Page 60 of Dead Drift

About ten feet in, Dirk stopped at the dark bluish-green water’s edge. The smell of brackish marsh—fish, algae, and brine—imbued the air. The lap of water lulled as it swayed the tall grasses surrounding the long and narrow estuary. “Julie was found right about here,” Dirk said, pointing to a small sandy patch along the water’s edge.

Griffin looked around at the tall grasses, sand dunes, and narrow path. “Hard to imagine anyone being found back in here.”

“Thankfully, Julie was. Gave her poor parents some solace to at least bury their daughter.”

“The way you talk about Julie, her family . . .” Griffin asked, sensing a tie there.

“My kid sister went through school with Julie. I know her family. You grow up in a small town . . .” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Griffin said.

“And I’m sorry,” Dirk said. “I assume from the list of victim names you read over the phone that with Jenna’s last name being McCray, there’s a relation?”

Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. “She was my sister.”

“Ah, man. I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does, which is why I want to get this guy so bad. I’m hoping you can help us.”

Finley squeezed his hand, caressing his palm with her thumb in soft, soothing strokes.

“So tell me about Julie’s case,” Griffin said. “How was she found? By whom?”

“Some fishermen. Their names are in the file. We can check when we return to the station. They weren’t local.”

“Any chance the finders were involved?”

“No. We questioned them and they both had alibis for the time of death.”

“Who’s we?” Griffin asked.

“Me and Joel, my partner at the time.”

“Joel?”

“Yeah,” Dirk said. “He was new on the force, but raring to learn, so he shadowed me everywhere I went, asking questions, studying crime scenes, recording everything on that stupid tape recorder of his.”

Finley swallowed. “Tape recorder?” Griffin knew what she was thinking. Perhaps Burke’s key word leader really did mean a short strip of material at each end of a reel of recording tape for connection to the spool.

“He said it helped him study. He planned to take the detective’s examination, but with this being such a small town, the chance of an opening here was slim. He heard Houston was hiring”—Griffin saw Finley’s eyes widen just as the certainty hit him—“so he transferred out there. Did his time as a patrol officer, took the test, and made detective not long after. . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you both look as pale as that albino alligator they got down at Fort Fisher Aquarium?”

Griffin found his voice. “Are you talking about Joel Hood?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“He was the detective on one of the murders linked to the same killer.”

Dirk’s easygoing, low-key persona tensed. “I’d like to say it’s a small world, but even to a country boy like me, I’m afraid the likelihood of that being a coincidence is rare.” He shook his head. “Joel?”

“What can you tell us about him?” Griffin asked.

“Why don’t we head back to the station? I’ll pull his employment file.”

“That’d be great,” Griffin said, still trying to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. Of all the detectives and the one agent they’d spoken with, he’d never have pegged the affable Joel Hood as the killer. Was it possible?

“Then we can head to the barn where Julie was killed, if it would be helpful,” Dirk said.

Griffin stopped stone-still. “You found the barn where she was killed?”