Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(100)
She cleared her throat. “Okay. Any particular reason—”
“Take Martinez with you. She’s got the location and she’s on her way to your house, ETA ten minutes.”
Tara checked her sports watch.
“Stay off your phone,” he added. “You understand? I need discretion on this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one more thing, Rushing.”
She waited.
“Don’t let the yokels jerk you around.”
* * *
Emergency vehicles lined the side of the road—sheriff’s units, an ambulance, a red pickup truck with CCFD painted on the door. A khaki-clad deputy in a ten-gallon hat waved them down.
Tara handed her ID through the window. “Special Agent Tara Rushing, FBI.”
He examined her creds, then ducked his head down and peered into the window as M.J. held up her badge.
He hesitated before passing Tara’s ID back. “Pull around to the right there. Watch the barricades.”
Tara pulled around as instructed and parked beside a white crime scene van.
M.J. got out first, attracting immediate notice from the huddle of lawmen milling beside the red pickup. They looked her up and down, taking in her tailored gray slacks and crisp white button-down. Then again, maybe it was her curves they were noticing, or the lush dark hair that cascaded down her back.
Tara pushed open her door. Tall and willowy, she attracted stares, too, but for a different reason. She was still jocked up from the raid in tactical pants and Oakley assault boots, with handcuffs tucked into her waistband and her Glock snugged against her hip. Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She grabbed her FBI windbreaker from the backseat, and the men eyed her coolly as she zipped into it.
Another deputy hustled over.
“Who’s in charge of this crime scene?” she asked, flashing her creds.
He looked her ID over. The man was short and stocky and smelled like vomit.
“That’d be Sheriff Ingram.” He cast a glance behind him, where the light show continued deep in the woods.
“I’d like a word with him.”
He looked at her.
“Please.”
He darted a glance at M.J., then traipsed off down a narrow trail marked with yellow scene tape. The men continued to stare, but Tara ignored them and surveyed her surroundings. Someone had hooked a camping lantern to a nail on a nearby tree, illuminating a round clearing with a crude fire pit at the center. Old tires and tree stumps surrounded the pit, along with beer cans and cigarette butts. Someone had cordoned off the area with more yellow tape and placed evidence markers near the cans and butts.
Another khaki uniform approached her, no hat this time. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Sheriff Ingram?”
A brisk nod.
“Special Agent Tara Rushing.” She showed her ID again, but he didn’t look. “And Special Agent Maria Jose Martinez.”
If he was surprised the FBI had shown up at his crime scene, he didn’t show it.
“We’re here at the request of Judge Wyatt Mooring,” M.J. added.
He glanced at her, then back at Tara.
With his brawny build and high-and-tight haircut, Sheriff Ingram looked like a Texas good old boy. But Tara didn’t want to underestimate him. His eyes telegraphed intelligence, and he seemed to be carefully weighing his options. He stepped closer and rested his hands on his gun belt.
“I got a homicide.” He nodded toward the woods. “Female victim. No ID, no clothes, no vehicle. Long story short, I don’t have a lot.”
His gaze settled on Tara, and her shoulders tensed. She could feel something coming.
“What I do have is an abandoned Lexus down at Silver Springs Park,” he said. “Registered to Catalina Reyes.”
“Catalina Reyes,” Tara repeated.
“That’s right. She was last seen there yesterday evening. Didn’t show up for work today.”
Tara glanced at M.J., communicating silently. Holy crap.
Catalina Reyes was a north Houston businesswoman who’d made a run for U.S. Congress in the last election. She’d been a lightning rod for controversy since the moment she announced her candidacy.
“She was getting death threats, wasn’t she?” M.J. said.
“I think so.”
Tara turned to look at the forest, where police had set up klieg lights around the inner crime scene. Workers in white Tyvek suits moved around, probably CSIs or ME assistants. Tara saw the strobe of a camera flash. She noted more deputies with flashlights combing a path deep within the woods. They must have assumed the killer accessed the site from the east, and Tara hoped to hell they were right, because whatever evidence might have been recovered from the route Tara had used had been obliterated by boots and tires.
The Cypress County Sheriff’s Department didn’t see many homicides and probably had little to no experience handling anything this big.
“Sheriff, the Bureau would like to help here,” Tara said. “We can have an evidence response team on-site within an hour.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I think we got a handle on it.”
Just what she’d thought he’d say.
“I’d like to see the crime scene,” she told him.