When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(9)

“Here’s what we know,” D.D. started without preamble. “Skeletal remains were discovered two and a half months ago in the mountains of Georgia.”

“Georgia,” Keith interrupted, giving Flora a meaningful glance. Both Flora and D.D. glared at him.

“Outside the town of Niche,” D.D. continued, “which is some quaint little community that exists to house and feed hikers doing the Appalachian Trail. Too small a town for that to be Jacob’s home base.” She eyed Flora pointedly.

“He’d stand out,” Flora filled in. “A long-haul trucker with a raging drug habit and a lack of personal hygiene. Not ideal small-town material.”

“Exactly. The body, however, was identified as Lilah Abenito—”

Keith abruptly pulled his laptop from his bag, fired it to life. Notes, of course. Now D.D. remembered. Keith spent all their encounters pecking away at his computer like some rabid chicken. The man practically lived hardwired. She often wondered what Flora, who had a strictly hands-on approach to problem solving, thought of having a techie boyfriend.

Keith got his laptop booted up. D.D. continued: “Lilah Abenito was declared missing fifteen years ago. She is one of the first victims connected with Jacob Ness. Given the find, FBI agent Kimberly Quincy is forming a federal taskforce to investigate Lilah Abenito’s murder, and look for further evidence of Jacob Ness’s past activities.”

“What do you know so far?” Flora asked. She hadn’t taken a seat, but was standing in the conference room, gripping the back of a chair.

“Not much. But now that this case has been declared a priority, given its connection to Jacob Ness, everything will be revisited, including the forensic anthropologist’s initial findings. While us taskforce members”—she looked at Flora and Keith—“will be heading to Mosley County. Our job is to re-examine the gravesite—and all trails, communities, and activities around it.”

“I’m guessing this tiny town isn’t off a major freeway,” Flora said.

“No. Up in the mountains and off the beaten path. Certainly not off the kind of roads a long-haul trucker such as Jacob Ness would be traveling for work.”

“An old grave makes it harder to find evidence,” Keith was musing out loud. “On the other hand, fifteen years ago Ness’s crime spree was still in its infancy. Means he probably wasn’t as refined about covering his tracks. He hadn’t perfected his technique.”

“This is a unique opportunity,” D.D. agreed. “SSA Kimberly Quincy has invited us all to join the taskforce. Which, I don’t have to tell you, is quite an honor for two civilians.”

“She needs me,” Flora said flatly. “No one knows Jacob like I do. No one else survived to tell the tale.”

“I didn’t do so shabby tearing about his computer in December,” Keith echoed. “Certainly I learned more in forty-eight hours than the FBI did in six years.”

They were both right, and D.D. knew it.

“We’ll head to Atlanta tonight,” she informed them. “First taskforce meeting will be bright and early in the morning, and our work starts immediately after that.”

Keith didn’t speak. He simply shut his laptop and rose to standing, clearly having made his decision.

As for Flora, D.D. knew there was never any doubt. Wherever Jacob Ness went, now as before, Flora Dane followed. It was both an impressive show of strength and a sad testimony of survivorship.

“You have the tickets?” Flora asked.

“Our Delta flight leaves out of Logan, nine oh two P.M.”

“We’ll see you at the airport.”





CHAPTER 4





DO YOU HAVE A NAME?

I can almost remember mine. It hovers on the edge of my memory. I lost it the night the Bad Man came, and the gun exploded. Then my mother was gone, and my words went with her.

I see a picture. Hazy, shimmering around the edges. Sometimes I get a fragrance, like a flower. Other times the image dims, becomes silvery like the moon. Then I can hear my mother’s voice, soft and low. Humming. Walking around the house, washing our clothes, stirring the pots on the stove, she was always humming. Sometimes, I try to hum again. I place my hand against my throat, feeling for the vibration. I have a memory of sound, of words, of lips that worked and a mouth that spoke. But no matter how much I focus on my mother’s hum, will her happiness into my throat, I can’t make anything come out.

The Bad Man came. My mother told me to run but I didn’t. And our pack of two is no more.

Girl. That is what they call me now. Girl, do this. Girl, wash that. Girl, come here. Girl, go away.

I picture the bad people as black shadows with narrow eyes. The men, the women, they all appear the same to me: a mass of darkness I walk among every day, fetching this, tending that. I keep my head down, my feet silent as I hobble through the halls, dragging my weak leg behind me.

I have a scar. Long and searing across my temple into my hairline. And my left eye and the corner of my mouth droop, my face appearing slightly melted. But I don’t mind my scar. In the middle of the night, I trace the thick ridges with my finger over and over again. This is my mother. The last piece of her I will ever have. Like the special pottery she had from her own mother. You don’t have to own many things, you just have to have the right things.