Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,8
theft. After twelve years on the job and five as a detective, he had a gut instinct for these things. Based on the clothing and the victim’s condition, it seemed more like a sexual assault. It was also possible the murder hadn’t happened here at all. Maybe the victim had been killed by her boyfriend or husband, and he brought her out here and dumped her in the lake.
Jacob walked around the fence and squeezed past a wall of overgrown brush. Lo and behold, there was a trail here, just as Bailey had told him. Jacob followed it slowly, careful not to trample any potential evidence in case this was a secondary crime scene. Not likely, given that CSIs and cops had spent hours combing this entire area. But Jacob erred on the side of caution, always, when it came to his work.
The brush thinned out, and he stepped around a puddle. Whatever footprints might have been here this morning or yesterday had long since disappeared.
Snick.
Jacob paused to listen, turning off his flashlight. The air smelled of rain and decaying plants. A warm breeze moved through the trees, making the shadows shift.
Snick.
Jacob stepped off the path. He moved through the brush, pushing leaves and branches aside.
Scritch-scratch.
He pivoted and switched on the beam, lighting up an armadillo rooting around a rotten log. The armadillo scratched and burrowed, unbothered by the spotlight. Jacob watched him for a moment, then turned and swept his beam back toward the path. Everything was wet and dank, and mud sucked at his shoes as he picked his way through the brush.
Something shiny glinted up at him. Jacob stepped closer, homing in with his flashlight on an object at the base of a mesquite tree. Pushing aside a leafy branch, he crouched down.
Damn. How had they missed this? A team of cops and crime scene techs had been out here for hours.
Jacob dug a latex glove from his jacket pocket. He took out his phone and snapped a photo. Then another. And another.
His heartbeat quickened as he studied the object partially buried in the muck. It was a cell phone. People lost them all the time. It might have nothing whatsoever to do with his case.
But Jacob’s gut told him it did.
CHAPTER
FOUR
BAILEY PULLED UP to her sister’s bungalow and was relieved to see Hannah’s silver Honda. Bailey eyed the car as she walked up the driveway. A layer of morning dew covered her brother-in-law’s pickup, but not the Honda, which meant her sister had probably just come off the graveyard shift.
Bailey passed the kitchen window, and Hannah glanced up from the sink and waved. Bailey let herself in the back door to the utility room. The dryer was going, and the cramped little space smelled of fabric softener.
“Morning,” Hannah said as Bailey stepped into the kitchen. Her oldest sister wore black Nikes and blue scrubs, and Bailey noticed the blood spatter on the cuffs.
“Hey.” Bailey gave her a hug. “You just get home?”
“Ten minutes ago. How about some coffee? I’ve got pecan praline.”
“Yum.”
“Sit down.”
The kitchen table was blanketed with stacks of neatly folded T-shirts and dish towels, so Bailey perched on a stool beside the back door.
Hannah took down a bag of coffee from the cabinet and measured out scoops, moving with the brisk efficiency of an ER nurse. She and Bailey had the same petite build, and they’d traded clothes growing up. Hannah got the good hair gene, though. Unlike Bailey and her middle sister, Miranda, Hannah’s dark brown hair was gorgeously thick and manageable, but instead of flaunting it, she always wore it in a loose bun secured with a scrunchie.
“You headed to the lake?” Hannah asked.
“Not today. I’ve got to work.”
Hannah smiled, but her tense expression didn’t fade as she filled the carafe with water and poured it into the machine.
“Long night?” Bailey asked.
“Traffic fatality. Point-two-two blood alcohol.” She shook her head. “Kid was twenty-three.” She switched on the coffeepot and leaned back against the counter with a sigh. “How are you?” She nodded at a newspaper on the counter. “I saw your story. Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“You want some oatmeal?”
“I’m good. Hey, you happen to know an APD detective named Jacob Merritt?” Hannah frequently crossed paths with detectives, who were in and out of the emergency department to interview crime victims or suspects.
The microwave dinged. Hannah took out a glass measuring cup and poured hot water over a bowl of cereal.
“Homicide detective?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She took a spoon from a drawer. “Tall, good cheekbones?”
“Yeah.”
Hannah nodded. “He’s