
He said he had almost not seen her the first time because she was huddled by the guardrail. In fact, it was her yellow jacket flickering in his rearview mirror that made him turn around.
He found her dressed in shorts, a white T-shirt, red boots, and the yellow raincoat. Most of her thick black hair had escaped her ponytail, and her eyes were red from crying. Her hands had been trembling, and when he had gotten out of the car, she had taken several steps back.
“It’s okay. I’m here to help. My friends call me Shep,” her father said.
To this day, Melina barely remembered the moment. She recalled his bright headlights shining on his frame, blinding her to only the outline of a giant. But she also recollected a soft, soothing voice that chased away some of the fear.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Too rattled to lie or give the other name she was told to use, she spoke the truth. “Melina.”
“That’s a pretty name. Melina, are you hungry?”
She nodded.
“I thought so. I can take you back into town, and we can get something to eat and maybe find your mom and dad.”
“They’re dead,” she said.
“Your mom and dad are dead?”
She nodded.
His smile only hardened for a split second. “Who left you out here?”
She had never told him the woman’s name. She was not sure if she had not recalled it or was too afraid to say. And when she was old enough and no longer afraid, the name had already faded from her consciousness.
She wished now she had spoken to the big man as his rough hands had wrapped gently around her own fingers. If she had not been so afraid to talk, she could have told him about the person who had left her, and he could have dug deeper into her past. But she had remained silent, even when he had called his wife, Molly, who had come to the station armed with blankets and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The opportunity to find her biological family was gone.
The Shepards had pulled strings and gotten social services to release her into their custody. There had been an exhaustive search for her birth family, but no information had materialized. Some surmised that, given her dark hair and olive skin, she had come from Mexico or Central America. She did not speak Spanish, so if she had been brought over the border legally or illegally, there was no way of determining her nationality. Her past had simply vanished.
A knock on her door had her looking up. Jackson stood in her doorway. “I have a case for you.”
“I thought I was working one.”
“This one’s more up your alley. Missing persons case.”
She had been assigned to her first one five years ago in Knoxville. The missing boy, Johnny, was eight years old and autistic, and he had vanished from his backyard. A scent dog was summoned but was two hours away.
She walked across the property toward the woods behind. With the temperature dropping, she had no time to waste. Knowing autistic children often walked in straight lines, she did the same for almost an hour before she heard the rustle of leaves. She turned around and saw something moving. She called out the boy’s name. That’s when she saw the red shirt and the crop of blond hair. She had found him, cold, hungry, and scared.
She wished she could say that all her cases had turned out so well, but too many, as far as she was concerned, had ended up unsolved. But somewhere along the way, she had earned a reputation as a solid investigator.
“Who’s missing?” she asked.
“There’s been a car accident. There’s a child on the scene, but the driver is missing, and I need you to check it out.”
She rose, reaching for the jacket slung over the back of her chair. “Is the Key Killer involved in the accident?”
“No. This has nothing to do with him. There’s not much you can do with that case at the moment, and I need you now.”
Her heartbeat kicked as her mind instantly filled with dozens of questions about the child, the absence of an adult, and the condition of the car. She pulled in a breath, taming the rush of adrenaline. “What is the child’s medical condition?”
“She appears to be fine but is confused and upset.”
“Is she talking?”
“No.”
“Why is TBI being called in? This should be a case for local police.”
“There’s something the local police want us to see in the trunk of the car,” Jackson said. “Since we rarely have a genuine profiler in our office, I thought it would be helpful if Ramsey is on scene as well.”
They passed the conference room’s glass wall where Ramsey had set up temporary shop. He was standing, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he stared out the large tinted window overlooking the former Freemason foster home. Melina knocked on the glass to get Ramsey’s attention. Turning, he held up an index finger, signaling her to wait.
Annoyed at the delay, she turned to Jackson. “What’s the something?”
“I’m going to let you both see it for yourselves. If it’s really what they say it is, we’ll need Ramsey.”
Ramsey ended his call and rose, pushing down his shirtsleeves as he crossed to the door. “What’s going on?”
“There’s another case,” Jackson said. “I’m going and so is Shepard. I’d like you to come along.”
Ramsey frowned as if he were mentally shifting priorities with the flip of a switch. “Sure.”
He shrugged on his coat, carefully collected his files, and arranged them in his briefcase. His suit coat gently flapped as he approached.
“What are we headed into?” Ramsey said.
“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” Jackson said.
“Boss wants us to see it for ourselves,” Melina said.
“Understood,” Ramsey said.
“I’m in a white SUV,” she said to Ramsey. “Separate cars might be more efficient this time.”
“Roger.”
The three divided, each moving at a clipped pace. Ramsey had his phone to his ear again as he angled into his car, and Jackson headed toward the exit as she jogged to the far side of the lot lovingly known as Siberia.
As Melina started the engine, Jackson was gone, but Ramsey’s vehicle waited at the parking lot exit. When she drove up behind him, she caught his gaze as he glanced in his rearview mirror. The intensity in his eyes was direct and cutting. He shifted his attention quickly back to the road, but as he drove and she followed, she knew he was as keen a hunter as the Key Killer.