no sign was found of her clothing. Torn fingertips suggested that she’d been held elsewhere and tried hard to escape. Bits of rust had been scraped from beneath her nails and skin. There was no roommate or boyfriend, as far as her coworkers knew. Phone records showed three calls from a burner cell, which was interesting, but at the moment, useless. The medical examiner had promised a full report minus tox screen by the end of the day. In the meantime, the girl’s mother was pushing to claim the remains.
“One thing.”
The words were quiet, the rest of the thought unspoken.
I need one thing to tie this to Adrian Wall.
He needed Adrian to be the killer and felt the need in a way few could understand. But, there was nothing. They’d canvassed neighbors, coworkers, people who liked the same bars as Ramona, the same coffee shops and restaurants and parks. No one could put Adrian and the victim together.
Could I be wrong?
The thought was unpleasant. If Adrian didn’t kill Ramona Morgan, then maybe he didn’t kill Julia Strange, either. That meant his conviction was flawed and that every cop who’d hated him for so long and with such passion was full-on, absolutely wrong.
No.
Beckett shook off the doubt.
That was just not possible.
Beckett poured coffee and carried it to his desk, his thoughts already spinning away from the murder case and back to Liz and the girl. The distraction was a problem, but Channing mattered to Liz, and Liz mattered to him. So, he started at the beginning. Why was the girl taken? Not why, really. Why her? Why at that time and place? Abduction was rarely as random as most wanted to believe. It happened, yes—a pretty girl in the wrong place at the wrong time—but more often than not, abduction scenarios involved people known to the victim: a workman at the house, a friend of the family’s, a neighbor who always seemed so quiet and polite. He pictured Channing, her house, the case. He replayed his conversation with Channing’s father.
“Hmm.”
Beckett keyed up the sheets on Brendon Monroe and his brother, Titus. They were pretty standard. Weapons charges. Assault. Drugs. Some traffic offenses, two cases of resisting an officer. There were no sex convictions, though Titus had been charged twice with attempted rape. Beckett knew all that, so he keyed on the drug charges. Crack. Heroin. Meth. There was some pharmaceutical stuff, some weed. Beckett didn’t see what he wanted, so he rang down to narcotics. “Liam, it’s Charlie. Good morning.… Look, I see your name all over the Monroe jackets.… What?… No, no problem. Just a question. Was there ever any noise about them selling steroids?”
Liam Howe was a quiet cop. Solid. Dependable. Young. He worked undercover because he looked too fresh-faced to carry a badge. Dealers thought he was a college kid, a rich man’s son. “If there was money to be made, they’d sell it; but I don’t remember anything about steroids.”
“Is there much of that in town these days? Weight lifters? Jocks?”
“I don’t think so, but steroids have never been high priority. Why do you ask?”
Beckett pictured Channing’s father, sweat-soaked and massive. “Just a thought. Don’t worry about it.”
“You want me to ask around?”
Beckett’s first instinct was to say no, but Channing’s father had lied to him twice. “Alsace Shore looks like a juicer. Fifty-five, maybe. Built like a truck. I just wonder if he might have known the Monroe brothers.”
“Alsace Shore.” The drug cop whistled, low and deep. “I’d use a long stick to poke that bear, especially if you’re implying some kind of involvement with the Monroe brothers.”
“All I want is information, maybe enough to squeeze him.”
“About?”
His daughter, Beckett thought.
The basement.
“Just ask around, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“And, Liam?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe, keep it quiet.”
* * *
Liz left Channing a note and the keys to the Mustang.
Make yourself at home.
Car’s yours if you need it.
It felt strange sliding into the unmarked cruiser, as if some part of her was no longer a cop. The awkward sensation clung as the sun edged above the trees, and she drove past the old Victorians on her way to the outskirts of town. When she got to the prison, most of it was still shrouded in gloom, only the highest walls dappled pink, the high wires glinting. At the public entrance, a uniformed guard met her at the door. He was early forties, with washed-out eyes and a pale, wide body that had few hard corners. “Ms. Black?”