Cut and Run(75)

“I found more fingerprints on the inside of the magazines. Since all the missing girls had arrest records, I was able to match prints to Josie Jones, Olivia Martin, and Kathy Saunders. They were all there, and it appears each wrote notes in the magazine.”

Faith watched as the technician slowly clicked through the photos of the different pages of the magazines. What I like. What I hate. Josie had started the trend, and each girl had followed suit.

She read through the notes, her throat tightening. The sets of bones all had faces and identities now. They all had stories.

“We also found several hair strands on various pages. I’ve bagged them and will run DNA against them.” Easy to assume the hair found would just belong to the girls or Garnet, but there was no telling if evidence of another suspect was involved.

When they left the room, Faith said, “Test my DNA against Garnet’s.” The idea that that man could be her biological father was nearly unbearable.

Hayden stared at her a long moment. “All right. Did you ever test your DNA against Russell McIntyre’s?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” He wouldn’t have been the first man to father a child and then adopt it. “It wasn’t a match.”



Hayden walked Faith to her car, and he was glad to have her back in the sunshine. She’d been stoic in the forensic lab, but she’d grown paler as the technician had clicked through the photographed pages.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Back to the office. I feel helpless at home or at Macy’s bedside. At least at the office I’m doing something productive.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I could say the same for you, Captain.”

“I’m used to the long hours.”

Without thinking, she reached up and brushed the strands of gray hair over his temple. He liked it when she was close and fussed over him.

“If you have time, come by my house tonight and see me.”

God, but that offer was tempting. He’d like nothing better than to bury himself in her. “I can’t make any promises.”

“I know. But if you get the chance, stop by. The chances of me sleeping are slim.”

“All right.” And then he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. She didn’t pull away but held steady. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently before she got into her car and drove off.

In his car, he sat for a moment, savoring the faint scent of her perfume. Drawing in a breath, he glanced at his cell, expecting to see a text or call from the judge’s office. When he didn’t, he was ready to hit redial when the phone rang. It was Detective Lana Franklin.

“Detective. What can I do for you?” he said.

“I have a homicide you’d be interested in seeing.” Her tone was clipped and adamant.

“Can you give me the stats? I’m on my way to another location.”

“You’ll want to detour to my scene. The victim’s name is Heather Sullivan, age forty-nine. A pay stub in her car is from Second Chances. Her trunk is filled with baby diapers and supplies.”

Heather Sullivan worked for Garnet. “I’ll be right there.”

He pulled up under the I-35 underpass to a collection of first responder vehicles. Blue and red lights flashed upon the concrete underside of the interstate. As he exited his SUV, he settled his Stetson on his head before walking toward the yellow crime scene tape where Detective Franklin stood.

“Detective Franklin,” he said.

“Lana. Thanks for coming.”

“What do you have?” he asked.

The forensic van was angled behind her, so the vehicle blocked his view of the body. A cement culvert ran under the bridge and, due to a few storms last week, remained dotted with puddles and trash. A forensic technician’s camera flashed as she moved around the body. The cars on the interstate thundered overhead, oblivious.

“Tell me what you have,” he said.

“An anonymous male caller contacted the 911 center about two hours ago. He reported the body’s discovery.”

“And he didn’t leave a name.”

“He did not. The phone he used appeared to be a burner. Untraceable.”

“Okay.” He reached in his coat pocket for black latex gloves and worked his hands into them as he followed her around the forensic van and saw the body of a woman who lay on her back, her arms outstretched. Her body had been burned over 70 percent, but her face remained intact. Through the black char, he deduced she’d worn booted heels, blue jeans, and a red shirt. Just above the burn line, he saw the tops of letters that spelled SECOND CHANCES.

Her throat had been cut multiple times, and the injuries had spilled out a halo of blood on the ground around her pale, almost translucent face. He could see her body had also been stabbed in multiple locations.

Hayden approached the body, careful not to step in the blood as he studied the victim’s rough-cut nails, now bluing at the cuticles. Rigor had set, and the limbs were rigid. Rough guess, he’d say this woman had been dead twelve to twenty-four hours.

“Heather Sullivan has lived in Austin for the last thirty years. Her car is up ahead to the left. There’s nothing remarkable about it except for the pamphlets in the trunk. They’re all focused on adoption. She even has a scrapbook filled with smiling childless couples. Ms. Sullivan is not a social worker and has no affiliation with any adoption agencies. Last we spoke, we were talking about kidnapped women whose babies had been taken. Now I have a dead woman pretending to be an adoption counselor. Hell of a coincidence.”