Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (14 page)
“Yeah, we’re a mystery, all right.” It sounded as though he were lucky to get away without being castrated. No female liked being slapped in the face with the realization that she was only one of a string.
Unwillingly, her mind flashed to Stryker. Women of all ages seemed to respond to him, and she’d be willing to bet he’d cut a pretty wide swath through the females in town. Maybe he was that most rare of male creatures, a good breaker-upper. A man that stayed on good terms with former girlfriends had a gift.
And a bone-deep charm it would pay to remain wary of.
Chapter 7
Ramsey got a later start than she would have liked after stopping by the sheriff’s office. When she discovered there were already results for the ViCAP report she’d submitted, she decided they could wait until tomorrow morning. She was anxious to get started with the nail salons.
She was unsurprised to learn Mark Rollins wasn’t in.
“He got a call last night on the Simpson suicide,” the dispatcher, Letty Carter, confided. “Beau blew his brains out while Marvella was at her card club, and the whole town’s buzzin’ ’bout it. Some are sayin’ the store was in trouble and he was ’bout to lose the business his daddy built. But if you ask me, there’s been emotional problems in the Simpson line for generations. Beau’s grandma was a drinker, and his great-aunt Beulah was given to talkin’ to people no one else could see.”
Ramsey digested the gossip silently. She’d be willing to bet Letty was old enough to have been acquainted with both Simpson’s relatives. The dispatcher was as wizened as a dried apple, and by the end of her shift each day, her makeup settled into the deep creases in her face. Her hair was a brassy blond color that even Ramsey could tell wasn’t professional. She wore bright pink lipstick and matching fingernail polish.
Noticing the nails jerked her attention back to her task. “I’m sure the sheriff has his hands full right now, so I’ll catch up with him later.” She handed a copy of the sketch to the older woman. “I’d like this faxed to every law enforcement entity in a fifty-mile radius. Let them know we’re looking for an ID on a homicide victim.”
Letty studied the sketch. “Pretty girl.” Regret tinged her tone. “It’s a cryin’ shame what was done to her. I’ll take care of it right away.”
But hours later, Ramsey reflected that Letty’s swift follow-through might well be the last bit of assistance she received that day.
She turned right as prompted by the in-dash GPS, and made her way into the town of Steadmont, population two hundred fifty. Armed with a stack of sketches, the maps she’d pried away from Letty again, and a Yellow Pages listing of salons in the vicinity, Ramsey had so far covered six towns east and south of Buffalo Springs. She’d decided to hit the smallest ones first, figuring a person would be missed more quickly in a town of seventy-two than one of three thousand. So far, her methods had met with a noticeable lack of luck.
She’d taken time to swing by Leanne’s place and show the sketch around, but no one there recognized the victim. That fact hadn’t been surprising.
Since she wasn’t cursed with aYchromosome, asking for directions didn’t bother her. And it hadn’t taken her long to figure out the fastest way to find the addresses on her sheets was to stop at the first gas station or woman on the street and ask. When she spotted a female out watering flowers, she did just that and was directed to a small pretty shop around the corner from the main thoroughfare.
But the owner at Pine Creek Nails shook her head when shown the picture of the woman. “No, she don’t look familiar. Not one of my regulars, that’s for sure, and I’d remember a walk-in that came in that recently. A French manicure, you say?” The operator squinted at the picture again. “I don’t get much call for that here. Did you try Susie at Look Sharp? She’s just a few blocks west of here.”
“I’ll check there next, thanks.” After leaving the sketch and her card with the woman, Ramsey headed back to her vehicle.
When her cell rang, she recognized Matthews’s number and answered. She’d dropped off a copy of the nail salons on her way out of town and requested that he head out the opposite way from Buffalo Springs to begin canvassing the places. “Tell me you’re having better luck than I am.” As she spoke, she pulled away from the curb and headed in the direction of the other salon.
“Possibly.” Matthews sounded a great deal more chipper than he had that morning, so maybe his hangover had subsided. “I’m in Tallulah Falls, northwest of Buffalo Springs about thirty miles. And I have an operator here who thinks she recognizes the sketch as a woman who came in a couple weeks ago. Thing is, she swears this woman she worked on didn’t have any tattoos. Said they’d talked about them and that both had agreed they didn’t go in for that sort of thing.”
“It’s possible the victim was lying, I guess,” Ramsey said slowly. “The tattoos aren’t new, the ME said. His estimate was a couple years old for the one on her back and older than that for the one on her ankle.”
“Anyway, I’m here while the operator is talking to the other workers trying to come up with the woman’s name. If it pans out, I’ll stick around and follow up, see if I can find out where she lived and worked.”
“Great.” A hum of interest sparked. “Keep me posted.”
Ramsey knew better than to hang her hopes on the lead he was following, but it was more promising than anything she’d come up with today. Her fortunes continued as the next operator denied recognizing the sketch but told her of a woman who did nails out of her home. Ramsey had a similar lack of luck there, so she checked off the town and headed to the next, but not before hitting a fast food drive-through on the way back to the highway.
As she munched on fries and a sandwich, she thought about the tattoos Matthews had mentioned. They’d follow up on them if this lead didn’t pan out, but tattoos were notoriously hard to trace. People didn’t necessarily get them close to home, often bringing one home as a “souvenir” from vacation. Ramsey couldn’t imagine wanting to risk carrying hepatitis back as a souvenir, but there was no accounting for taste.
It would be difficult to trace the artist and find records far enough back to identify the victim, especially since neither of the tats had been especially unique. And she knew from experience on other cases that tattoo places regularly went out of business, making them even harder to trace. If the ID process boiled down to tracing the tattoo, it was going to be an exercise in frustration.
Keeping an eye on her mirrors, she punched the accelerator. It was getting on toward late afternoon. She’d likely have time for only two or three more towns before they closed, unless she found a salon that kept evening hours.
The town of Kordoba bore more than a passing resemblance to many of the towns she’d visited that day, and according to the map, boasted slightly more residents than Buffalo Springs. There were four places listed on the White Pages printout for nail salons, but the owner of the first informed Ramsey that one of them was out of business, and a third had moved her salon to her home in the country.
Given the time, she didn’t linger, leaving the picture and card with the woman to head to the other salon in town. This one was right on Main Street and outfitted with a candy pink and white striped awning and enough pink adornments inside to make Ramsey feel a bit nauseous.
The operator though, a redhead by the name of Tammy Wallace, reminded Ramsey of Leanne with her sense of style. She came bustling out of the back room when fetched by one of her employees, wiping her hands on a towel and wearing an expression of polite puzzlement.
Ramsey showed her ID, saying, “I’m working as a consultant with TBI, and we’re seeking information about the woman in this picture.” She handed her the photo of the sketch. Saw the woman’s gaze drop to it and widen a bit.
Instinct had her pressing, “Do you know this woman?”
Her manner decidedly cooler, Tammy looked at Ramsey. “Why did you say you’re lookin’ for her?”
Adrenaline was firing along nerve endings. “It’s very important that you tell me what you know about this woman, ma’am. You recognize her, don’t you? Has she been in here before?”
With a little sigh, she said, “Follow me.” Ramsey trailed after her to the back room, which turned out to be a small office. Tammy reached past her to shut the door, saying, “Bless their hearts, but those girls out there have the fastest tongues this side of the Mississippi. That woman in the picture? Her name is Cassie Frost. I’ve done her nails every month or so since Christmastime, I guess.” A little smile played around her mouth. “French manicure, clear polish. She’s not much for change. But she’s a real nice gal. Have the feelin’ she’s had some hard luck lately, not that she’s ever complained to me. Real pleasant.” She gave a helpless shrug. “That’s all I know. Tell me I didn’t just land her in a heap of trouble.”
Adept at evading questions in such matters, Ramsey said, “When was the last time you saw her?” And found herself holding her breath until the woman’s answer came.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check the appointment book. Sometime within the last couple weeks, I think.”
“Would you happen to know where she lives? Where she works?” Ramsey pulled a notebook out of her pocket. She’d look at that appointment calendar. Check out everything this woman told her about the woman in the sketch.
But her gut told her Cassie Frost was the name of their Jane Doe.
“Yeah, she worked here.” The owner of the Thirsty Moose, clad in a filthy white apron, desultorily wiped the bar. “She don’t no more, and next time you see her, you can tell her that for me, too. Hasn’t shown up for work in more’n a week. I figured she skipped town, but either way, she don’t need to be stoppin’ by for her last check. Left me high and dry lookin’ for a bartender, and I’m keepin’ her pay for my troubles. I gotta right to do that, too.”
He had a unique grasp of the law, but Ramsey was more interested in details he could provide about Cassie Frost. “How long did she work for you?”
The man lifted a beefy shoulder. “I gave her a job before Christmas, I guess. My other guy quit on me suddenly, and I was desperate, same as I am now that she left. Claimed she had bartendin’ experience and proved it by mixin’ some decent drinks for me.”
“She provide you with ID when you hired her?”
Ramsey slid a glance at the uniform at her side. After her conversation with Tammy Wallace, she’d contacted Powell, who’d sounded decidedly more cheerful when she filled him in. He’d promised to round up Matthews and anyone he could from Rollins’s department and join her here. As per his instructions, Ramsey had placed a courtesy call to the local police to let them know the investigation was moving to their town. Kordoba PD in turn had sent Officer Michael Dade to accompany her to Cassie Frost’s last employer.
“Sure. I need it to fill out the paperwork for her W-2, don’t I?”
“Can we see it?”
The owner jerked his head to the half dozen patrons in the place. “Look, I got customers to tend to. I don’t got time to . . .”
“We certainly understand if you’re busy right now, sir,” the young officer said politely. “And we can do this later.” Ramsey opened her mouth to protest as he went on. “We can send someone back after closin’ time. Should we say two A.M.?” He pulled out a notebook and pen, moving over to peer at the liquor license posted on the wall, jotting down the number. “That will give us time to check a few things out.”
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