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“Federal taskforce?”
“Yep.”
“Gonna catch a bad guy? Maybe even bring some poor lost person home?”
“I hope so.”
“Then don’t worry about us. Your menfolk will be fine. Though I make no promises about too much TV or Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
D.D. shrugged. “I like Frosted Flakes for breakfast.”
“Perfect, we’ll blame you.”
Which is how D.D. found herself back in her car, travel bag beside her, returning to BPD headquarters with one more awkward conversation to go. Love, such a complicated and powerful emotion. Able to topple the strongest among us, to waylay the unsuspecting, and to wriggle deep inside a woman heretofore laser-focused on her career.
It all made sense till Flora Dane sauntered into BPD headquarters with Keith Edgar at her side. One look at the tightness in her shoulders, the bounce in his step, the way they both glanced at each other while trying not to glance at each other, and D.D. was forced to remember the other half of love. The part that didn’t bloom and grow. The colder, starker truth that love could cost you everything.
And often did.
—
D.D. LED FLORA AND KEITH to the homicide division’s suite upstairs. Both had been there before, and while D.D. would like to say the bump up to sergeant meant she could now host meetings in her massive office, she could barely stand with a fellow detective in the closet-sized space. Instead, D.D. led Flora and Keith to the glass-doored conference room, which—like the rest of the building—resembled an insurance company more than an urban police force. For that matter, the homicide unit had blue carpet and cubicles that screamed staid corporate job. Some of the detectives had strewn crime scene tape and blood spatter photos all over their padded gray walls just to keep their sanity. Humor was an investigative necessity.
“Here’s what we know,” D.D. started without preamble. “Skeletal remains were discovered two and a half months ago in the mountains of Georgia.”
“Georgia,” Keith interrupted, giving Flora a meaningful glance. Both Flora and D.D. glared at him.
“Outside the town of Niche,” D.D. continued, “which is some quaint little community that exists to house and feed hikers doing the Appalachian Trail. Too small a town for that to be Jacob’s home base.” She eyed Flora pointedly.
“He’d stand out,” Flora filled in. “A long-haul trucker with a raging drug habit and a lack of personal hygiene. Not ideal small-town material.”
“Exactly. The body, however, was identified as Lilah Abenito—”
Keith abruptly pulled his laptop from his bag, fired it to life. Notes, of course. Now D.D. remembered. Keith spent all their encounters pecking away at his computer like some rabid chicken. The man practically lived hardwired. She often wondered what Flora, who had a strictly hands-on approach to problem solving, thought of having a techie boyfriend.
Keith got his laptop booted up. D.D. continued: “Lilah Abenito was declared missing fifteen years ago. She is one of the first victims connected with Jacob Ness. Given the find, FBI agent Kimberly Quincy is forming a federal taskforce to investigate Lilah Abenito’s murder, and look for further evidence of Jacob Ness’s past activities.”
“What do you know so far?” Flora asked. She hadn’t taken a seat, but was standing in the conference room, gripping the back of a chair.
“Not much. But now that this case has been declared a priority, given its connection to Jacob Ness, everything will be revisited, including the forensic anthropologist’s initial findings. While us taskforce members”—she looked at Flora and Keith—“will be heading to Mosley County. Our job is to re-examine the gravesite—and all trails, communities, and activities around it.”
“I’m guessing this tiny town isn’t off a major freeway,” Flora said.
“No. Up in the mountains and off the beaten path. Certainly not off the kind of roads a long-haul trucker such as Jacob Ness would be traveling for work.”
“An old grave makes it harder to find evidence,” Keith was musing out loud. “On the other hand, fifteen years ago Ness’s crime spree was still in its infancy. Means he probably wasn’t as refined about covering his tracks. He hadn’t perfected his technique.”
“This is a unique opportunity,” D.D. agreed. “SSA Kimberly Quincy has invited us all to join the taskforce. Which, I don’t have to tell you, is quite an honor for two civilians.”
“She needs me,” Flora said flatly. “No one knows Jacob like I do. No one else survived to tell the tale.”
“I didn’t do so shabby tearing about his computer in December,” Keith echoed. “Certainly I learned more in forty-eight hours than the FBI did in six years.”
They were both right, and D.D. knew it.
“We’ll head to Atlanta tonight,” she informed them. “First taskforce meeting will be bright and early in the morning, and our work starts immediately after that.”
Keith didn’t speak. He simply shut his laptop and rose to standing, clearly having made his decision.
As for Flora, D.D. knew there was never any doubt. Wherever Jacob Ness went, now as before, Flora Dane followed. It was both an impressive show of strength and a sad testimony of survivorship.
“You have the tickets?” Flora asked.
“Our Delta flight leaves out of Logan, nine oh two P.M.”
“We’ll see you at the airport.”
