She frowned. “What did I see? A murder.” She looked over at Logan, and he couldn’t tell whether she saw anger or appreciation in his eyes. “Absolutely nothing that could help us with the here and now. I saw a murder that took place over a hundred and fifty years ago, and the murderer himself is long gone. I guess what I saw was a residual haunting. No blood—the poor woman was strangled. So, perhaps we should get back to what we’re actually dealing with. Dead women. Corpses dumped here, there and everywhere in San Antonio. I’m assuming you have more to work with than just photos, Agent Crow?”
He nodded. “I’m set up at the police station, about a mile away. I’ll pay for our meal, then we’ll go there and you can see how far we’ve gotten. Tomorrow, I’ll be briefing local law enforcement, but for now, you can come over and get started.”
“Whoa, Agent Crow. I haven’t agreed to be part of this team,” Logan reminded him.
Crow raised one shoulder. “You don’t want to see what we have?” he asked.
Logan let out a deep breath.
Of course he did. This was happening in his city, and Jackson Crow had been right about one thing—he had to be in law enforcement.
He had to be involved.
And since he’d seen the pictures of the remains…
He turned to face Kelsey O’Brien. She was watching him with her intent green eyes, and he wondered if she felt the same sense of urgency he did. The same need to know, despite the risks.
“Ready when you are,” he said quietly.
Chapter Three
This is not going to work! Kelsey thought.
Jackson Crow seemed pleasant enough, like a man who could be a team player. But Logan Raintree seemed almost hostile. Except that he’d pitched in with information about the Longhorn and he’d also risen to her defense when Crow had been hammering away about what she’d seen at the inn. Still, it was pretty obvious that he didn’t want to be a member of any team, and if he wasn’t part of the team—was there a team? There would be a task force, she supposed. Now that the FBI had become aware of the number of corpses, there’d have to be. The fact that a serial killer was suspected of targeting the area was bound to become known, and the public would demand it.
But did she want to be part of it?
Something inside her wanted to recoil. And something else wanted to go with the two men, go and look at the available evidence.
So she went. She had certainly seen violence and death as a U.S. Marshal. Gun battles happened on the open sea when drug traffickers found themselves under siege. Bodies were dragged out of the Gulf and the Atlantic. She’d seen the ugly side of human nature. Despite that, the murders of the women seemed far more horrific than the cold and impersonal violence she most frequently witnessed. Cocaine dealers shot their rivals and their enemies—people who worked for the law.
True, she’d found those bones in Key West… . And because she had, the victim had been identified, and a family had learned the sad truth.
She forced herself to appear cool, professional, stoic as they reached the police station and passed through the outer areas, where petty offenders were being booked. San Antonio was not without its share of prostitutes and thieves, and a number of them were being interviewed, along with traffic offenders and others brought in by the police for their various misdeeds. But Jackson Crow barely noticed them. With a brief word to the desk sergeant, he led her and Logan through a hallway to a large room enclosed by smoked glass. Within that room were several desks, a free-standing, forty-inch computer screen, a small lab area, a board with marker notes and a private snack station with a large coffeepot and a small refrigerator and microwave oven. It was almost its own little fortress.
This could be her place. For now at least.
A man sat at one of the desks, but rose when they all entered. He was tall and striking in a lanky, easy way, and was quick to shake their hands when Jackson introduced him as Jake Mallory. On Jackson’s own team, he was adept with cameras, recorders and, he admitted dryly, a guitar.
“Only one member of your team’s here,” Logan pointed out.
“I told you,” Jackson Crow said. “We’re stretched too thin. There’s been a murder at an old hotel in D.C. Some of my people are there.”
Logan Raintree merely nodded.
“So what do you have?” Kelsey asked Jake Mallory.
“You’ve given them the information about Chelsea Martin and Tara Grissom?” Jake asked Crow.
Again, Crow nodded. Jake sat at his computer and hit a key. The large screen against the far wall came to life. “That’s Chelsea Martin on the left, Tara Grissom on the right,” he said. “Both photos were taken a few months before they disappeared.”
No matter how long a person worked in law enforcement, Kelsey thought, it was heartbreaking to see the image of a young woman in life—and to know how that life had ended. Chelsea Martin had huge blue eyes and dark brown hair. Tara Grissom was a blonde, with green eyes. Chelsea’s face had been round, while Tara’s was slim with high cheekbones. Chelsea peered out at them, smiling. The close-up had been cropped, and it looked as if her face had been taken from a picture with kids in it. She’d presumably had her arms around some of them. They must’ve been children she’d taught. Tara’s picture had probably been a publicity photo, because it had a neutral background and she smiled at them from a posed angle.
“These are the young women we know, and they’re at the morgue, along with six we have yet to identify,” Jake said. “The killer isn’t going for a particular look, or not that we can pin down from these two, at any rate. One’s a brunette, the other a blonde. One was plump, and one was lean. And although we haven’t identified the other remains, there’s hair on most of them, or remnants of hair, and the colors vary.” He cleared his throat. “I was listening to Chelsea’s last phone conversation when you arrived.”
“Her phone conversation? How was it recorded?” Logan asked. “If her friend answered the phone, there wouldn’t be a recording.”
“Apparently, she answered right when the recording began. We got lucky. Nancy McCall had an old-fashioned answering machine,” Jake said. “It’s strange—I’ve been isolating sounds on the tape, but…well, you want to listen to the original recording first?”
Crow nodded.
“This is the conversation,” Jake said, hitting another key.
Chelsea Martin, with her wide cheeks and big eyes, smiled at them from the screen as they listened. “Nancy! Hey!” said her voice, sweet and excited.
“You were supposed to call me when you landed,” came the reply.
“I’m sorry. I went straight to the Alamo, which is crazy, ’cause I’m dragging around a bag and all. But I had to come here! I’ve read so much about it, so many stories about the siege and the battle and the people who were here…oh! Too funny! There’s a man in costume. I’ve been flirting with him. He’s pretty cute, too!”
Before her friend could respond, another voice broke in. It was deep and husky, and had a rattling sound, almost as if someone were speaking through a mouthful of dust.
“Come away, come away, now. You’re in danger!”
They heard Chelsea giggle. “The battle’s over,” she said.
“You’re in danger,” the rattling voice said again, “Please, listen to me.”
That voice. Kelsey had been in dire situations several times, but she couldn’t remember when any sound had caused such a chill to suddenly sweep through her.
“Nancy, I think a ghost is playing with me,” Chelsea said, and she laughed again.
“Chelsea, what’s going on?” her friend asked.
“I—”
And that was it. Silence. For a moment, those in the room were silent, as well.
“And just how do you figure the third voice got on the phone?” Logan Raintree asked. His voice was hard and cold. “For it to be that clear, he had to have his mouth right next to the phone. What did the friend say when you questioned her about it?”
“I called Nancy McCall earlier this afternoon,” Jake said. “She didn’t hear the other voice when she spoke to Chelsea, and she has no idea how it can be so clear on the recording—or even how it managed to record at all. I told you, I’ve been isolating sounds, but I can’t separate this voice from Chelsea’s when I try to bring them onto different frequencies. I just played you the original. I can isolate Chelsea’s voice, and you’ll hear that it’s still in there.”
He played the recording again.
Afterward, Jackson walked over to Jake’s desk, which held a pile of folders. He picked up two of them. “Take these,” he said, handing one to Logan and one to Kelsey. “They have all the information we’ve got on Chelsea and Tara, and the times and dates the six unidentified bodies were discovered. Please take a look at the folders. If you decide to join the team, I’d like you to come to the morgue with me tomorrow.”
“Have those bodies been there all this time?” Logan asked.
“No. We’ve exhumed them,” Jackson told him. “They were buried by the city as unknowns.”
Logan shook his head, eyes narrowed. His expression was impassive, and yet Kelsey felt that some kind of emotion was seething inside him. “Why now?” he asked. If he exploded, he’d be frightening.
Yet she was equally certain that he never just exploded. He controlled himself at all times.
“It’s in the folder,” Jackson said.
Next, Jake passed out pages he’d obviously printed for them. “I was looking up information on another case when I found out that a young woman, Vanessa Johnston, has recently disappeared—on her way here,” he told them. “Right now, she’s a missing person. She was driving in. Neither she nor her Honda has been seen since she stopped at a gas station near the county line. I brought the problem to Jackson’s attention. Everything’s on those sheets I gave you.”
