Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(36)
“Yeah.”
“Were they friends?”
“Shit, no. Cindy had to be angling for something. My guess is it was money or test answers. Cindy was never nice unless there was a good reason for it.”
“Where did you see Cindy talking to Tobi?”
“Next to the new field house, I guess. It was after one of the games. Only reason I remember was because Cindy saw me, smiled, and tugged at her top.”
“What do you think happened to Cindy?”
“I heard she was living in Arizona. Someone said she had married a rich guy.”
California, Colorado, and now Arizona. No one really knew where Cindy had landed when she’d left Deep Run. “You believe that was true?”
“Shit, who knows? Probably. She was hot and she liked the finer things.” Another inhale. “Why do you care about Cindy?”
“Because you just told me she was with Tobi Turner shortly before they both vanished. Anything that relates to Tobi is important to me.”
“Cindy was seen with half the school those last couple of weeks. She was all about Bruce and the Dream Team going to the finals. She wanted her big brother to go all the way and take her along with him. Bruce was her ticket out of the trailer park.”
The Dream Team had been near gods in the weeks leading up to the championship game. A lot of wrongs, including rape kits, could have easily been swept under the carpet so they could keep playing and winning. “Tell me about the bonfires.”
“They were like a good luck ritual.” He shrugged. “None of us wanted to do anything to break our winning streak that year.”
“Like a lucky rabbit’s foot?” Nevada asked.
“Our routine never changed. We liked the big blazes burning in the woods and the shots of Fireball the night before a game. The coach knew about them. He said the bonfires were our chance to incinerate any fears we had. There was no room for doubt on the field.”
“That would have been Coach Medina.”
“That’s right. I heard he died a couple of years ago. Heart attack.”
“Medina and Greene were tight, right?”
“Yeah. They played ball together back in the day. Greene liked to stop by practice, and they’d shoot the shit.”
“The boys on the team stuck by each other. Kind of like Band of Brothers.”
“Yeah, we had each other’s back on and off the field. That’s why we did so well.”
“Would you have covered for each other to protect the team?”
Paul ground his cigarette butt into the dirt. “That bond broke a long time ago.”
“Why’s that?”
He sniffed. “I called around to some of the guys when I was arrested. None of them stepped up.”
“That must have stung.”
“Sure as shit did. So I’m not protecting anyone.”
Nevada wasn’t sure he believed Paul. “Good to know you have an open mind. Make your parole officer proud, and keep thinking about those last days with Tobi and Cindy. We’ll talk again soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday, November 19, 2:45 a.m.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Macy woke after two hours of sleep. She spent the next thirty minutes rolling around on her back, then to one side and then the next. She punched her pillow. Did deep-breathing exercises. But slumber danced out of reach.
She stared at the shadows crisscrossing the ceiling. The idea of watching 1980s sitcoms while she waited for the sun reminded her of the long nights recovering in the hospital. It was this side of hell.
When the clock on the nightstand clicked over to 2:46 a.m., she cursed and rose. She glanced back at the rumpled bedsheets. Would she ever get a decent night’s sleep again? God, how she missed it.
She padded to the bathroom, flipped on the shower, and stripped. When the steam rose up, she stepped under the spray and let the heat work into her stiff muscles. Finally, she unwrapped the small bar of soap and washed.
She thought about the evidence boxes from the rapes and the Turner case. It wouldn’t hurt to go through them.
Macy shut off the water and toweled off. Wiping away the condensation from the mirror, she caught her reflection and groaned. She flexed her bicep. Despite a couple of weeks of moderate CrossFit classes, the muscle tone hadn’t returned. Her stomach was almost concave and her hips too narrow. She plucked at the awkward spikes of blond hair and eyed the jagged red scar along her leg. The blotchy road rash on her hip and side didn’t help either.
“Jesus, Crow,” she muttered. “You look like the experiment Frankenstein got wrong.” It was either accept her life as it was or cry. And she didn’t have time to cry.
Determined not to be vain, she set up the coffee maker, and while it gurgled, she dressed in clean clothes. She ran her fingers through her hair, knowing a real cut had to be in her future. She called the sheriff’s office and asked the dispatcher about getting the files, which were housed in a storeroom on site.
Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out into the cool night air, backpack on shoulder, coffee and keys in one hand, the other free. As she always did, she paused and surveyed the parking lot, searching for any sign that something wasn’t right. When she was certain she was safe, she pressed her key fob. The lights on her vehicle winked, and the door locks clicked open. After tossing in her bag, she got behind the wheel, doors quickly locked, and started the engine. She cranked the heat.