“All right, ma’am,” Hayden said. “I’ll have a look at your daughter’s social media posts.” He flipped the page in his notebook and then asked, “What about letters or threatening calls? Was anyone harassing her?”

“No.”

“Did she use drugs?” Hayden asked.

“Not that I know of,” Vivian said. “And after she went missing, I tore her room apart. There wasn’t a square inch that I didn’t search. I found condoms but no drugs. She was a good kid, Ranger Hayden. But I think not as grown-up as she believed she was. She was also very naive.”

“Has she had any legal trouble?” Hayden asked.

“A speeding ticket last year, but we had an attorney take care of it.”

“Okay,” Hayden said. “One last question. She ever been to a bar called Second Chances?”

“When I went through her room, I found matches from Second Chances,” Vivian answered. “I even went by the bar and spoke to the owner. He said he hadn’t seen her but put up one of the flyers I gave him. Is the bar related to her case?”

That was an important tidbit Garnet hadn’t mentioned. “I can’t say yet.”

“How does this help with your case?” Fred asked.

“I’ll know better once I meet with local police tomorrow to compare notes.” He especially wanted to know if there’d been other blond, pregnant teen girls who’d vanished. Healthy infants could be sold for a lot of money.

Vivian gripped his arm. “She’s running out of time, Ranger Hayden.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. We’re doing our best to find her.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wednesday, June 27, 7:30 p.m.

A quick search on her phone told Faith the Second Chances bar was on Third Street. It took only minutes to cross town and park near the small place that looked like the typical dive bar. Small windows and a plain front door led to a dimly lit interior that, combined with a collection of round tables made of reclaimed barnwood, fell short of cozy.

All the tables were full, and piped-in country western music added a buoyancy to a room that might not have fared so well in daylight. The woman behind the bar was young, with a shock of red hair pulled back in a ponytail that could not calm the curls. She was smiling as she pulled a draft and then poured a shot of whiskey, all in one fluid motion.

Faith found a spot at the end of the bar. If there was anyone who didn’t look the part of a Second Chances customer, it was her. She settled her purse between her legs and tried to pretend she belonged.

The woman came up to her, wiped the wet bar, and set down a paper napkin. “What can I get you?”

“Bourbon, neat.”

“Ah, the lady knows the wisdom of not ruining a good bourbon with water or soda.”

“I’m a purist,” she said, smiling.

“Be right back. And sorry for the delay. We’re shorthanded tonight.”

“No worries.”

The waitress took her order to the bartender, who filled a shot glass. “We also have menus if you’re hungry. Nothing fancy, but tasty.”

“Thanks. Just a bourbon for now.”

“You look familiar,” the woman said.

“I’ve never been in here before.”

“I could have sworn I’ve seen you. But then I’m new at all this and don’t remember the faces as well as the boss.”

Had she seen Macy? Or had she caught Faith on television a few weeks ago? “Maybe I’ve got that kind of face.”

“The boss would know. He’s good with faces. Never forgets one.”

Then he would remember Macy. And he would notice her. She sipped her bourbon, certain if she asked about Macy or started showing pictures, she’d only raise suspicions.

The waitress was summoned by a customer at the other end of the bar, leaving Faith to stare into the mirror behind the bar and watch the crowd behind her. No one seemed to toss her a second look. She was just another woman at the bar.

Saloon doors that separated the front end of the house from the kitchen swung open, and a man in his late fifties pushed through. He was fit for his age and had a full head of hair. If not for the crow’s-feet around his eyes and the deep laugh lines running the length of his face, he could have passed for a decade younger.

He crossed behind the bar, grinning. “I can take over, Jill. Why don’t you check in on your tables?”

Garnet looked at Faith’s drink and then her face and froze. That split second told her he’d seen Macy before. But he quickly covered up his shock with a very charming grin. “Can I freshen that up for you?”

“Still working on this one. Thanks.”

“What brings you in here?”

“Heard friends talking about it and thought I’d stop in for a drink. Long day.”

“Really. And what do you do?”

“I’m a medical examiner.”

“Wow. That’s an intense job.” He held out his hand. “Danny Garnet.”

“Faith McIntyre.”

“I’ve seen you before, Dr. McIntyre.”

“Not in here.” She raised her bourbon to her lips and took a small sip.

“Maybe on television. I bet you get interviewed a lot.”

“Occasionally.”

He was studying her closely. Was he recalling Macy or simply flirting? “You don’t look like a medical examiner.”

“What do they look like?” she deadpanned. Any comment that could be made about her profession, she’d heard it.

He laughed, smelling the trap. “You’re a beautiful woman, Faith McIntyre.”

A woman in a red dress several spots down summoned Garnet. Promising to return, he moved to the woman and freshened her drink. The woman in red leaned forward, giving him a full view of her ample cleavage. He wasn’t saint enough not to look, although whatever she was offering didn’t seem to appeal at the moment. But he was charming in the way he shook his head and kept his eyes on her before he patted the bar in front of her and moved down the row to a cowboy ready to cash out his tab.

She could read the dead well, but with the living she was out of her depth. She pulled a twenty from her purse, set it on the table, and rose.

Garnet noticed her standing but was on the other end of the bar. That gave her time to leave before he could stop her.

She’d taken a big risk coming here. It was important to her to help Macy in any way she could. And if that meant flushing out whoever had hurt Macy, then so be it.

After Hayden left the Owens’ home, he placed another call to Detective Lana Franklin. He checked on the status of the missing persons files.

“I’m pulling files now,” Franklin said.

“Can you have this for me by morning?” he asked. “I know I’m pressing, but we’re running out of time.”

“It will be done.”

“Appreciate it.”

His next call was to Brogan, who had located Sam Delany at the Huntsville Prison, three hours northeast of Austin. If they hurried, they could be there before midnight and back in Austin before daybreak. Hayden picked up Brogan fifteen minutes later. They grabbed burgers at a drive-through and soon were on TX-290 toward Huntsville, Texas.

“Delany is a lifer,” Brogan said as he settled back in his seat.

“So who’s paying his property taxes?”

“He’s clearly fronting for someone,” Brogan replied.

“And our job will be to convince a lifer to give this guy up.” The lights of Austin faded in his rearview mirror. Hayden pressed on the accelerator as he ate fries and sipped from a soda. “Any word on Dirk Crow’s BOLO?”

“There’s been no sighting of the man. The guy has lived in the middle of nowhere for years and knows every rock to crawl under. Hell, the guy could be in Mexico by now.”

Hayden finished his burger, balled up his trash, and tucked it in the bag. “Think Melissa Savage is working this late?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s a real night owl.”

Hayden dialed her number, and she picked up on the second ring, sounding alert.

“I’m in the car with Brogan, and we’re headed to Huntsville. You’re on speaker.”

“Understood,” she said.

“Tell me you’ve found something on that surveillance footage.”

“My eyes are crossing. I’ve reviewed ten days’ worth of footage from a dozen different establishments near the Crow property and Second Chances.”

“And?”

“Dirk Crow comes and goes from the salvage yard daily until two weeks ago, and then he goes AWOL.”

“That fits with his story of being in San Jose.”

“Maybe. Satellite imagery of the salvage yard property shows that it’s not fully enclosed with fencing. There are patches that are large enough for a car to pass through. Your killer could have come in that way.”

Hayden tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Continue.”

“Early Sunday morning a green sedan pulls onto the salvage yard lot. The driver is wearing a hat and sunglasses, and his face is turned. He knows there are cameras.”

“The driver is male?”

“If I had to bet, yes.”

“I came by the lot Sunday afternoon and found Crow dead,” Hayden said. “We know from the autopsy that he’d not been dead long. So whoever this driver was, his arrival coincided with Crow’s murder only a few hours before I arrived. Is the car seen exiting the yard?”

“It is at one p.m. I was able to enhance the footage and caught a partial plate. I’ve notified patrol, and as expected it was listed in the database as stolen.”

“Whoever killed Crow and hit Macy is sounding more like a professional. The playing card with Crow suggests a type of signature. None was found with Macy because he didn’t have time. Perhaps that attack wasn’t planned.”

“Maybe he didn’t know Crow had kids,” Brogan offered.