Cut and Run(17)

She opened a new window and quickly searched social media sites, but found no trace of Faith. Like her, Faith had no presence. She did another search and found a reference to Faith, who had appeared in the paper yesterday promoting an upcoming fundraiser for a youth shelter.

If she wasn’t this woman’s identical twin, then she was related in some way. After all these years of not resembling anyone in her family, she’d found someone who looked exactly like her. That elicited a bone-deep satisfaction.

She brushed a tear from her eye—along with any temptation to call Faith right now. First, Jack.

Focusing, Macy searched the last address Jack had visited after he’d been to the ranch. The address matched a local bar in East Austin called Second Chances. On the bar’s website she learned the place had been owned for almost thirty years by a guy named Danny Garnet. Garnet didn’t look familiar to her, and she guessed his age to be a few years younger than Jack’s. One of the postings on Garnet’s social media page promoted a Memorial Day celebration at the bar where all veterans drank for free.

“Why did Jack visit you, Garnet?”

Maybe the two had served together back in the day. Maybe they were friends. There was only one way to find out.

She rose and redressed in a fresh pair of jeans and shirt she’d crammed in her backpack very early that morning, dried her hair, and reapplied some makeup. Staring at her reflection, she realized her hands were shaking slightly as she brushed on her mascara. She flexed her fingers, willing them to settle.

“Sure, the foundation of your life might have been shot to shit,” she said to her reflection. “But you will deal like you always do.”

What had Jack used to say to her? “Toughen up, buttercup.” The last time he’d told her that, she’d called him during her FBI training at Quantico. The O-course was kicking her ass, and she’d wanted Pop to lend a sympathetic ear. When he’d uttered the words, she’d told him to shut up. He’d laughed, and then she’d started laughing. The next day she had made it through under the six-minute deadline.

She snapped a picture of her driver’s license, as well as her FBI identification, and then for good measure a selfie. She sent all three to her computer. She opened an email, dragged in the pictures, and typed in Faith’s business email address.

My name is Macy Crow. I’m Jack Crow’s daughter. We’ve spoken only through voicemail, but we need to talk in person.

This might seem out of left field, but I believe we’re related. I’m adopted and have been searching for my biological roots for several years. My adoptive father, Jack Crow, passed away on Sunday, and ironically, you were the pathologist who took care of him.

I’ve attached two addresses that Jack left me on a prepaid phone I found at his trailer. I’ve been to the one in the country, and I’ve got a gut feeling something very wrong happened there.

Macy Crow

P.S. A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ve enclosed a few of mine.

Instead of sending the email now, she scheduled it for five p.m. tomorrow. The delay gave her an out in case she got cold feet or had a chance to have this conversation with Faith in person. And given she just might have found three graves, she had to at least make contact with Faith in case it went sideways at Garnet’s.

She tugged her boots back on, but opted to leave her computer behind on her desk, along with Jack’s keys and the phone he’d left her. Again, if it all went bad at the bar or the email failed to send or whatever else could go wrong, because Murphy’s Law always bit hard, the cops would have the addresses.

Macy checked her service weapon before settling it back in its holster on her hip and pulling on her jacket. She checked her backpack for her wallet and ID as she always did and left the room. She placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.

At one in the morning, she stood in the lobby and ordered a car, knowing the credit card purchase would create a digital trail that, God willing, any rookie cop could follow. The car arrived five minutes later, and she settled in the back seat, her backpack beside her. She watched the lights of the city race past as they drove east and toward the bar on Third Street.

When the driver pulled up, she found Second Chances to be fairly unimpressive from the outside. The windows were small, the front door solid, and a red neon OPEN sign flashed above the entrance.

Out of the car, she drew in a breath, crossed the street to the tavern’s entrance, and pulled open its heavy wooden door.

It was a classic Austin bar featuring a funky decor that included local art. The ceiling was painted a deep blue and covered in white clouds and stars. The round tables were painted different colors, and the chairs looked as if they had been sourced from multiple locations. Every stick of furniture in the bar looked as if it had been repurposed. What might have looked shabby in the daylight passed for charming at night.

A country western song rumbled from a jukebox as the heavy scents of cigarette smoke and whiskey mingled. Conversation buzzed as a flat-screen television broadcast a boxing match as she crossed to the bar made of white oak and covered in a thick laminate.

Dozens of house-brand liquor bottles were shelved against a mirrored wall reflecting bright task lighting. Beside the bar was a corkboard that featured local sales, festivals, and even a reward for information on a missing girl named Paige Sheldon. Six years on the human trafficking squad had her studying the girl’s face and name. The girl had vanished almost three months ago, and Macy knew from experience that the chances of finding her alive were almost nil. She tried not to think about what happened to pretty girls taken by monsters.