In retrospect, he knew that senior agent had been talking about himself and the toll the job took. Ramsey had never imagined he would suffer such a fate. He would know when the time came to get out. Now, he was not so sure. Whatever desires he had to call it quits were always silenced by the screams of the next victims demanding justice.
Needing to connect to someone, Ramsey dialed his mother’s home number. The phone rang three times before his mother’s caregiver, Tracy, answered. “Ramsey residence.”
“Tracy, it’s Jerrod. I’m checking in.”
“Hello, Mr. Ramsey. Your mother is doing fine. She’s actually up.”
He glanced at his watch and allowed for the one-hour time difference. “She normally naps this time of day.”
“You know she doesn’t sleep when you’re out of town. I don’t know how she knows, but she does.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Sure can.”
He heard Tracy’s muffled voice as she seemed to speak to his mother. And then finally, “Jerrod.”
His mother sounded clear and happy, which was now a rare combination. “Mom. How are you doing?”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“How is your morning going?”
“It’s a lovely day here. No humidity, and the breeze off the bay is amazing. I have Romo right here with me. He’s sleeping.” She chuckled. “He’s getting older and likes to sleep more, whereas I’m just the opposite.”
“As long as you feel good.” His father used to say his mother had been one of the smartest minds he had ever encountered. She had earned her PhD in English literature and could speak five languages.
“I’m wonderful. How are you?”
A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “I’m great. Working.”
“Make sure you take care of yourself. I know how you get when you work too hard. Are you eating?”
“Yes.”
“A good meal will always help with your studies.”
“My studies?”
“Starting your senior year in college. I can hardly believe you’re so grown up.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and glanced up in the hotel mirror. There was more graying at the temples, and the frown lines around his mouth were deeper. “It happens to us all.”
Romo barked in the background. “Looks like the old boy is up. Time to take him for his walk. Are you doing all right, son?”
“Just fine, Mom. Can I talk to Tracy?”
“Sure.”
Seconds passed and then, “Mr. Ramsey, don’t worry. She’s not taking the dog for a walk. I’ve got this.”
“Thanks, Tracy.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Ramsey.”
The call ended, and a second later his phone rang again. He cleared his throat and accepted the call. “Andy.”
“Boss man,” Andy said.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked toward the drawn curtains of his window and glanced out at the parking lot. How many parking lots and dumpsters had he had the pleasure of overlooking the past fifteen years?
“I did a search of Bonnie Guthrie as you requested. She’s had quite the career.” Andy was always cheerful. It should have been annoying, but it was not.
“Stands to reason the charges in California weren’t her first.”
“Not by a long shot. Her first arrest was in 1976. She was fifteen and picked up for shoplifting. It was a first offense, so she was let off. It was another two years before she was caught stealing again. This time she did a few days in jail.”
“Give me the abbreviated version.”
“She likes to steal. She’s made a career of it. She was married for a short time while she was in Texas, but her husband died of natural causes in 1990. After his death, she took off.”
“What about Sonny? Any known associates by that name?”
“I was on the phone with each jurisdiction where she had a record and asked that same question. The only mention of a Sonny came from her most recent California parole officer. He said she referenced Sonny a couple of times and said as soon as she was clear to travel, she was going to see him in Nashville.”
He stilled. “Any other information about Sonny?”
“No. The parole officer said he asked but she wouldn’t say.”
Nashville had been Bonnie’s destination. “What about the child? Elena. The girl said her mother’s name was Christina Sanchez. Was there a record of Bonnie having a relationship with Ms. Sanchez?”
“Bonnie never mentioned Christina or a child to her parole officer.”
“Was Christina or Bonnie living at the address Elena gave us?”
“Yes. The address is in East LA. Not the best part of town. Not surprising. Ms. Sanchez was arrested several times for prostitution and possession. Her offences were small-time stuff, but she got picked up regularly. Sanchez never did hard time, but she was in and out of jail several times before her daughter was born.”
“Find out who owned the residence where Sanchez lived. Maybe the landlord can tell us something about Christina, Elena, or Bonnie.”
“Might take me a day or two, but I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
“How much longer will you be in Nashville?”
“A couple of days. I want to see what’s going on with this case; then I’ll turn it over to TBI. Anything on the Key Killer?”
“Who?”
“The killer who murdered ten prostitutes.”
“The Key Killer? Who came up with that moniker?”
“Local PD.”
“I was reviewing the victim case files we have on the Key Killer, a.k.a. the Riverside Ripper in Atlanta. As you know, the first victim was killed in June 1999. What I’d forgotten is that she’d filed a police report a week before she vanished for good. In her report, she claimed a strange man driving a white van approached her. She said he tried to coax her into it with a wad of bills, but her street radar went off. He tried to drag her inside, but her pimp showed up. A week later she was dead.”
Shit. He had forgotten that detail as well. Too many damn cases. They were all starting to blend. “The killer doubled back?”
“Appears so. Tell Agent Shepard to keep her eyes peeled.”
“Will do.” He hung up.
A knock on his door had him reaching for his gun and tucking it under his belt at the base of his spine. He looked through the peephole and saw the hotel room service guy. His name was Benny, and he had delivered meals the last two nights.
Ramsey fished a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and opened the door. “Hello, Benny.”
“Good day, sir. I have your lunch.”
Ramsey handed him the folded bill and took the tray. “Thanks, Benny.”
Benny rubbed the bill between his fingers as if touch might confirm this tip was as good as he hoped. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
The kid gave him a once-over, his bright eyes narrowing a fraction. “Are you FBI?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“I dunno. I heard some of the guys in the lobby talking.”
Fresh face and bright eyes were typical of those on the other side of the thin blue line. They only saw excitement and all the shit that was on TV. If he showed this kid his files and told him what he really saw, he would ruin the kid’s year.
He defaulted to a practiced half grin that tipped the edge of his lips. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Have a good day.”
Before the boy could ask a second time, Ramsey stepped back and pushed the door closed.
He set the tray down on the desk and rolled his head from side to side. He reminded himself that his kind of work needed to be done. The world needed men like him, women like Shepard, just like they needed garbage collectors.
Everyone agreed that someone had to clean the mess up. They just did not really want to know the particulars. It made for a lonely life that took a toll not only on personal relationships but also on physical and mental health.
Years ago, he’d had a fiancée. She was beautiful, bright, and truly kind. But the more he had confided in her about his work, the more distant they became.
He was never sure if she had pulled away from him or he from her. Whatever the cause, neither could stop, and eventually they only spoke about the weather or social gatherings. There had been no drama or hard words when it had ended. It simply did. He’d heard she was now married to an ob-gyn and was expecting her second child.
It all went back to the question asked by his mentor. How did you boil a frog alive? Slowly.
In Shepard’s dark eyes, he saw the isolation. The loneliness. In her, he saw his own anger mirrored back. She was not as subtle about her frustrations as he was, but then he doubted she cared if she offended anyone.
If Ramsey shared his files with Shepard, she would not run away from it. They had more in common than either was willing to admit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, August 25, Noon
“Mom!” Melina shouted as she pushed through the front door of her parents’ house. She removed the key from the lock, rattling the ring in her hand as she crossed the living room and headed down the back hallway toward the kitchen. The light of a television glowed, and the sound of the midday news mingled with her parents’ voices. “Mom!”