Chapter Thirteen DAWSON

Chapter Thirteen

D AWSON

Sunday, July 14, 2024

2:00 a.m.

Dawson stood at the foot of the bed watching Margo sleep. In the five hours they’d been in this room, they’d gone for round two and then three. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this satisfied. This validated.

HR problems aside, he worried about the fantasies he’d tapped into tonight. He’d harbored dark needs, but this was the first time he’d given them life. Neither his wife nor his few girlfriends had ever voiced Margo’s shadowy desires, which had dovetailed with his perfectly.

God help him, he’d liked it all. Liked knowing he was in control. As the ropes tightened around her wrists, power had triggered a sensation of pure euphoria that banished the failures that had been circling since he’d been pegged as the cop who’d talked to Tanner Reed and not picked up on any whiff of trouble.

Control was a precious commodity in his world. His ex-wife had used him to whitewash her drug problem, and then she’d tossed him out. And on the job, he chased the missing and the dead. Many of the missing didn’t want to be found, and the ones who did were often already dead. He closed some homicides, but too many remained open. The wins were rare, and most days he felt as if he were running in quicksand. The harder he struggled, the deeper he sank. Unlike the old-timers on the job, it would be decades before he could grab a pension. Rudderless. Hopeless. Trapped.

Margo rolled on her back, and the sheet fell below her breasts. She made no move to cover herself as she studied him. “That was fun.”

“It was.” He shrugged on his shirt and began to fasten the small white buttons. “You come to that bar often?”

“First time. But I liked it a lot. Maybe we’ll see each other again outside of the office.”

“Or I can call you.”

“I like the randomness of meeting you in the bar last night.” She shoved a thick shock of short blond hair away from her face. Red finger marks rimmed her slender wrists. Now that her makeup had faded, he realized she was younger than he’d originally thought. Thirty, late twenties, maybe.

“I can’t say when I’ll be back to the bar,” he lied. “Running down the Taylor murder is going to take time.”

“Let me know if you need a hand with that?”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Walk me through your response to the 9-1-1 call.”

“Dispatch said there was a possible body on the premises. The caller said the body was hidden in the wall near the kitchen. I keep a sledgehammer in the trunk of my car, so it was easy to break the drywall.”

“You keep a sledgehammer in your trunk?”

“It comes in handy more often than you think.”

“Okay.”

“When I showed up, the house was empty. No signs of anyone. When backup arrived, I went into the kitchen, took my jacket off, and got to work.” She smiled. “For the record, I found the body after the fourth hole. Have you listened to the 9-1-1 call?”

“I did. Sounds like a woman, and there’s lots of background noise. I put a trace on the number. It’s a disposable phone.”

“Do you know the location of the call?”

Most assumed a burner was totally anonymous. Though the caller’s name wasn’t available, the location of the call could be traced. Soon he’d also have the device’s point of purchase. “Working on that.”

A smile curved her lips. “Do you have a recording of the message on your phone?”

He opened the texted message from dispatch. He hit play. “Go to the house at 922 Hanover. There’s a body in the east wall near the kitchen.”

“Direct and to the point.” She sat up, letting the sheet drop as she stood. “Keep me in the loop.”

Hard to concentrate with two lovely breasts less than a foot from his fingertips. “Sure.”

“See you in the bar sometime?” she said.

“You know me that well?”

She slid on her blouse and faced him as she slowly buttoned it. “You’re relaxed in that bar, like it’s your second home. Bartender refilled your beer without asking.” She wrinkled her nose. “Guessing divorced recently.”

When it came to hiding his emotions, he was a skilled practitioner. The ex-wife had complained about his distance often enough. “What else do you know about me?”

She pulled up sheer panties. “You like giving orders. I would say that gives you a sense of mastery in your chaotic world.”

He blistered under her intense gaze. He’d revealed a secret part of himself to her and now wasn’t sure if that was very smart. “And?”

“I can’t tell if you have children, but I’m thinking no. I don’t get the vibe of a tortured soul missing his kid.”

“I don’t have kids or a tortured soul.”

She raised a brow. “That makes divorce easier but not painless. Been there, done that. Kicked my ex to the curb last year.”

Of course she’d had other men, but the image annoyed him. She felt like his. “Sorry to hear that.”

A shrug lifted her shoulder. “You’re married to the job, aren’t you?”

“Maybe more than I realized. What about you?”

“I’m a hopeless addict. I loved my work to the exclusion of my marriage.”

He ran his hand along her jaw. He didn’t want to leave her. “Be in the bar on Tuesday night. I want to see you.”

“You can give orders in here, but out there, I’m my own woman.”

Irritation swarmed, ominous and disturbing, as he realized he needed to see her again. “Is that a yes or no?”

“It’s a wait and see if it suits me to return.”

A smile tugged at his lips, belying any fears that she could be slipping away. She liked taking the orders, but she was the one running this show. “Okay.”

His gaze skimmed over her smooth thigh. There was lean muscle there, but she wasn’t too slim. He liked a woman with muscles.

“See you around, Dawson. And keep me posted on that case.”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“I’ve got to get some rest. Got an early call tomorrow.”

“What case are you working?” He didn’t question that he was curious about her.

“Who knows? I’m the new guy.”

She’d dominate whatever case was tossed her way. “I’m sure you’ll run the room in a few months.”

“We shall see.”

He chuckled. “Tuesday night, Margo.”

Dawson left her hotel room, feeling buoyant. For the first time in weeks, he believed he could make a difference and maybe could solve Sandra Taylor’s murder.

He strode down the hallway, wishing he were still in bed with Margo. He punched the elevator button and, when the doors opened, stepped inside. He rode up to his room on the fifth floor, waved his key in front of the lock, and pushed open the door. He glanced toward his neatly made bed. A few hours of sleep would be nice, but he was too jazzed, too optimistic to sleep, so he opted for a shower instead. He stripped and turned on the hot water. As the room steamed, he hesitated, raising his forearm to his nose. The scent of Margo still clung to him, and he wasn’t keen to wash it off.

“Get a grip,” he muttered and stepped into the shower. He buried his face in the hot spray, savoring the heat, willing it to give him more energy. Finally, he shut off the tap, toweled off, shaved, and dressed in suit pants and a clean shirt. He made a strong cup of coffee on the little one-cup Keurig machine he’d brought with him when he’d moved out of the house. The cup brewed quickly as he flicked on predawn news. Another hot day. Two gang-related shootings. A kid killed.

He sat at a small round table and flipped through the case file to an old picture of Scarlett taken after she was rescued, when she was still in the hospital. Her blond hair hung in oily strands around her pale, gaunt face. The first time he’d seen this picture, he’d felt a punch of regret. She’d been an at-risk kid for most of her life, and she’d been ripe for a guy like Tanner. And he’d spoken to Tanner and missed it all.

Scarlett’s medical file detailed the horrors: scars from repeated whippings, vaginal tearing, malnutrition, and a hairline fracture on her right wrist.

Many in the press called her lucky, but this kind of abuse created a damage so deep it never really healed. The Scarlett who’d been snatched died spiritually, and what had been rehabbed and released from the hospital after her rescue might have Scarlett’s DNA, but that was about it.

The Scarlett he’d seen yesterday was reserved to the point of cold. If she had any emotions or feelings about Tanner, Sandra, or Tiffany, they were buried under ice so thick, no amount of sun or heat would ever fully melt it.

Hers was a common reaction to assault. The reserve was a form of protection. He found it slightly unnerving, but he didn’t blame her.

But he did fault Scarlett Crosby for lying, and she was lying to him now. Despite her nonreactions to his questions, he could tell she knew, or at least suspected she knew, more about the other girl in Tanner’s house.

He shifted his attention to Sandra’s file and cross-checked for similarities to Scarlett. Both had known Tanner. Same age, similar appearance, lived within three miles of each other, and they went to the same high school.

The crimes against the two girls hadn’t initially been connected ten years ago because there’d been significant delays with the filing of their missing persons reports. After Scarlett’s rescue, he’d tried to reopen Sandra’s investigation, but by then he was on administrative leave.

He opened his laptop and searched for East Norfolk High School. The yearbooks for the last twenty years had been digitized and put online, making it easy to find the 2013–2014 school year and Sandra Taylor. She’d been a junior. Her smile was bright and wide and her eyes were vibrant blue and wary. She’d been in the social service system since she was twelve and had been in six homes in four years. Many kids had clubs or activities listed under their names, but she had nothing.

As he stared at Sandra’s face, he thought about the nearly mummified corpse now lying at the medical examiner’s office.

He scrolled back through the years and found Scarlett Crosby’s picture in the freshman class. Like Sandra, she’d been a fresh face. Written under her name was Art Club .

Had the two girls crossed paths? With a thousand kids in the school, a year’s difference could have created a gulf between them so they never hung out. However, it was possible they’d had a general knowledge of each other. Passed in a hallway. Saw each other in the principal’s office. Ran in similar circles.

All three girls lived in the same area and attended the same high school. Tanner had found his hunting ground. But how?

For curiosity’s sake, he typed in the name Della . Nothing popped up. He considered formal variations on the name, typing Adele , Adaline , Del , and Cordelia into the search box. One Adele popped up in the senior class, but she was Black and didn’t remotely resemble the sketches Scarlett had done ten years ago. There still was no proof of the mysterious Della.

His phone dinged with a text. For a second he thought it might be Margo, but he realized she didn’t have his number, nor he hers.

The text was from his estranged wife. Kevin, our meeting with the attorney is tomorrow at 11. However, you’ve yet to sign the property settlement. We can’t move forward until you do.

He glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly six. His soon-to-be ex-wife had always been an early riser, and he could picture her writing up the to-do list for the day.

Drawing in a breath, he sat and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Property agreement. He didn’t have a pot to piss in. On paper, she was getting the house, the furnishings, and the limited savings account. But he wasn’t in a rush to make it official. He texted back, Blood from a stone.

Kevin, just sign the damn papers so we can end this.

He didn’t respond, annoyed that she wasn’t satisfied that she’d gotten it all. She wanted his complete capitulation. Maybe he’d been an asshole and grown too distant, but his days of apologizing were over.

He rose, slid his weapon into his holster, grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet, and with the television still on, left the D O N OT D ISTURB sign on the door. Soon, he’d have to find a permanent place. This hotel room was hardly home, but it did the trick for now. And it was close to Margo.

Outside, the rising sun splashed bright shades of ginger and tangerine across the sky that dripped onto the cracked parking lot. In his car, he entered Tiffany’s address, located in a small neighborhood off a bleak section of Shore Drive.

After a twenty-minute drive, he parked in front of the two-story apartment building. The strip of grass between the building and lot was filled with tall weeds, beer cans, and trash. The lot was half-full, but this early on a Sunday, whoever was out partying likely was still there.

Tiffany still worked in the food industry, and he guessed she worked long, odd hours. The apartment looked quiet. Time to wake up.

He pounded on the front door, then stepped to the side, waiting. When he didn’t hear any sign of life inside, he banged on the door with his fist.

A gravelly feminine voice echoed from behind the door. “What? Who is it?”

“Detective Kevin Dawson.” He held up his badge. “I have questions about Tiffany Patterson. You are?”

The door opened on a thirtysomething woman with brown hair and bloodshot eyes. “Bonnie Bartley. What’s the deal with Tiffany? Why is she so interesting now?”

“Who else has been asking?”

“A friend of hers.”

“You got a name?”

“Scarlett.”

He motioned her forward, and when she approached, he selected a picture of Scarlett on his phone. “That her?”

She leaned in. “Yeah.”

He slid the phone back in his pocket. “What did Scarlett want?”

“Trying to find Tiffany. Said they were friends from school. Said her mother had just died and her mom had taken care of Tiffany when she was a kid or something.”

That was a lie. Scarlett’s mother had died six months ago. “When did you see Tiffany last?”

She yawned. “It’s been days. I don’t keep up with her schedule.”

“Where does she work now?”

“At Talley’s Bar on Ocean Drive.”

He removed his notebook and scribbled down the name. “Tiffany dating anyone?”

“She hooks up with Jeremy Dillon once in a while.”

“The drug dealer?” Jeremy was well known in the department. He moved a lot of drugs but so far had avoided jail time.

“Yeah.”

“That where she gets her drugs now?”

The woman shifted. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t care about the drugs. I’m trying to find Tiffany. She’s a witness in a key case.”

She shoved out a breath. “Like I told Scarlett. Check out Jeremy.”

“I’d like to see Tiffany’s room.”

The woman hesitated. “My roommate, Stephanie, is still asleep.”

“I promise to be quiet.” He edged over the threshold. Whatever he noticed lying around the apartment was admissible in court. He couldn’t open doors or closets without her permission or a warrant, but he was amazed what people left lying about.

“Do you have a warrant?” Bonnie asked.

“I can get one, Bonnie.” Likely not true, but she didn’t know that. “If you let me look at Tiffany’s room now, I’ll turn a blind eye to anything not related to finding her.”

She shoved out a breath. “How can I trust you?”

Dawson wanted to tell her she couldn’t. He wasn’t here to make her life better. “I’m not here to bust anyone on drugs. Like I said, it’s the least of my concerns.”

“Or anything else?”

He regarded her. He didn’t have the patience to return to his car and run a check. “Are there weapons in the house?”

“No. But my boyfriend sometimes drops off stuff here.”

“What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

Her face tightened. “Why do you care?”

“Anyone who interacted with Tiffany matters to me.”

“Jeff’s been out of town for a couple of months. He’ll be back soon, and he’ll want to pick up his stuff.”

“Then Jeff doesn’t matter.” Dawson didn’t know what kind of fish he was letting go, but he wanted to see Tiffany’s room.

“Okay.” Bonnie turned, and he followed her into the dimly lit apartment. The living room was furnished with a few worn love seats, a coffee table covered with pizza boxes, ashtrays, and a bong. The place had a funky smell, and he wondered when they’d last cracked a window.

She opened the bedroom door to a small room furnished with a twin bed. The sheets were rumpled, and the bed was covered with cast-off clothes, as if she’d been trying on outfits and then discarding them.

He pulled on latex gloves and moved to a box crate that doubled as a nightstand. He saw a full ashtray, loose cigarettes, a blunt, and a warm half-full can of soda. “Any bad breakups?”

She leaned against the doorjamb, folding her arms over her chest. “They all were. She didn’t make the best choices.”

He turned toward a small dressing table covered with makeup, brushes, and curling irons. There was a square-shaped mirror with necklaces hanging off one corner and scarves off the other.

On a side table were stacks of bills, junk mail, and notices to pay. “She was behind on her bills.”

“Who isn’t?”

“What kind of car does she drive?”

“A red Honda. I haven’t seen it in days.”

He noticed a newspaper article peeking out from the bills. He pulled it out and realized it was a recent article on Scarlett Crosby. He had read it three times when it had been published last week.

Dawson studied Scarlett’s strained expression as she stood with a grinning Judge Thompson in front of a cartoonish mural.

“Did Tiffany mention this article?”

“No.”

Laying the paper down, he took a picture of it before moving to a closet. Hanging clothes packed the small space, and in the back, there was a bookshelf stuffed with purses, shoes, and hats. On the bottom shelf, he noticed the spine of a scrapbook. The scrapbook’s laminated cover creaked when he opened to the front page, revealing a newspaper feature about Tiffany.

The article was dated ten years ago and spotlighted an interview about Tiffany’s escape from Tanner. He turned the page to find a few more articles about her near kidnapping. The writers asked Tiffany about her impressions of Tanner, his death, and Scarlett’s rescue. No connections made to Sandra’s disappearance.

As he thumbed through more pages, the articles shifted to notices of Scarlett’s art shows. Clearly Tiffany was keyed in on Scarlett.

He showed the scrapbook to Bonnie. “Have you ever seen this?”

She leaned closer. “No.”

“Did Tiffany ever talk about Tanner Reed or what happened?”

“Sometimes, when she got drunk. She said she had nightmares for years. I know a reporter called about six months ago, and Tiffany was excited to talk to her. She liked the attention.”

“Do you have a name for the reporter?”

“No. She never called back.” Bonnie shook her head. “As creepy as what nearly happened was, it made her feel special.”

“Special?”

“Not invisible. Noticed.” She nodded to the book. “I didn’t realize she kept the articles. That’s a little weird.”

Tiffany’s brush with Tanner had given her life meaning. And now Dawson’s own meeting with Tanner was giving him renewed purpose.

He removed his card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Mind if I take the scrapbook? I’d like to study it.”

“I guess. It’s not mine.”

“I’ll take good care of it.” He removed a plastic bag from his pocket and slid the scrapbook inside. “Call me if you hear from her.”

“Yeah, sure.” She flicked the edges of his card.

“Do you think she’ll come home soon?”

“Hard to know. She comes and goes.”

He looked around the living room. “Do you have any security cameras here?”

“No.” She folded her arms over her chest. “They’re expensive, and who would want to take our shit, right?”

“Right.”