Chapter Seven DAWSON

Chapter Seven

D AWSON

Saturday, July 13, 2024

8:00 a.m.

Dawson arrived at the small cinder block house on Pretty Lake Avenue by the banks of Little Creek. The grass in the yard was patchy, and what was there was weedy and tall. A couple of kids’ bikes lay on the ground, two cars were parked in the gravel driveway, and the trash cans overflowed.

At the front door, he knocked on the metal security screen door. Inside, he could hear a television and then footsteps. When the door opened, he stood face-to-face with a woman in her early sixties. He’d met her at this house a decade ago, when he had darker hair and a slimmer build.

He held up his badge. “My name is Detective Kevin Dawson.”

“I remember you. You asked me about Sandra.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re Betty Gardner? Sandra’s foster mother.” She’d gained weight, and her salt-and-pepper hair had washed out to pure white.

“Yes. You come to tell me you found Sandy after all this time?” Mrs. Gardner shook her head slowly. “It’s not good, is it?”

“No, ma’am. We believe we found Sandra Taylor’s body,” he said.

Raising her chin, she drew in her breath. Her fingers slipped into a pocket, and she removed a rumpled packet of cigarettes. She flicked a red plastic lighter and then pressed the flame to the raw tobacco edge. “Well, at least I know now, don’t I? I’m sorry I couldn’t help that girl. I tried, but she was stubborn and said she had all the answers.”

“Kids can be tough.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. Mrs. Gardner had had seven foster kids at the time Sandra had vanished.

Mrs. Gardner’s hands trembled as she raised the cigarette to thin lips. Smoke drifted out of her mouth and nose. “I been waiting for a decade for this news. I’ve imagined it a million times. Part of me hoped she’d just run off and found a new life. It’s not easy working with kids like her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know, her mother and father both died of overdoses. I guess expecting her to recover from something like that was asking too much.”

He’d heard versions of this story too many times. “When was the last time you saw her?” Time had a way of changing answers. What had seemed pressing or threatening in the past often faded. He knew Mr. Gardner had died two years ago.

“We fought.” She shook her head. “I blamed her for the trouble in the house, but looking back I see she was just being a moody teenager.”

“Did she ever run away?” Dawson asked.

“Three or four times. Always found a place to sleep on a friend’s couch. After a few days she always came home.”

“Did your late husband abuse her?”

“Not in that way.” She puffed. “But he hit her. Sandra hated this house. Hated her foster brothers and sisters and hated her job. Always stirring chaos. She despised her life.”

Which would have made her an easy mark for a charming young man. He checked his notes. “You didn’t call in her missing person report for almost two weeks.”

She shook her head. “My late husband told me to wait. He said she’d come back. I did contact her friends, and no one had seen her. And then her work called and said she hadn’t shown in two days. That’s when I knew something was off.”

But Mrs. Gardner wasn’t that concerned because she hadn’t called the cops for another ten more days. “How did Sandra do in school?”

She laughed. “Terrible. If East Norfolk High School had a Most Truant Student award, she’d have won.”

“Did Sandra ever mention a girl at her high school named Scarlett Crosby?” Same high school and possibly the same kidnapper—the girls had to have crossed paths.

“I’ve heard Scarlett’s name, but Sandra never mentioned her.”

He jotted notes. “You said in your report that Sandra was dating Tanner Reed.”

“One date with him. But she was seeing a few guys. Tanner was the best of the lot, if you can believe it. I wasn’t crazy about their age difference and told her that. She said the years didn’t matter.” Mrs. Gardner shook her head. “I’ve seen Tanner’s kind before. Men like him use girls like her and pass them on to their friends.”

Memories of Dawson’s initial interview with Mrs. Gardner sharpened into focus. “You met Tanner Reed, right?”

“Yeah. He dropped her off. Gave me his card. Said he did work well and cheap. Pretty and charming. I’ll give him that. But it was a matter of time before he knocked her up.”

“Sandra was pregnant?”

“I don’t know that. But I could see it coming. Sandra and I didn’t talk much those last few weeks.” Tears welled in her eyes.

He could still picture Tanner standing by his black truck, the dustless tools organized in military precision, the man smelling faintly of sawdust. Tanner had been so relaxed when Dawson had shown him a picture of Sandra. He’d admitted he’d met her at Mike’s, they’d talked and flirted, but that was the end of it. Given a redo, could he have picked up on the red flags?

“I called her phone over and over, but she didn’t answer. I left her dozens of messages. I also called Mike’s Diner, but no one had seen her.”

“She worked at Mike’s Diner for five months.”

“A few nights a week.”

“Did she meet Tanner at the diner?” Dawson asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But the cops did contact you after Tanner’s death, correct?”

“Yeah. Sandy had been gone five months at that point. The cops thought Sandy’s case might be linked to Tanner, but no one proved anything.”

By then Dawson had been waiting for the review board’s ruling on his shooting of Tanner. He’d been forced to cool his heels on administrative leave for three months until the Justified verdict had been issued.

Mrs. Gardner inhaled deeply. “I put up dozens of missing persons posters. All the crank calls. People can be cruel.”

The posters had lingered in restaurant windows and stapled to utility poles until weather, time, and people shredded them all. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Where did you find Sandra?” Mrs. Gardner asked.

“In a house that Tanner had once renovated.”

“A house? Where? Please tell me not a basement.”

“Not a basement.” He still wasn’t ready to release any more case details.

“Do you think Tanner killed her?”

“I need more evidence to make that statement.” He believed Tanner had killed Sandra, but all the assumptions in the world didn’t add up to proof.

“How are you going to prove anything after all this time?”

“Time can help shake things loose in a cold case.” He removed a card from his pocket. When she didn’t open the door, he tucked it into the grate of the security door. “Contact me if you remember any new detail.”

“Call me if you find anything.”

“You’ll be the first.” When he looked back at the house, the solid door was closed, and his card remained stuck in the grate.

He drove to Mike’s Diner and seated himself at a booth. The 1950s retro vibe, including dull chrome, red vinyl seats, and booth jukeboxes, hadn’t changed in the last decade. The only difference he could see was that the laminated menus had been replaced by a QR code.

He scanned the code and was reading the lunch selections when a waitress came up. She was midforties, slender, and wore her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her name badge read Tonja .

“What can I get you?” Tonja asked.

He pulled out his badge. “A soda and answers to a few questions about an old case.”

“This connected to Tiffany?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “No one who works here doesn’t know about Tiffany’s drama. She sure talked about it a lot. Always looking for an angle to make money off the incident.”

“Remember Sandra Taylor?”

“Another example of pure foolishness.”

He closed out the menu app. “What can you tell me about Sandra?”

“Sweet kid. Kind of naive. Flighty. Mike let her work for cash a few nights a week.”

“Did she ever interact with Tanner here?”

“Sure. Everyone liked him. He was a regular. He drove Sandra home once after a shift. I happened to be walking out and stopped to say hi to Tanner. Great tipper.”

“When was this?”

“I think it was late March. It was right after spring break.”

No one had shared this with him in 2014. “Tanner remained a regular customer at the diner, right?”

“He came in a few times a week. He met his girlfriend here.”

Dawson checked his notes. “Lynn Yeats.”

“They met for breakfast right up until that last day.”

While Scarlett, and possibly Sandra, had been trapped in Tanner’s basement, Tanner was here, eating eggs and toast and shooting the shit.

“Did you ever see Tanner with any other woman here?”

“Not on my shift.”

Dawson showed her Scarlett’s original sketch of Della. “How about her?”

She studied the image. “Not really his type.”

Killers could be creatures of habit. They chose the same kind of victim, hunted in the same places, and dumped bodies in familiar locations.

“Were you here the day Scarlett lured Tiffany to the alley?”

“I wasn’t working that shift, but the owner was here then.”

Scarlett Crosby had been rescued on September 2. “And the owner is where?”

“I’ll get him.”

“Thanks.”

He sat back, his gaze scanning the front entrance, the breakfast bar, and the door that led to the back room and the lot behind it. He’d seen the security footage of a fifteen-year-old Scarlett walking through the front door. Wide eyed with fear, her body tense, her hands clenched. Nothing like the woman he’d met on Thursday.

Scarlett had told the cops that Tanner had already picked out Tiffany. Clearly, he’d been watching her when he ate his meals at the diner. Though Dawson had told Mrs. Gardner he needed evidence, in his mind Tanner had also chosen Sandra from this diner, kidnapped her, and killed her.

“Can I help you?”

Dawson looked up toward the deeply lined face of a burly man standing by his booth. He was wearing a Mike’s Diner T-shirt, and his long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Mike Hart?”

“That’s right.”

“Like to have a seat?”

Mike glanced over his shoulder at the crowded bar. “It’s going to have to be quick. Lunch rush is on the way.”

Dawson reached in his pocket and pulled out a picture of Sandra Taylor. “Remember her?”

“She used to work here. It’s been a while.”

“Ten years. Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Employees come and go here all the time. I barely remember last week, let alone ten years ago.”

Dawson showed Mike a picture of Tiffany. “Remember the day she was almost kidnapped?”

“I’ll never forget it. Labor Day weekend. I was working the griddle that day because the cook hadn’t shown up. I called out to Tiffany for an order and saw that she wasn’t at the counter or in the dining room. I thought she’d gone to the alley for a smoke break. I remember being pissed. And then I heard a scream.”

“It was Tiffany?”

“I don’t know. She said later it was that Scarlett chick. Either way, I ran out, my spatula still in my hand. Tiffany just about ran me over when she came flying in through the back door. She was screaming we needed to call the cops.”

“You placed that call, correct?”

“I did. And then I went out into the alley and saw Tanner Reed punch Scarlett. She dropped like a stone. He tossed her limp body in the back of his van and took off. I got the license plate.”

That’s what had led to the BOLO and the confrontation miles from here. “What did Tiffany tell you about the event?”

“At first, she didn’t have much to say. She was in shock. But as time went on, she seemed to remember more, especially when a reporter was calling.”

Memory was an odd phenomenon. It wasn’t as reliable as people wanted to think. Minds weren’t steel traps and most leaked. Folks also tended to embellish their memories with emotions or extraneous information later linked to the event. “How did her story change?”

“Tiffany was convinced that other girl was in trouble the minute she walked into the diner. Described her as thin, pale, and clearly nervous. No one else in the diner noticed the kid. Like I said, it was a busy day, and we were all going full tilt. I never saw Tiffany slipping out the back door.”

“No one spoke to this girl, Scarlett?”

“No.”

“What about Tanner Reed, the man driving the van?”

“He was a regular. I liked the guy.”

A bell rang in the kitchen, and Mike raised a hand, signaling he was on his way. “Why all the questions now? Did you find a dead body or something?”

“We believe we’ve found Sandra Taylor’s body.”

Mike’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. You think Tanner did it?”

“I can’t prove it. Just following up old leads. When did you see Tiffany last?”

“A couple of months ago, maybe last year. She hasn’t worked here in years but still stops by.”

“Do you have a number where I can reach Tiffany? She’s not answering her cell.”

Mike pulled out his phone and opened his contacts. He showed Dawson Tiffany’s information. “That’s my most recent update.”

“That matches what I have.”

Mike shifted. “I need to get back to work. Any other questions?”

“Did Sandra or Tiffany ever talk about Scarlett Crosby, the girl in the van?”

“Tiffany said she calls her when she needs money. Why she’d call Scarlett of all people, I don’t know.” Mike leaned forward. “I hear that Scarlett girl had that syndrome that makes victims attach to the kidnapper.”

“Stockholm syndrome. Scarlett’s actions don’t match the definition.” Dawson didn’t doubt that Scarlett had suffered while she was Tanner’s captive. She’d been grossly underweight, malnourished, and badly battered when she’d arrived at the emergency room. But in all her interviews, she’d never expressed empathy for her captor or his goals.

“What about Della? You ever meet anyone by that name?”

“That’s the make-believe girl, right?”

“So far.”

According to multiple police interviews, Scarlett had asked repeatedly about Della on the way to the hospital. She’d never mentioned Sandra.

By the time the cops had located Tanner’s home via a title search, they’d discovered the house had burned to the ground. Witnesses reported hearing explosions before the fire. If there’d been any evidence of other girls, it had been incinerated.

Ultimately, there’d been no missing persons reports matching Della’s description. Social workers had decided that Della was a figment of Scarlett’s imagination. Her eighty-eight-day imprisonment and torture had been too much for her to endure and she’d created Della as a coping mechanism.

It struck him as odd that after a decade, Scarlett still clung to Della. “Right. Thanks for your time.” He handed Mike a business card.

Mike flicked the edge with a calloused thumb. “I’ll call if I hear from Tiffany.”

“Thanks.”

As Dawson left the busy diner, it occurred to him that the day Tiffany and Scarlett had first collided had been a warm day like this. Summer might have been winding down, but the air had been hot and sunny.

The bells on the front door jingled, and he looked up to see a couple of young girls enter and move toward the bar. No one else looked toward the door or the girls, just as they hadn’t when Scarlett first entered.

Outside, he walked down the side walkway toward the back alley. It was long and wide enough for one vehicle at a time. The wall overlooking the area behind the diner was windowless. There was a security camera, but it looked new. According to the reports, there’d been no back lot cameras ten years ago. A regular like Tanner would have known that. He’d been here enough because he was scoping out the location.

Dawson crossed cracked asphalt that fed into a parking lot, stood at the edge, and tried to visualize Tanner speeding away. When dispatch had issued a BOLO on the van, he’d been close enough and had caught the call. Lights on, he’d jammed his foot on the accelerator. He’d caught sight of the van when it suddenly veered off the road and crashed. Tanner had stumbled free of the wreckage, gun drawn. Dawson fired. Suspect down. And the broken girl in the back of the van had been found.

Weary of chasing ghosts, he got in his vehicle and drove back to the station. Out of his car, he was looking at his phone, lost in the puzzle of Sandra Taylor, when he walked straight into a woman. She stumbled back and tried to resettle her balance.

He reached out to steady her. A rich perfume wrapped around him. His gaze skimmed full breasts. He grew hard. Margo Larsen.

“Sorry,” he said, releasing her and sliding his hand into his pocket.

“Deep in thought, Dawson?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

A faint smile tipped the edges of her lips. Green eyes softened with amusement as she took in his befuddled reaction. “No worries. What has you so deep in thought?”

“Chasing stale leads in the Sandra Taylor case.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing. Sandra Taylor vanished, and no one noticed.”

Margo shook her head. “I worked human trafficking in Northern and Central Virginia. Heard similar stories too many times. And technically she remains a Jane Doe.”

Jane Doe. Margo was right. The wrapped body hadn’t been formally identified as Sandra Taylor. A driver’s license was helpful but not definitive. “You have any doubts she’s Sandra?”

“No. But all the t’s need to be crossed, right?” she asked.

“Right.”

“Keep me posted. That case is going to be hard to forget. Any word yet from dispatch who called in the tip?”

“Caller used a burner phone. They’re trying to pin the call’s location. That might help.” All numbers pinged through a cell tower. Find the tower and then the address.

“I’m here if you need help.” Margo smiled, and when she continued down the street, his gaze drifted to her round, hard ass. She wore fitted slacks, a lightweight collared shirt, and heeled boots.

He couldn’t hide his admiration as she vanished around the corner. “Too much time on your own, Dawson. Too much time.”