CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ella had been staring at her laptop screen so long she half expected the damn thing to blink first. She"d been at it for hours, burning through databases like a chain smoker on death row. Her world had narrowed to the glowing screen in front of her and the three names etched in flesh.

Julie. Amber. Harley.

Family names, had to be. Unless their John Doe was some kind of sicko with a thing for stripper monikers. But Ella"s gut said differently, and her gut had a Ph.D. in reading stiffs. Those names were etched with love, not lust. The kind of permanent reminder a man carries when his heart walks around outside his body, wrapped up in pigtails and training bras.

Her eyes felt like they"d been rolled in sand, her back was screaming bloody murder, and her ass had gone numb about two hours ago. But Ella Dark didn"t know the meaning of quit. She"d crack this nut if it killed her, and at this rate, it just might.

Missing persons came up dry. She"d checked every database from here to Timbuktu, cross-referencing those three names against every Jane, John, and Jimmy Doe in the system. Nothing.

Social media had been a wasteland. She"d combed through every high-profile network she could think of, even goddamn LinkedIn, looking for any combination of those names. Either this family was living off the grid, Amish-style, or they were ghosts haunting the margins of their victim"s skin.

Next, she dove into the criminal records. Ella figured that by some small miracle, one of them might have a rap sheet, but apparently this was the Brady Bunch of tattoo subjects. Not so much as a parking ticket or an overdue library book to anyone named Julie, Amber or Harley within twenty miles in the past few years.

The sex offender registry was another dead end. Ella wasn"t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated. On the one hand, at least their vic wasn"t some kiddie-diddler who"d gotten his just desserts. On the other, it left her right back at square one, up the creek without so much as a pool noodle.

She was eyeballs-deep in the DMV database, usually good for at least a chuckle at the godawful license photos, when Luca appeared at her elbow. He was brandishing a styrofoam cup that smelled like it had been brewed in Satan"s jockstrap.

‘Thought you could use a pick-me-up,' he said, waving the cup under her nose like a fan trying to revive a swooning Southern belle.

‘Thanks. You didn't run the tap, did you?'

‘I did not. This is pure Evian. I checked missing persons, by the way. No mention of any forty-something male missing between here and Bristol.'

She took a swig of coffee and immediately regretted it. Christ, it tasted like someone had wrung out a mechanic"s oil rag into a mug. But it was hot and caffeinated, and right now, that was all that mattered.

Ella set the cup aside, making a mental note to use it as paint stripper later. ‘So we"ve got bupkis.'

‘The king of bupkis.'

Ella laced herself with more caffeine then drummed her fingers on the table. If the usual channels were coming up empty, time to get creative. She dove into public records, property taxes, anything that might ping off those three names.

She checked business licenses, figuring maybe one of them owned a shop or a restaurant. Nothing. School records came up empty too, not a single Amber or Harley enrolled in any school around these parts. She even dug into marriage licenses, thinking maybe Julie was a blushing bride who"d recently taken the plunge. But apparently, love was dead in this neck of the woods, because that well was dry as the riverbed this vic had cropped up in.

Ella was about ready to put her fist through the screen when a thought hit her like a slug to the solar plexus. The voter registration database. It was a long shot, but at this point she was ready to take a ouija board to a cemetery if it meant breaking this case open.

She input the search parameters, held her breath as the system churned. For a long moment there was nothing but the whir of her laptop"s fan and her own thundering pulse in her ears.

Then – paydirt.

‘Got you, you son of a bitch,' she breathed, sitting up so fast her vertebrae popped like firecrackers.

Luca ambled over. ‘Give us some good news.'

There it was, black and white and beautiful as a supermodel"s smile. A family in Bristol, registered to vote at 1255 Sycamore Lane. Julie Ayers, 42. Amber Ayers, 19. Harley Ayers, 17.

And Marcus Ayers, 45.

Ella"s heart kicked against her ribs like it was trying to break out and run a marathon. This was it. This had to be their guy. Unless there was another family in Bristol with the exact same names tattooed on some other poor schmuck"s arm, in which case she was gonna need a lot more coffee and possibly a lobotomy.

‘Marcus Ayers,' Ella said. ‘Find out what you can about him.'

Luca jumped back to his laptop. ‘On it. What d'you wanna know?'

"Tax records, employment history, what color underwear he wore on Tuesdays. I want it all, and I want it now."

Luca was already in motion. ‘One Freddy Mercury special coming up.'

Ella ignored the quip, too busy digging deeper into Marcus Ayers" digital footprint. Middle management type from the looks of it. Civil engineer, steady job with the city. No social media presence to speak of, which explained why her earlier searches came up empty. Just another Joe Schmoe trying to make his way in the world, keeping his head down and his nose clean.

So why the hell did he end up face down in a dried-up riverbed?

She was about to dive into his financials, see if maybe he"d been playing fast and loose with the city"s coffers, when Luca banged his hand on the table like a drumroll. She'd only ever seen him do that when the Celtics landed a three-pointer.

‘Ella, you"re gonna want to see this. Might want to sit down first, though.'

‘I am sitting down.' She wheeled over to his side of the table and gawped at his screen. It was a news article, dated about a year back. Some puff piece about infrastructure improvements in Bristol, the kind of thing that usually put her to sleep faster than a triple dose of NyQuil.

Ricky goddamn Toledo.

The headline screamed at her in 72-point font: ‘COUNCILMAN TOLEDO brEAKS GROUND ON NEW DAM PROJECT.'

And right underneath, in slightly smaller type that might as well have been written in neon: ‘City Engineer Marcus Ayers to Oversee Construction.'

Ella"s blood ran cold, then hot, then did a little jig somewhere in between. Two vics, both with ties to that damn dam. It couldn"t be a coincidence. No way, no how. Not unless the universe had suddenly developed a sick sense of humor and a fondness for drowning civil servants.

‘Son of a bitch,' she breathed. ‘We've got ourselves a pattern.'

‘Looks like somebody"s got a bone to pick with the boys from Bristol. And they"re picking it with extreme prejudice.'

Ella pushed back from the desk. They had motive now, or at least the beginnings of one. Somebody with a grudge against the dam project, against the men who"d brought it to fruition. Someone who"d watched their town dry up and wither while Bristol flourished, and decided to even the score.

But why now? Why wait until the damage was done, the town already strangled and left to rot on the vine? Why not sabotage the project from the get-go, or target the bigwigs while the cement was still wet?

No. There had to be more to it. Some piece of the puzzle they were still missing.

If Ayers and Toledo were connected through the dam, there had to be others. Other bigwigs, other decision makers who"d had a hand in Liberty Grove"s slow death. A whole cabal of suits and ties who"d signed off on choking the life out of a town for the sake of progress and profit.

Two bodies. Two men connected to the dam that was slowly choking the life out of Liberty Grove. A town full of folks with motive to kill, and a killer with a flair for the poetic. Drowning the men responsible for their drought, a beautiful symmetry that made her skin crawl.

‘Come on. We need to tell Marcus' wife the news. Then we need to find out who else might have had a hand in building this dam.'

There were stones yet unturned, leads yet unchased. And somewhere out there, a killer was watching, waiting. Planning their next move in this deadly game of cat and mouse.

But Ella Dark wasn"t about to let them win.

Virginia was her state, and she'd be damned if she let a serial killer roam free here.

Game on.