‘It’s a country song,’ Scarlett said, holding Marcus’s gaze. ‘Vince Gill wrote it for his brother, after his brother’s death. It’s often played at funerals. It was played at Marcus’s brother’s funeral.’ Her throat grew thick and she swallowed hard. ‘It was a good choice.’
Marcus’s eyes flickered, gratitude mixing with the pain.
Deacon let out a quiet breath. Critically wounded while taking down Marcus’s brother’s killer, he hadn’t attended the seventeen-year-old’s funeral, but he had seen the boy’s dead body in its shallow grave. As had Scarlett.
As had Marcus. Scarlett wished she could have kept him from having that picture in his mind. He was clearly still grieving. Seeing his brother’s body tossed into a grave like so much trash would make healing that much harder. This Scarlett knew from experience.
‘I see,’ Deacon said quietly. ‘So Tala was drawn by the song that night. Did she speak to you then?’
Marcus shifted his body, staring at the crime scene once again, breaking their connection. ‘No. She never spoke until tonight. I kept going back to the park at one A.M., hoping she’d tell me why she was so afraid. After the first few nights, I brought my guitar with me. I thought maybe she’d find me less threatening if my hands were full, but that wasn’t the case. She let the dog approach close enough for me to pet it, but the closest Tala came to me was twenty-six feet.’
Twenty-six feet? Scarlett frowned, then nodded when the detail clicked in her mind. ‘The length of the poodle’s retractable leash.’ She glanced at Deacon. ‘It’s the size for large dogs. I have one that I use when I walk Zat.’ She returned her attention to Marcus. ‘Did you see the poodle’s ID tags when you petted it?’
‘There was only a name tag attached to the collar – no rabies or license tags. The name tag said “Coco”. Tala came to the park for seven straight nights and would stay long enough to hear me sing a song or two. On the eighth night she didn’t show up, or the two nights after that, so I started going to the park during the day, all different times. We finally crossed paths again late yesterday afternoon. About twelve hours ago.’
‘When she was bruised and limping,’ Scarlett murmured.
An angry nod. ‘Yeah. Someone had roughed her up. At the time, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me, because I never saw anyone following her when she walked the dog. Now I think it must have been because someone knew she was meeting me. She’d be alive otherwise,’ he added bitterly.
‘You told Detective Bishop that you left your card on the bench,’ Deacon said, ‘and that Tala texted you to meet her here. Can we get the number she called from?’
Marcus handed Deacon his phone. ‘She asked me not to call her, told me she was deleting the texts so she wouldn’t get caught. I didn’t call the number, but I did run it. It’s disposable.’
Deacon frowned. ‘How did you run the phone number?’
‘I run my family’s newspaper, Deacon,’ he said mildly. ‘I have all kinds of ways to get information.’
Deacon narrowed his eyes in annoyance. ‘None of which you plan to tell me.’
‘Of course not.’
Deacon looked like he’d argue, but decided against it. ‘Fine. What else can you tell us?’
Marcus looked at Scarlett, his expression suddenly grimly uncomfortable. ‘You asked me if she was a prostitute and I said I didn’t know. That’s true. But she was accustomed to . . . pleasing men.’ He sighed. ‘When I offered to help her, she said she couldn’t pay me. I told her I didn’t want her money. She got this desperate, revolted look on her face. Then in the blink of an eye she changed into this sultry temptress. Went for the button of my jeans. Said she could make me feel good.’ His jaw hardened. ‘I told her no, that I didn’t want that either.’
‘And then?’ Scarlett asked quietly.
‘She looked hopeless. Asked why I would help her. Said she was “nobody”.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘She believed that. She also believed her family was in danger.’
‘Did she mention sisters or friends?’ Deacon asked. ‘Do we know what kind of family she wants us to help? Are they blood relatives or simply other captives?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘She only said “my family”. My first thought was that the man and his wife used her for the sex trade.’
Scarlett pulled up a photo of the victim that she’d taken with her phone, showing it to Deacon. ‘My first thought too,’ she said.
‘Young and pretty,’ Deacon agreed. ‘Just the type sexual slavery operations go for. How was she dressed when she walked the dog in the park? What I mean is, did it look like she was dressed for seduction? Was she on the clock, just taking a break during business hours?’
‘She was wearing a polo shirt and old jeans,’ he said. ‘She looked like any other high-school kid.’
‘Walking a dog with a diamond-studded collar,’ Deacon murmured. ‘Well, whoever she was protecting, whatever their relationship, they had to have been very important to her. Her “owners” trusted their hold on her enough to let her walk their dog, knowing she’d come back.’
‘Did she have an accent?’ Scarlett asked. ‘How was her English? Did she sound like she’d been in this country for a while?’
‘Her English was flawless, but she did have an accent.’ Reaching behind him, Marcus pulled a dark baseball cap from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You can judge for yourself. I recorded the conversation.’ A hesitant pause, followed by a shrug. ‘I recorded every interaction after that first night.’
Scarlett stared at the cap, then up at his face. ‘You have a microphone in your hat?’
‘A camera, actually. It’s hidden on the edge of the bill.’
Deacon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
Marcus’s jaw set. ‘I wanted to be able to protect myself in case I was being set up.’
Deacon took the cap, his eyes narrowing further. ‘And exactly who would be setting you up, Marcus?’ he asked softly.
Marcus’s spine straightened, his face taking on the stony expression of a soldier preparing for an interrogation. ‘I don’t know.’
There was frustration in his tone, she thought. And honesty. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to hear. ‘The same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?’
Two
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 3.50 A.M.
T he same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?
Startled, Marcus stiffened, then one side of his mouth quirked up as he glanced down at her, grudging respect in his eyes. Scarlett Bishop didn’t miss a detail. So tread carefully here. For her sake as well as his own. ‘Maybe. And before you ask – no, I don’t know who “they” are.’
‘But “they” are threatening you?’ Deacon asked. ‘Why?’
The Fed didn’t miss much either. Over the months, Marcus had come to respect the sharp eye and quick mind of his cousin Faith’s fiancé. As a team, Scarlett and Deacon were scary-good investigators. Which was one of the reasons Marcus had consciously and consistently avoided them both whenever possible. ‘I don’t know,’ he said again.
‘Who else knew you would be here tonight?’ Deacon asked.
Marcus frowned, startled once again. ‘You think I was the target?’
‘You were wearing Kevlar and a camera,’ Deacon pointed out dryly. ‘You tell me.’
Marcus hadn’t even considered it, but he did now. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone had taken a shot at him. That the bullets he’d taken last November were the first to actually require a hospital stay was pretty damn close to a miracle. He had a few projects brewing, but none were at a flashpoint, none hot enough to warrant such a physical retaliation. Past projects . . . It was possible. He’d stepped on an awful lot of toes.
‘I’m a newspaper publisher,’ he finally said carefully. ‘My staff break stories that make people unhappy. Sometimes there are threats. Most of them are nothing to worry about. I can’t think of anything right now that especially would be. I don’t think I was the target tonight.’