Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,42
“That’s the tattoo Dana Smith had removed.”
She glanced at the picture, then at Jacob. “That’s a robin redbreast.”
“I know.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“A day spa next to Dana’s apartment building had a record of her,” Jacob said. “She was in the process of having this ink removed when she was murdered.”
“What do the words say? The calligraphy?”
“‘Love, strength, and happiness.’”
Kendra sat back in her chair and smiled. “Holy crap, Jacob. We found her.”
“Probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably’? She had a robin tattooed on her ankle, and she got it removed after she went into WITSEC and changed her name.”
“I’d believe it when I see a picture of Robin Nally.”
“Since when are you such a skeptic?”
“Since always.”
Kendra shook her head. “It’s her, Jacob. Think about the odds. The city, the age, the tattoo, the organized-crime connection—that’s way too many coincidences for this not to be our victim.”
“Let’s get proof,” he said. “But in the meantime, we need to move on this.”
“What do you mean, ‘move’?”
“I mean, someone with inside knowledge and knife skills tracked down Dana Smith. We don’t know how he did it, but what’s to stop him from doing it again?”
“You’re worried about Tabitha Walker?”
“Yes.”
Kendra nodded. “If she testified, too, we need to find her before McKinney’s hit man does.”
“It’s been four days since Dana’s murder,” Jacob said. “He may have already found her.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
BAILEY LEFT HER office in a rush, late for her three o’clock appointment at the Sunrise Café on Congress. She crossed against the light, prompting honks from several cars. Stepping into the restaurant, she spotted the man she was meeting at the back in a corner booth.
“You’re late,” he said as she slid into the seat.
“Sorry. Our staff meeting ran long.”
John Colt had a coffee mug in front of him, and it was already half-empty. He leaned back against the booth and draped his long arms over the seat. Colt was tall and muscular, and his black T-shirt fit snugly over his pecs. He had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, but the gray at his temples told Bailey he was closer to forty.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet me.”
He didn’t respond. Colt wasn’t into niceties. It was one reason Bailey liked using him as a source. She’d first met Colt when she was doing a story about bail bondsmen near the courthouse. He was said to be the best skip tracer in town. He’d refused to be interviewed, Bailey had convinced him to talk to her on background only, and they’d met for omelets at four in the afternoon, Bailey’s treat. Colt kept weird hours.
“I need help with a story,” she said now.
He just looked at her.
“It involves skip tracing.”
“What about it?”
“Generally speaking, how does it work?”
“Depends. Who are you looking for?”
“No one. But if I were looking for someone—someone who really didn’t want to be found—what’s the first thing I’d do?”
A young waitress stopped by with a steaming platter of eggs and hash browns. She looked at Bailey. “Something for you?”
“Just water, thanks.”
She walked off, and Colt shook Tabasco over his food. He scooped up a bite, and Bailey watched him eat. She wondered, as she always did, what he was thinking. Colt was an enigma. She knew very little about his professional background, except that he’d once been in the Marines, and she suspected he might have been some sort of special-ops badass. She knew zilch about his personal life—not even whether he was married. She couldn’t imagine him with a wife, though. He seemed like too much of a loner.
“Depends on the target,” Colt told her. “Are we talking about an ex-con? An ex-wife? A fugitive? People skip town for a lot of reasons.”
And sometimes Colt refused to find them, even if he could. During the course of her reporting, Bailey had learned that Colt checked out all his clients beforehand. If the client had a history of violence or wanted him to track down a wife or girlfriend who’d left, Colt turned down the job. She had even heard of him helping women skip town to get away from a violent partner. Of course, she’d asked Colt about that, but he wouldn’t discuss it.
“In this case . . . I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know?” He sipped his coffee.
“The details are unclear. All I really know is the person was a witness in a trial and doesn’t want to be found.”
Interest sparked in his eyes at that. “A protected witness?”
She nodded.
Colt squinted as he chewed.