Chapter Twenty-Two DAWSON

Chapter Twenty-Two

D AWSON

Monday, July 15, 2024

1:30 p.m.

Dawson’s office chair squeaked, and the left armrest wiggled. When he’d been on administrative leave over the winter, HR had ordered him a new chair, but on his return, this outdated piece of crap was waiting for him. Someone else in the building had his new chair, and he was stuck with this piece of shit. An FU from someone. His desk had no pictures, plants, or specialty mugs. It was a blank slate. All salt in the wound after his morning at the attorney’s office and the official end of his marriage.

“Dawson.”

He looked and found his captain standing at the door of his cubicle. Chief Monroe was tall and heavyset and had wavy white hair. He was nearing retirement and doing his best to get to the finish line without stirring up too much trouble.

“How is the case?” Chief Monroe asked.

“Like them all. Bit by bit.”

“We have a new officer, and I’m partnering her with you.”

The good thing about being in purgatory was no one wanted to work with him. And he’d grown to like setting the tone for all his days. “I don’t need a partner.”

“Well, you got one. And she’s a ballbuster.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Worked human trafficking in Central and Northern Virginia. Had a bit of a reputation for catching bad guys, though some suspects were a little worse for the wear when she handed them over.”

“Terrific.”

“Time to get up and meet her.”

Shit. He rose from his chair and looked toward the bullpen. He spotted Margo Larsen immediately, talking to a uniformed cop. Cradling a cup of coffee, she was smiling. Relaxed and confident, as if she’d always been here.

Adrenaline rushed him. His heart rammed his chest.

“Officer Larsen,” Chief Monroe said.

She slid her phone in her back pocket, looked up, and smiled. “Chief.”

“Meet your new partner, Detective Kevin Dawson.”

“We’ve met,” Margo said. “At the Jane Doe crime scene.”

“Which is why you’re here,” the chief said. “Two heads are better than one. I want every and all links to Jane Doe and Tanner identified.”

His boss was pushing him to pin the case on Tanner Reed. The implied order was simple: Close the case and move on. Tanner was the logical suspect, but logic didn’t always go hand in hand with homicide. And working with Margo Larsen was ... complicated.

“The more the merrier,” Dawson said.

“Good,” the chief said.

When he walked away, Margo leaned closer to him, dropping her voice so only he could hear. “I don’t feel the love, Dawson.”

Tension rippled through him. “I like to work alone.”

She winked. “Not this time, Lone Ranger.”

As he weaved through the building, she followed, her clipped heel strikes telegraphing she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. When he pushed through the front door, air swollen with heat wrapped around him. “We can take my car.”

“First stop is the Tidewater medical examiner’s office?” she asked.

“Correct.”

“I’ll meet you there. Who knows which directions we’ll have to go after. Give you a chance to absorb this new twist in your life.” The mockery was subtle, but it hummed under her words.

“Did you know about this assignment at the bar?” Dawson asked.

“I’d heard whispers, but nothing was etched in stone.”

“A heads-up would have been nice.”

She arched a brow. “How would that have changed anything?”

Knowing she was angling for a position in his department could have changed his decision to sleep with her. Could have, but likely wouldn’t have. His dick had taken over for his brain as soon as she’d sat next to him in the bar. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Will do.”

He was relieved to be alone as he drove to the medical examiner’s office. He could think better without her so close. As he pulled onto the quiet, tree-lined campus of Eastern Virginia Medical School, near the banks of the Elizabeth River, he had regrouped from the shock of having Margo on the case.

When he parked in front of the medical examiner’s office, he refused to look in his rearview mirror and search for Margo. He never liked having a partner, but all the others had been easy to ignore. Not Margo. Out of his car, the heavy summer shrouded him as he walked to the front doors. Heeled boots drummed into concrete behind him.

Door open, he paused until she caught up. Inside, the building’s air-conditioning coiled around him. He’d been in and out of this building more times than he could count, and he should have been used to it by now. He was a homicide detective. Death was part of the bargain. It came for us all, but he still resented the hell out of it when it took young kids.

With Margo behind him, he weaved his way through the building to the autopsy suite. There he found the medical examiner, Dr. Alex Malone. She was midthirties, had a solid reputation, and was considered a straight shooter. Tall, thin, with dark hair that accentuated her brown skin. Reserved , to the point of cold, was the word that came to mind when he saw her. But he got it. Better to toss up as many defense barriers as possible or this job could eat you alive.

Dr. Malone stood by a stainless-steel autopsy table where skeletal remains were carefully laid out. “Good morning.”

“Dr. Malone, this is Officer Margo Larsen,” Dawson said. “She’s new to the department and will be working with me on the Taylor case. Larsen, Dr. Alex Malone.”

Margo plucked latex gloves from a box resting on a stainless-steel table. “Dr. Malone. It’s a pleasure. Though I can think of nicer ways to meet.”

Dr. Malone’s tense features relaxed a fraction. “Me too.”

“What do you have for me ... us?” Dawson said.

Dr. Malone flexed gloved fingers. “Your victim was female and in her mid to late teens, judging by the cranial sutures on the top of her skull, which as you know don’t completely close until about age twenty-five.”

“That age estimate matches the description on the driver’s license found with the body,” Margo said.

“I understand the remains were discovered inside a wall,” Dr. Malone said.

“In the Ghent District.”

“Whoever wrapped her up did a good job. Meticulous. It was an airtight seal.”

“I spoke to a dozen people who lived around the crime scene,” Margo said. “Tanner worked for many of them, and his customers raved about his detailed carpentry work.”

“Why bother to wrap this body so carefully?” Dawson asked, more to himself. “He lived in the country and could have buried the body so deep it would’ve never been found.”

“The body was his version of a trophy,” Margo said. “His memento of his time with her.”

Dawson studied the drawn figure with dried gray skin reminiscent of a Halloween prop. A decade in the elements would have decimated a corpse, but the plastic wrap and insulation around the body had mummified the remains. “Let’s not get ahead of our skis. Tanner’s farmhouse was reduced to cinders. There was no way of proving if he held this victim or any other.”

Margo shook her head. “Wonder what’s in the walls of Tanner’s other former customers’ homes?”

“One case at a time,” Dawson said. “Dr. Malone, how did she die?”

Dr. Malone placed gloved hands on the skull and gently turned it. Blackened blood stained the strands of straw-like blond hair. “She was struck in the back of the head. X-rays reveal spiral fractures across the occipital bone. This was a brutal strike. It would’ve caused extensive hemorrhaging. She might not have died right away, but without surgery, she’d have bled out in a few hours, maybe days.”

“Could she have been alive when Tanner wrapped her in plastic?” Margo asked.

“No way of knowing,” Dr. Malone said.

“Can you confirm this is Sandra Taylor?” Dawson asked.

“She meets the description on Taylor’s driver’s license. She was five foot four, small boned, blond, and Caucasian. That suggests this is Ms. Taylor; however, I pulled DNA from her back molars and sent it to the lab. DNA will work if I can find a family member to compare to. Social services are trying to track down her two siblings. I’ve also reached out to the foster care system for dental records, but no results yet.”

When kids like Sandra Taylor fell into a black hole, it was hard to pull them out. “Okay.”

“I will say this victim’s teeth were riddled with cavities, suggesting malnutrition.”

“I looked up Taylor’s file,” Margo said. “If this is Sandra Taylor, her parents died of overdoses when she was young, and she was placed in six different foster care homes.”

Too many kids who fit that profile. Each added more weight to Dawson’s shoulders. “What else can you tell me about the body?”

“Not much to say until I get my test results back,” Dr. Malone said.

“Ball’s now in our court,” Dawson said.

Outside, Margo kept pace with him, matching him stride for stride. “What are the chances that that’s not Sandra Taylor?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“But.”

“If I had to bet the mortgage, I’d say it’s her. But important not to jump to conclusions.”

“No one in the neighborhood remembers a girl fitting the victim’s description,” Margo said. “I also spoke to the high school, and no one really remembers her.”

He glanced at her. “You’ve been busy.”

“You have a problem with me being proactive?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then what’s eating you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to take this. Us.”

“Us?” She laughed. “Take it as it comes, my good man. We’re cops, professionals, and what happens off-hours is no one’s damn business.”

“Tell that to HR.”

Her keys jangled in her hand. “I won’t if you won’t.”

Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” played in the bar as Dawson settled on the stool. Retro, but appropriate. He was in a foul mood. He’d not expected to see Margo Larsen today or that she’d be assigned to the Jane Doe case. Shit. He’d been playing with fire and now was feeling the heat.

He wasn’t surprised she was sharp. Not many officers would have taken a sledgehammer to a wall on the rumor there was a body behind it. She asked good questions. Took the bull by the horns. But shit, what were the chances? “Pretty damn good, you dumb son of a bitch,” he muttered.

He called a cop buddy in Northern Virginia and asked about Margo. There’d been a long pause, and descriptors like ballbuster , steamroller , don’t ever fuck that , like grabbing a tiger by the tail rattled over the line.

Shit.

He was having trouble shaking the frustration and impotence that enveloped him now. Eventually, he’d find a way to ball up the bad shit and bury it deep, with the other atrocities that came with the job, but for now the details of the autopsy and screwing Margo were too raw and fresh. He took a long sip of beer.

The bartender set a basket of shelled peanuts in front of him. It was their nightly ritual. He was good for three beers and a large basket of peanuts. Something about the crack of the shell that was satisfying.

He angled a peanut between his index finger and thumb. Crack.

He’d told Margo to meet him here tomorrow night. Funny, he’d been so full of himself. But she’d been a random stranger. Now she was a ball-busting steamroller and his partner on this case.

The irony of their hookup wasn’t lost on him. At this point it would do little to hurt his career, but if Margo wanted to grow her own, she’d learn quickly he wasn’t the guy to help. He could barely help himself these days.

Dawson still couldn’t picture Margo in this dark, shabby place that suited him so well. He snapped a shell. And another. The pile of shells grew. In an hour he’d be back at the office piecing together all the leads accumulated in the Taylor case.

A whiff of perfume caught his attention. Not the cheaper scents that he associated with this place. Expensive. Nice. Margo. She took a seat beside him.

He didn’t look in her direction. He wasn’t anxious to let her know just how glad he was to see her. “Thought we said Tuesday night.”

“Do you turn into a pumpkin on Mondays?” She took a sip of his beer, seeming to savor the cold, salty flavor. “I have a few tidbits about Sandra Taylor, but that can wait for an hour. Ready to go?”

He forced himself to remain still. “You in a rush?”

“Well, we could braid each other’s hair and nurse this beer longer.”

That coaxed a smile. “Point taken.” He cleared out his tab and, aware a few fellow cops were watching, followed her out of the bar. Let ’em gossip. And if he lost his job over it, fine. Life moved on.

They crossed the street to the hotel and then the lobby. He punched the elevator and rode it to the fifth floor, where his room was located.

Neither spoke as they moved toward his door. As he opened it, she checked messages on her phone. The bright light in the bathroom was enough to highlight a pile of dirty clothes, pizza boxes, take-out containers in the trash cans, and stacked Styrofoam coffee cups. Tiffany’s scrapbook sat next to a laptop on the round table by the window.

The beds were made, and fresh dry cleaning hung in the closets. A football game played on the television screen because the sound of voices created the illusion someone was waiting for him. He closed the door behind him and then secured his weapon in the bedside table drawer.

She let her purse drop to the dresser and kicked off her shoes.

When he faced her, she was unbuttoning her blouse. Keeping distance between them was now a challenge. “You’re that sure of me?”

She paused and raised a brow. “We ruled out hair braiding. Want to discuss feelings? Or the case?” She unfastened another button, drawing his gaze to her full cleavage.

His throat tightened. “No.”

“Good.” She shrugged off her jacket, revealing a black lace bra that skimmed full breasts. She unfastened the zipper on her pants and shimmied out of them.

It was Christmas morning for him. And judging by the way she smiled at him, she knew it.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He allowed his gaze to linger on her body for several beats. This close to her, his skin rippled. The helpless outside chaos faded, and for this moment, he savored a sense of control. He closed the distance between them and skimmed the top of her lacy bra. “Lie on the bed.”

“How did you know I’d be there tonight?” Dawson asked. Staring at the ceiling, he casually stroked Margo’s thigh.

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Where else would you have been after a tough day?”

“Point taken. But why me?”

“Figured you’d help me blow off steam. When I attend the autopsy of a young girl, I get on edge.”

Dawson was a grinder. He’d never make chief. Now he was with a woman who’d just let him know he was a means to an end. “You knew I’d be handy, ready.”

“And you were.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.” Surprised by the rush of bitterness, he shifted the conversation. “This isn’t your first murder investigation.”

“They never get easy for me. And the more I asked around about Sandra Taylor, the angrier I got. No one cared she’d vanished.”

“What did you learn about her?”

“I knocked on doors near her foster home this afternoon. A few had vague memories of her. I’m trying to track down a couple of the kids she fostered with, but so far dead ends.”

“Anybody mention Tanner Reed?”

“No.”

He ran his hand down her leg, liking the muscled curves. And then, as much to convince himself: “Someone will remember her.”

“Ever the optimist.” Her gaze skimmed his hotel room. “Why are you still here? Don’t you think it’s time to get a big-boy apartment?”

“Wasn’t ready to jump into the next life until the door closed on the last.” His fingers rubbed over the rough edges of a burn scar on her leg. “How did you get this?”

Rather than explain, she rolled on her side, facing him so that he had a clear view of her breasts. “Long story.”

He traced the scar, mentally cataloging its dimensions. “I’m in no rush.”

“You were frowning when I entered the bar tonight. Upset that I’m on the case with you?”

“Call that shock. The frown is linked to the visit to the medical examiner. Never a fun time.”

“It’s not. Only my second autopsy.”

“Tell me about the first one.”

Not a request but an order. And she didn’t hesitate to comply. “A young girl was killed by her trafficker. He beat her to death.”

He followed the rise and fall of her chest. “Did you get a conviction?”

“Involuntary manslaughter.” The words dripped with bitterness. “Hoping the system is tougher on guys like that here.”

“Even if we identify Sandra Taylor’s killer, getting justice now is going to be tough.”

“It would be nice to prove it.”

Dawson’s mind drifted back to the high school picture of the young, smiling girl. Sandra Taylor deserved justice. “You have a reputation as a ballbuster.”

She laughed. “I know. By the way, what’s the deal with the scrapbook on the table? Secret hobby?”

“Belongs to Tiffany Patterson. Her roommate gave it to me.”

“Tiffany Patterson. The girl Tanner tried and failed to kidnap.”

“That’s a good memory.”

“Been reading up on the case.” She sat up and pressed her back to the headboard. “I learned you’re the cop that shot and killed Tanner.”

Dawson tightened his jaw. The scene still could play back in his head when he least expected it. If he’d been a second slower ... “He drew on me, didn’t get off a shot before I fired and killed him.”

“He wanted to die.”

“Tanner knew he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. I’m sorry I’m the one that gave him the easy way out.”

“There’s nothing easy about firing a weapon at someone.”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I look at the scrapbook?”

“Have at it.”

She rose and moved across the room, her stride confident, unashamed. She carried the scrapbook back to the bed, sat on the edge, and turned the pages. “Her run-in with Tanner certainly made an impression.”

“Her claim to fame.”

“She’s been in contact with Scarlett Crosby. These days, she’s looking for money so she can score,” Margo said.

“She’ll press anyone if she’s desperate enough,” Dawson said.

She closed the scrapbook and set it back on the table. As she stood there, she opened his case file, flipping through pages of notes and then the photographs taken of the items found on Taylor’s body. She held up the picture snapped of the bracelet. “Interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“Why would Sandra Taylor have a bracelet with the letters SC ?”

“Let me see.”

She walked back to the bed and handed him the image. “SC. Scarlett Crosby.”

Dawson traced the photo, irritated with himself that he’d missed this detail. “If this was Scarlett’s bracelet ...”

“Then you have a solid link between the girls. Or proof that Tanner took Scarlett’s bracelet and put it with Sandra’s body. His version of an inside joke.”

“Fuck. I missed it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. Sandra is lucky to have you. Scarlett Crosby was fortunate you intercepted Tanner’s van so quickly.”

“Lucky?”

“Most don’t give a shit about girls like that.” A practical statement riddled with practiced traces of empathy. “You’ll piece this all together.”

He’d never discussed cases with his ex because he wanted to keep the job from tainting her life. But Margo wasn’t the kind of woman who needed coddling.

Margo lay beside him, trailing her fingers over his belly and around his dick, which twitched to life instantly. Whatever this was between them, it was temporary at best. Too bad. He could get used to Margo.

When he and his wife had sex, it had been quick and practical in the latter years. A scratched itch. No talking. But Margo was in no rush. She was content to linger, listen, and her achingly intimate touch stripped the last of his reservations. Suppressed doubts bubbled to the surface. “I’m not sure I’m that smart.”

She straddled his groin. His erection hardened in anticipation as she guided it inside her.

“Is this my pep talk?” he asked.

“Is it working?”

He gripped her hips. “Maybe a little.”

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Do you feel out of control?”

His breath caught in his throat. “I do.”

Margo studied him as if she’d seen him a thousand times before. “Where are your handcuffs?”

His voice was so rough, he almost didn’t recognize it. “On my belt buckle.”

She climbed off him, leaving him feeling exposed. She moved to his pants, grabbed the cuffs from his belt, and returned to the bed, links dangling from her fingers. “Do you want my hands in the front or the back?”

On the job, he always savored the snap of the cuffs as they locked around wrists. In those moments, when he knew the threat was neutralized and he had control, relief flooded him. But the cuffs had never made their way to the bedroom. “The back.”

She snapped one silver cuff around her wrist and then clasped her hands behind her back. He reached around and locked the second cuff. He tightened it until he knew it pressed into her skin. She winced.

“Too tight?” he asked.

“No.” She rose and hovered over his erection. With her arms pinned behind her, her breasts jutted out more. He guided himself inside her.

“What next?” she asked.

“Ride me.” His whispered words were rough, raw.

Desire and orgasms were only a temporary fix. Once the glow faded, the darkness came back. But that problem existed in the future. Right now, he had a beautiful woman riding him. He ran his fingers up her flat belly and squeezed her breasts. The outside world fell away.

If life had taught him anything, it was to take one problem at a time. Let them all gang up on you at once, and they’d eat you alive.