You Can Run Page 6

  “All right. Keep me posted.”

  She nodded, left the office, and climbed into her car. After a few quick texts, the detective headed down Savannah’s picturesque old streets toward a small bar near her house. Here she would meet Taylor and hopefully get a few steps closer to finding the killer couple.

  Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. She looked down to see a message from a familiar number. It was Kelly Shaw, the officer she’d seen earlier in the day, the one she’d often found herself seeking out when it was too late to get any work done.

  Meet up later?

  Her eyes scanned the message. Now just isn’t the time, she thought, suppressing a slight tingle inside her body. She’d decided to focus her attention on her work, and so far, it seemed to be paying off. At least, that’s how she chose to look at it.

  Blue Lemon was a small place with only a handful of booths, a couple of tables, and a small bar, though what it lacked in space it managed to compensate with what Virginia considered to be far too many neon lights.

  But it was close to home, and thanks to a little help she’d given the owners, the drinks were free. And who can really say no to free drinks? She opened the door and stepped inside. A light haze of smoke wafted high near the ceiling, mixing with the scent of cooked meat. It wasn’t a particularly appetizing smell, but it was one she was used to.

  She’d only spent a few minutes alone before he stepped inside. A long-sleeved purple shirt clung to his chest and arms, wrapping his toned physique as though it had been painted on. His jeans were a faded dark wash denim, much more stylish and trendier than anything the detective owned.

  “Hey.” He sat down.

  “Headed out?” she asked, noticing how perfectly he pulled off the out-of-bed hair look.

  “No . . . why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” She cleared her throat. “What did you get?”

  “You first.” He gave a coy smirk.

  “Not really the way it works, Taylor.”

  “I just want to make sure your information is worth as much as mine. This would make a great story in the morning. How do I know you’re not going to just give me some crap about a possible footprint?”

  “How did you—”

  “I told you,” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “I have my connections. Now spill. What you got?”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “The woman, Maria Juarez. She used to work for a company called Miller, Maynor, and Mont.” The detective went on to give him as much information as she comfortably could.

  After getting to her office and checking in on the company, Virginia learned a few new things, some bigger than others and some she thought might actually help. It was just a guess, though. She knew better than to think any piece of information was small in a case like this. She discovered early on that sometimes it’s the smallest things that make the biggest difference.

  He listened with a mix of curiosity and disinterest that made pining down what he knew more difficult than she’d anticipated. She always prided herself on being able to read people, on being able to use someone’s body language and inflections to get to the truth of what they were saying.

  Taylor Clarke, however, was a different story. In all the time she spent with the man, she’d never seen him anything but relaxed and easy. If she didn’t know any better, Virginia would have thought journalism really didn’t matter to him.

  As she sat there talking, though, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was just playing her. Had she been too quick to jump the gun? She brought her story to a close and waited for him to respond. He looked at her, his eyes scanning her face, for what, she didn’t know.

  “All right. That’s about it.”

  “Good stuff,” he said. “Are you sure about that last part?”

  “I’m always sure.”

  He smiled.

  “I meant to ask you, though . . . how was your lap dance?”

  “Who’s to say I actually made her dance for me? Maybe we just talked.” He ran a hand through his messy-on-purpose hair. “Or . . . maybe she danced.”

  “Here’s a copy of the research.” She handed him the folder, watching him lick his lips as he took it from her hand. A shimmering layer of wetness caught the neon light and reflected back at her. She blinked and lifted her glass. “Now go.”

  “All right. All right . . .” he began, telling her everything Liliana gave him. He told her about the parties, about the girls, and about the money.

  For now, it was nothing more than hearsay, but Virginia knew how quickly gossip often traced back to reality, especially in cases of the seedy and undesirable.

  “I’m going to head over there in the morning,” she said, standing from the table, her eyes still focused on his shimmering lips.

  “Great,” he chirped. “What time?”

  “What ti—oh, no.” The detective shook her head. “I’m flying solo.”

  “Nope. I’m coming too. It’s your case, but it’s my story, so either tell me what time to meet you or I’ll just show up on my own.”

  “Eight.” She sighed and headed for the door. “Don’t make a move until I get there.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  WEDNESDAY, 9 PM

  VIRGINIA

  As it turned out, Miller, Maynor, and Mont had been going strong for over fifteen years as one of Savannah’s most prestigious and exclusive accounting firms. Their client roster included people like Mamma Salt Shaker, a Savannah-based rapper who’d gained global fame after a sex tape leak skyrocketed her album to number one, as well as several high-ranking members from Savannah-based brands like Paula D. and River Street Sweets.

  As she sat in the waiting room looking over the list, Virginia couldn’t help but become curious. The place was small, with only three floors and a handful of employees. She’d have imagined such clients being represented by larger, skyscraper-based firms. She couldn’t put her finger on it just yet, but something about the place just didn’t seem right to the detective.

  Virginia stepped closer to the large photo hanging in the lobby. There he was, Patrick Maynor. She’d never understood the reasoning behind having such a self-portrait made. After all, he wasn’t a king or a president. He’d simply founded a company.

  “Wow . . .” Taylor stepped closer. “That’s quite an expression he has. Aren’t people supposed to be smiling in pictures?”

  “Usually,” she replied.

  They’d been waiting for nearly twenty minutes when a middle-aged woman stepped out of the elevator and instructed them to follow her. She was plain, with a white button-up shirt and a simple grey skirt. Normally, the detective would have expected an assistant to be a young hot thing, but with what she’d learned about his extracurricular activities, Virginia knew Patrick Maynor was probably entertaining all the young women he had time for.

  “Hello.” He greeted the pair as they stepped into his office.

  “Hello.” Virginia sat down.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked.

  “We’re here investigating a murder by the serial killer couple known as ‘Connie and Clyde’,” she said.

  It was a simple tactic, also one she rarely used. State the facts right away. Simple as that. Keep your tone level and your body still. Then wait. She didn’t mention Patrick Maynor in any way. She hadn’t tried to implicate him or imply that he was involved. There’d been a series of murders, and that’s all she said.

  “I . . .” He shuffled around for a moment before steadying himself. “What makes you think I would know anything about that?”

  She kept her eyes focused on him, watching for anything that might speak louder than his words. It’s funny, how much information body language can give off when you’re blindsided. There he was, a seemingly innocent uninvolved man, now nervous at the mention of crimes he had nothing to do with. He swallowed hard, his foot rocking under the large mahogany desk as he waited for her response.

  “The most recent victim was a former
employee of yours. Maria Juarez.” Virginia placed her photo on the desk. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “I . . . I don’t really remember much about her.” He lifted the photo, bringing it closer to inspect it. “I believe she worked on the second floor.”

  “And how long has she been gone from your company?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d say five to ten years. I would have to have someone check.”

  “And who is doing her job now?” the detective asked while shuffling through her bag.

  “A young man by the name of Jake Lighter. You’re free to speak with him, if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Tell me about your company, Mr. Maynor.”

  “What would you like to know?” He wrinkled his brow.

  “I’m just curious . . . who’s the lowest-income client you represent?”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes and leaned forward just a little. Virginia peaked his interest, it was obvious. He also seemed to have relaxed a little bit, which isn’t what the detective was hoping for.

  “I really can’t give out client details such as that. It is an odd question, though. Why do you ask?”

  “Just part of my job.” She smiled.

  “What about you?” He looked at Taylor. “Who are you?”

  “A consultant,” Virginia spoke up. “He’s observing.”

  Patrick turned his gaze to the young man and give him a quick perusal. He was curious about Taylor. And as he kept his eyes focused on him, Virginia began to wonder if maybe he recognized him, if perhaps the small picture next to Taylor’s article had stayed with the man. That is, of course, providing he’d read it.

  “Your company was founded by you and two other men. Is that right?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “That’s correct,” he said. “I’m sad to say both have passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Taylor said.

  “Yes . . .” Virginia looked at him. “Life is a fragile thing.”

  “What else can you tell me about your client base?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice deepening a few octaves. “As I said, that information is very personal and private. We respect our clients’ right to privacy.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “And what about your former partners? You mentioned they’d died. How, exactly?”

  Patrick shifted in his seat again, this time his face flushing red with what the detective recognized as a mix of anger and frustration. She’d witnessed the same thing many times and with many other guilty men. Just the mention of his former partners’ names upset him. And if Virginia’s suspicions were correct, then he had a damn good reason to be angry.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He stood, brushing his hands down the front of his suit and showing them the door. “If you’d like to speak with me again, please consult my lawyer. I’m a busy man and I don’t have time for this foolishness.”

  “Foolishness?” Virginia repeated. “Is that what you call murder?”

  “No one mentioned murder.”

  “Of course we did. Remember, Connie and Clyde. You said you don’t know anything about that, right?”

  “Please leave,” he repeated, closing the door behind them.

  Taylor stepped out first, followed closely by the detective. The two headed silently for her car and climbed inside before uttering a word.

  “Jake Lighter . . .” the detective said.

  “What?” Taylor asked.

  “That’s the guy who replaced Maria Juarez.”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing.” She scribbled the name in her notepad. “I just found it funny how Mr. Maynor couldn’t remember what Maria did at his company for so long, yet he knew exactly who’d replaced her without having to think.”

  “He’s lying . . .”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Probably about a lot of things.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  WEDNESDAY, 11 AM

  VIRGINIA

  The detective hated walking back into her office like this, with not much to show for her work. She had ideas and suspicions, sure. But those wouldn’t hold water if presented to her boss. They were theories more than anything else. She needed this thing solved, and she needed it done fast. Brushing past a small crowd of officers, Virginia made her way into the elevator.

  A cup of fresh, hot coffee steamed in her hand. Just as she had done every morning for the past few years, the detective stopped by a small coffee house on her way to work. She could have brewed it at home and perhaps saved a few bucks, yes. It just wasn’t the same. Somehow, the stuff just seemed to taste better when someone else did the work.

  She barely stepped off the elevator when Jacob Hindle noticed her through the glass partition. He waved her toward him, no doubt to talk about the case. A case that, at this point, was gaining more momentum than anyone was comfortable with. Not to mention the fact that the press had begun to have a field day with the whole Connie and Clyde thing. Most of the cases she worked so far had managed to gain very little public notice. This one, though, well . . . that was another story. She held her finger in the air, letting her chief know she would be there soon.

  “Anything?” She stopped by the murder board, which included a new face.

  “A little bit.” One of the officers lifted his head from a stack of photos. “It all needs checking out, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. What about you?”

  “The same,” she replied. “I’m working a few leads.”

  “We’re gonna stop by the accounting office where Maria Juarez used to work. Just a check to see if they know anything.”

  “Don’t.” She shook her head. “I’ve already taken care of it. He lawyered up.”

  “Really? That’s not good.”

  “Tell me about it,” she replied. “What else you got?”

  “It’s early. I want you to have forensics check for any online mention of Miller, Maynor, and Mont. Try to find as many current or former clients as you can. Then check them all against missing persons records.”

  “What?” He tilted his head. “Why?”

  “I’ll explain later. Now I have to go see the chief.”

  She headed toward her boss’s large office. It sat at the far edge of the room, affording him a view of Savannah’s downtown cityscape. There were people who loved views like that, the kind of people who climbed to the top of tall building to look down on the world. Virginia wasn’t one of them. The view never seemed to do much for her and she barely noticed it.

  Jacob Hindle, on the other hand. He’d bragged about that view every chance he got, so it was no surprise that by the time she got to his office, he was standing in front of the window, sipping his morning coffee.

  “Chief.” She stepped inside.

  “Close the door.” He blew softly into his coffee.

  “All right,” she said.

  Virginia walked to a small leather chair and took a seat. The entire office smelled like musk. It wasn’t really a bad thing. It was just a little strong for the woman’s taste. She was never the kind of person who loved overly scented perfumes or colognes, much preferring a light, crisp scent to a strong, dark one. She took a deep breath, letting the smell invade her lungs. She always found it easier to breathe it in than try to hide from it.

  “I just got off the phone with the FBI,” he said, his eyes still focused out the window.

  That wasn’t good. It was never good. The Federal Bureau of Investigation weren’t the kind of people who called for anything other than the kind of news no one wanted. She could see where this was going. For the first time in her career, Virginia Nixon was failing from the start.

  She had her hiccups, of course, but never had she had so little to go on after so much crime. She felt embarrassed and more than a little frustrated. Virginia fought the instinct to speak up, to tell her superior that she had been working with a young journalist and that th
ey may have found something, though with Patrick Miller’s lawyering up, she’d managed to hit another roadblock.

  “They believe . . .” he continued. “They believe that Connie and Clyde may be responsible for more murders than we think. They’re threatening involvement.”

  There were two kinds of police departments. The kind that welcomed outside help and the kind that didn’t. Virginia Nixon happened to work for the latter. In her superior’s eyes, having the FBI come into his station and take his case was nothing more than an embarrassment. It was just proof that his guys didn’t know what they were doing.

  “It sends the wrong message,” he said, his voice deepening. “I need you to get to work on this thing. We don’t need the citizens of Savannah thinking we don’t know how to do our job, that we can’t protect them. And we don’t need criminals thinking they have a free pass.”

  “Of course, sir.” It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this tangent. She knew exactly how much her boss hated outside involvement. He was a proud man and such things weighed heavily on him.

  “I managed to hold them off for now.” He sat in the large brown leather chair across from her. “Don’t make us look like fools, Vee. Find these two sooner rather than later. Got it?”

  “I’m on it.” She gave her best nod. “I’m still working a few things. We’ll get them. Rest assured.”

  His eyes locked with hers. He wrinkled his brow. She wasn’t sure he believed her. Still, it was enough to buy her a little more time. She stood, thanked him, and headed out the door. She was more lost in this thing than she cared to admit, even to herself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WEDNESDAY, 10 PM

  CONNIE

  Connie Miller stepped out of the bathroom amid a cloud of steam. She always loved the sensation of a hot shower, of the water running down her skin, of her lungs breathing in the thick, moist steam as it began to rise around her like a dense fog. The experience always managed to calm her so much, to help settle her nerves and quell her frantic mind.