Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,14
do a little dance. As she approached, she saw that he wore the same scarred leather jacket he’d been wearing last night and had that same penetrating look in his dark eyes.
“Hi,” he said.
She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “How did you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess.”
Was it really? Maybe he’d pinged her phone to look up her location. She knew detectives could do that under certain circumstances. But she was probably being paranoid.
He smiled slightly. “You told me you had the weekend shift, remember?”
Bailey glanced around and spied his black truck parked at a meter along the street. “So, what’s up?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about the case.”
“You’re aware that my deadline has come and gone, right?”
“I figured.”
She’d left him three messages, and he’d ignored every one. She didn’t like being blown off.
But at least he was here. Better late than never.
“So, how’d it go today?” she asked, referring to the autopsy. Judging from his grim expression, he knew that was what she meant.
“Not like we wanted.”
She tipped her head to the side. “What happened?”
“Still no ID. But I’m guessing you heard that.”
“I did, yeah.”
He looked out over the parking lot. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She started walking, purposely not filling the silence with conversation. She wanted him to do the talking.
“I assume you’ve got a story running tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“What’s your angle?”
“Who says I have an angle?”
“You always have an angle.”
She looked at him. Was he saying he read her work? More likely, he was generalizing. Then again, she’d been covering the crime beat for almost a year, so maybe he’d caught a few articles.
“We went with trail safety,” she told him. “I interviewed a bunch of regulars on the lake. Some of them talked about the emergency phones and the running buddy program. There’s speculation that this could be related to the string of muggings last month. Maybe the murder was a robbery gone wrong.” She looked at him. “What do you think?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “It’s possible.”
“But not likely.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Bailey stopped beside her car. “You know, I really could have used your input this afternoon. Or this evening. I got stuck using a quote from your PR flack again.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you made it work.”
“Why are you being friendly all of a sudden?”
“All of a sudden?” He smiled again. “I bought you a Coke last night.”
“Yeah, and then you ignored three messages.”
His smile faded. “I need a favor. We have to get an ID on this victim. We’ve had some leads, but nothing’s panned out, and meanwhile the trail’s going cold.” He paused. “Don’t quote me on that.”
“What is it you need?”
“We’ve decided to release a photo, hoping the public can help us.”
“A photo of the victim?”
“No, her personal effects.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, brought up a picture, and handed it to Bailey. The phone was warm from his body heat, and holding it in her hand felt strangely intimate.
The photograph showed a woman’s shirt, shorts, and running shoes laid out on a nondescript background—maybe a bedsheet or a piece of white butcher paper. Bailey’s stomach knotted. She owned a pair of sneakers just like the victim’s.
“These aren’t actually her clothes.” Bailey glanced up at him.
“These are duplicates of the clothes she was wearing. Same brand, same style, same everything. We’re hoping to jog someone’s memory.” He took the phone and swiped to a new picture. This one showed a drawing of a pair of earrings. “She was wearing these silver, leaf-shaped earrings, too.”
“Those are lotus flowers.”
“We’re hoping someone recognizes the jewelry, along with her clothes and shoes. Maybe they’ll give us a call.” His gaze locked with hers. “Will you ask your editor to run this?”
“He’s gone for the night. But text me the pictures and I’ll call him at home. I’m sure we can at least get it in the online edition by tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He looked relieved as he tucked his phone into his pocket.
“You guys must really be up against a wall.”
“ID is critical. It’s hard to move forward without it.”
Jacob ran a hand through his hair, and Bailey thought he looked tired. He’d worked late last night, too, and—unlike her—he probably wasn’t getting a comp day tomorrow to make up for losing his weekend.
“So, you headed home now?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
So how about having a drink with me? Or dinner?
But he didn’t say either of those things. He just gazed down at her with those