“Far as I can tell. The other has a twin bed with boxes stacked on it. And a treadmill.”
On the opposite wall were framed family photos, and O’Dell stopped at one that showed the Bagleys. Regina Bagley was small and pretty, with long black hair. In the photo Trevor wore his red hair military short. His pale, freckled skin looked even lighter next to his wife’s mocha-colored skin. The fact that Regina might be of Hispanic descent should not have tripped off any alarms, but O’Dell suddenly found herself wondering if Trevor’s beautiful wife had shared his same fate, or if she had played a hand in his. Why wasn’t she here?
From the upstairs bedroom window O’Dell had a better view of the grounds behind the house. It looked like acres of forest. Was it possible Mrs. Bagley had gotten away? Or was she still out there?
O’Dell turned back to look at Sheriff Holt, waited for him to meet her eyes.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
He put his hands on his waist, thumbs in his gun belt, and raised an eyebrow. Had it not been for the adrenaline rush, O’Dell thought he might be angry.
“Trevor Bagley was tortured before he was killed. I think it might have happened somewhere close to here. Maybe on his own property.”
“Damn! That’s a helluva way to go.”
“Do you have a dog handler you could call?”
He nodded. “I’ll see if I can get him over here tomorrow.”
Then he looked over her shoulder, out the window, and asked, “So where the hell do you suppose Mrs. Bagley is?”
O’Dell shrugged. “Hopefully she’s somewhere far away from here, hiding.”
Wednesday
33
The gray sky made the Bagley property look more ominous. Even O’Dell’s rental car flicked on its headlights automatically as she drove under the long stretch of canopy created by the massive live oak trees.
Sheriff Holt was already there, waiting with one of his deputies. Both were sipping from stainless steel travel mugs. It looked like they had a map spread out on the hood of the SUV. A paper bag anchored down one corner. Both men wore their uniforms — white shirts pressed, badges glistening, gun belts cinched tight. She wondered how they intended to search the property in such high-polished shoes.
Holt had told her earlier on the phone that he’d managed to get a search warrant. She didn’t ask for details. O’Dell didn’t get too concerned about formalities, but she’d pegged him as a by-the-rules kind of guy. This was his county and she could hear the relief in his voice. She knew he’d want to cover his tracks. Now she wondered if he simply intended to sit back and direct the search while he and his deputy sipped coffee and ate doughnuts.
Holt was on his cell phone, and his deputy hurried over to meet her car.
“Agent O’Dell, I’m Deputy Jimmy Franklin,” he told her as soon as she opened her car door.
“Deputy Franklin.”
He seemed too anxious. He came at her with his hand outstretched, but not as a gesture to shake hands. Instead, it was almost as if he thought he should help her get out of the car.
Awkward.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she told him as she ignored his aid.
When he realized his mistake his face went crimson. O’Dell pretended not to notice, shut the door on her own, and went to the trunk. She popped it open and started to get her gear. Poor kid didn’t look old enough to drink alcohol legally. Even his uniform seemed a size too large. The shoulder seams sagged and the gun belt was cinched at its tightest notch. His patrol hat came down too far on his head, making his ears stick out. Still, he was all spit and polish, looking official and shiny, just like his boss, while O’Dell had come dressed for mud and mosquitoes.
“I can help you with that, ma’am.” Evidently he hadn’t been embarrassed enough because here he was by her side, reinforcing O’Dell’s image of a Boy Scout.
“I’ve got it,” she told him without a glance, and trying not to wince at the “ma’am.”
That’s when she noticed that Holt had finished his phone call and was crossing the yard to meet a Jeep Grand Cherokee coming up the driveway. Deputy Jimmy followed.
O’Dell continued to stuff her daypack with a few necessities, including Deet, a black-light torch, some evidence bags, and finally a couple of protein bars — although she wouldn’t mind snagging one of those doughnuts. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find.
Stan Wenhoff had insisted that the insect bites on Trevor Bagley’s corpse were caused by his body — his live body — lying on a mound of fire ants. She had no idea what the crime scene would look like. Would there still be stakes in the ground where his wrists and ankles were tied down? Would the grass be trampled? Would there be blood mixed in the mound of ants?
It was one of the reasons she had brought a portable black light. It resembled a flashlight, only with UV ultraviolet light. If they found an area in question, the black light might be able to indicate if there were any bodily fluids left behind. Almost an impossibility, considering the downpour of just the previous day. But she had been stunned in previous cases when a forensic team discovered pieces of flesh mixed in the soil of outdoor crime scenes. Some remnants were difficult to destroy. She was counting on that, especially if the dog and its handler were going to lead them to where Bagley may have died.
O’Dell slid the daypack over her shoulders to wear as a small backpack. When she slammed the car trunk shut, she saw that two men had arrived with the Jeep. The search dog was waiting patiently, just inside the open liftgate. The dog’s handler had his back to her while he gathered up his gear. And then the dog noticed her and began wagging and wiggling impatiently. No, the dog hadn’t just noticed her, it recognized her.
It was Grace! And O’Dell’s stomach took a sudden slide, because not only did she recognize the dog, she also recognized her owner. He was tall — over six feet — with broad shoulders and a slender waist, and he filled his jeans quite nicely. He turned at that moment to see what had gotten his dog excited. It took only a few seconds, and Ryder Creed smiled.
For O’Dell, the flush came as a surprise. An annoying surprise that accompanied a flutter in her stomach.
34
Creed was glad to have Jason along, no matter if the kid had a chip on his shoulder and insisted on being incredibly antisocial. It gave him an excuse not to talk to Maggie O’Dell about anything other than this assignment.
He had already explained the process to Sheriff Holt. He and his deputy appeared relieved that they’d have to stay behind. Creed preferred as few people as possible. They only provided more distractions for his dogs. In this case there was no urgency. It wasn’t like they were searching for a missing child or an injured victim. As best as Hannah had explained, they weren’t even looking for a body. Only the crime scene.
Before he noticed her daypack, Creed knew O’Dell would insist on going along. He knew he’d never convince her to stay put with Holt and his deputy. But he also knew she would respect his guidelines. She wouldn’t be a distraction for Grace. She would be a distraction for him. And he hated that that was true.
There was one rule he never broke, and he took pride in the fact that he did not mix business with pleasure. Many of the women he knew intimately didn’t even know what he did for a living. Maggie O’Dell was the only woman who had made him come close to breaking that rule. That she didn’t even bother to notice only made him a bit crazier.
They had worked a case together four months ago. Both their lives had been jeopardized. Things got a little heated — some sparks, electricity, not unlike right now. But it was only one kiss. No big deal. He hadn’t heard from her since, but then she hadn’t heard from him either. So why did it bother him?