CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, August 24, 5:15 p.m.
Ramsey saw Shepard in his rearview mirror, gaining on him and then taking the lead as they merged their cars onto the interstate. She wove in and out of traffic, moving quickly toward the accident site. There was no quit in this woman.
When he was not trying to keep up, he recognized some of the scenery, but found the metro area had changed since his last visit seven years ago. More buildings, strip malls, and people on the road than he remembered, but a growing local economy drew more residents who strained roads and local infrastructure. He missed the slower pace of yesterday. But as his dad used to say, nothing stayed the same.
Shepard skated through a yellow light that turned red quickly. He stopped, watched her car turn left and out of sight. A text from her hit his phone. It contained the location of the accident.
He plugged it into his GPS and when the light finally changed, he followed the prompts, which guided him into a residential neighborhood.
The houses were small but stylish. Many had front porches deep enough for two rockers. The yards were filled with tall, mature oak trees and green lawns faded by the August heat. He guessed this neighborhood had been built in the late 1940s.
He spotted Cox Road, the location of the accident, and took the left despite the GPS’s warning to reroute. He savored a moment of superiority over the machine until the road dead-ended into a wooded cul-de-sac.
Cursing, he threw the car in reverse and was ready to rush back to the main road when he caught the flash of blue lights on the other side of a bank of trees. GPS had been right. The road was divided by a narrow stand of thick trees.
GPS reactivated, he turned the car around, got back out on the main road, and this time allowed the GPS to take him around the block until he spotted the other side of Cox Road.
After a curve in the road, flashing blue lights signaled the collection of cop cars up ahead. He nosed his car in at the back of the line behind Shepard’s, shut the engine off, and got out.
He clipped his credentials to his waistband and strode toward the group of uniformed officers standing by a late-model Ford SUV that had slammed right into a collection of mature trees. The front end had taken a direct hit, totaling the car. Smoke and steam hissed from the engine, but there was no fire.
He squared his shoulders and headed toward a big burly man dressed in a brown-and-tan sheriff’s uniform. The officer was talking to Shepard and Jackson.
There was more salt than pepper in the sheriff’s hair. A paunch and deeply lined tanned skin placed him in his late sixties. Judging by the way the sheriff glared at the wrecked car, he was counting his days to retirement.
Shepard cleared her throat as she looked at Ramsey. “Glad you could join us.”
“Got turned around a bit,” he said with a slight grin.
“Ah.” She turned to the man beside her.
“Agent Ramsey, I’d like to introduce you to Sheriff Alan Jones.”
The sheriff’s scowl deepened as he took Ramsey’s hand.
The old man arched a brow in a way that was supposed to make Ramsey feel like a rookie fresh from the academy, an outsider, take your pick. Ramsey had seen it all.
“Agent Ramsey is working with TBI on another case,” Jackson said. “He’s here to offer his expertise.”
“Lucky for us,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Agent Jackson said something about a missing driver.” Shepard’s tone was crisp.
Sheriff Jones shook his head. “Correct. No sign of the driver. The minor has been transported to the hospital. The EMTs took the girl away about fifteen minutes ago. She suffered only minor cuts and bruises, but the EMTs wanted the doctors to do a full workup just in case.”
She glanced toward the mangled gray car. “How old is the girl? What’s her name?”
“She says her name is Elena Sanchez. Says she’s six but she looks younger.”
“Did she say who was driving the car?” Ramsey asked.
“She won’t say. We barely got her to tell us her name. She doesn’t seem to trust cops too much.”
He looked around at the cul-de-sac with the car jacked up on a two-foot-high stump covered in tall grass. The front section was molded around a big oak.
“Who called it in?” he asked.
“Neighbor closest to the crash,” Sheriff Jones said. “The woman heard a car screeching past and then a loud bang. She said they get a lot of traffic even though the neighborhood prevented the road being cut through to the other side. Mother with kids raised holy hell when the Department of Transportation started clearing trees because she didn’t want it to become a major shortcut to the interstate, which is blocks away.”
“This can’t be the first time this has happened,” Ramsey said.
Sheriff Jones nodded. “Neighbor said a half dozen drivers have tried to make it across in the last year alone. Forensic guys estimate the speed was at least forty miles per hour based on the damage done to the engine. Way I see it, the driver was distracted, complacent, and speeding. No surprise here.”
The other side of Cox Road led to the main highway. “Did anyone see the driver?” he asked.
“No.” Sheriff Jones flipped through a notebook. “The neighbor, Pam Piercy, said that by the time she reached the car, the driver was gone. The kid was crying so she shifted her attention to the child.”
Shepard removed a small notebook from her pocket, flipped to a clean page, and wrote down the name. “Which is her house?”
“The first on the right as you’re leaving. The street address is 2317.”
“Thanks. Mind if we have a look at the car?” Shepard asked.
“Be my guest.”
She crossed to the back of her SUV and fished out latex gloves. As she handed a set to him, he noted she kept the trunk of her car equipped with basic forensic equipment, MREs, flares, extra shoes, and rope.
Shepard walked past Ramsey, Jackson, and Sheriff Jones, her focus squarely on the vehicle. Her expression had shifted and sharpened with even more intensity. If the Key Killer case had been out of her wheelhouse, this one was not.
After looking inside the car’s driver’s side window, she circled around to the opposite side of the car. The airbags had deployed. The front passenger seat was covered in discarded fast-food wrappers, bags of half-eaten snacks, a few empty soda cans, and a few rumpled receipts.
A fine dusting of black powder on the steering wheel, door handles, and radio buttons told them the forensic team had started working the scene.
“Sheriff Jones, I see your guy has dusted for prints. Any luck?” Shepard asked.
“The steering wheel, dashboard, and door handles were wiped clean,” he said.
“What about the buttons on the side of the driver’s seat?” Shepard asked.
“Checked and also clean,” Sheriff Jones said.
He glanced back at the car seat. The harness was unhooked, done no doubt by Ms. Piercy or EMTs when the child was removed. Still, the driver would have handled the seat multiple times. “He should dust the sides of the car seat, as well as its underside.”
“I’m sure he did both,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t see powder on the car seat,” Shepard said. “Better check, Sheriff.”
“Will do.”
“Why not take the child?” Ramsey asked.
“Driver was injured and couldn’t carry the child,” Shepard theorized. “Maybe the girl was crying and making too much noise. Maybe the driver isn’t far from the scene now and is watching us. Or the driver is already at the hospital.”
“Hospital security is on notice to monitor incoming calls,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ve also notified hospital staff to keep everyone other than immediate hospital staff away from the child.”
“Good,” Shepard said. “She’s alone, hurt, and frightened. She’s vulnerable to any kind of suggestion.”
Among all the clutter in the back seat were blankets, stuffed animals, and well-worn toys. In the car seat’s cup holder was a juice box with a straw. She touched the box, shaking it gently. It was still half-full and felt slightly cool to the touch.
“When was the crash called in?” she asked.
“Less than one hour ago,” Sheriff Jones said.
Shepard picked up a floppy stuffed dog covered in Goldfish crumbs. One of its eyes was missing, and the fur was worn off the ears. She brushed off the crumbs. “Sheriff, did your people find any signs of drugs in the vehicle?”
“A spent joint on the passenger-side floor,” he said.
“The driver was worried about the cops,” Ramsey said.
“Over a roach?” Shepard asked. “The driver was worried about something bigger than that. Sheriff, we’re out here because Agent Jackson said we needed to be. Time to tell us why we’re really here.”
“I heard you were a real charmer,” Sheriff Jones said. “What’s your nickname again? I forgot.”
“There are a few, but my favorite is Glinda, the Good Bitch.”
Jones sidestepped the comment and wrestled on a fresh pair of his own gloves and walked around to the driver’s seat. “We opened the trunk earlier, fearing someone might be inside. You never know. Once we determined what we had back here, we closed it right up.”