Neither of them believed in this kind of chance. “I should have a search warrant for Second Chances within the half hour, and if I don’t, I’ll be banging on a judge’s door.”

Notification of Hayden’s search warrant arrived minutes after he left Heather’s crime scene, and he immediately contacted Brogan, as well as local uniformed officers. Twenty minutes later, two Rangers stood on the sidewalk outside the bar as two marked cruisers pulled in behind them, their lights flashing.

The bar was still dark, and the neon CLOSED sign flickered in the window. While Brogan and Officer Holcombe offered cover, Hayden tried the door and discovered it was still locked. Holcombe returned to her cruiser and retrieved a crowbar and handed it to Hayden. Nodding, he wedged the end of the bar between the lock and the doorjamb.

As Holcombe moved back and drew her gun, he worked the back-and-forth prying at the wood until the front door popped open. The chime from a security system sounded but did not go off. Whoever left this place last had not set it.

Hayden set the crowbar aside and flipped on the lights. He pulled his service weapon and, along with Brogan, moved slowly into the main room of the bar, while Holcombe remained behind to cover their backs. Building searches could be a real mixed bag. Sometimes there was nothing, and all the hype was for just that. And then there were those times when someone was waiting on the other side of a door with a loaded gun ready to blow their heads off.

In these critical moments, all were aware that they were on the suspect’s turf and anything could go wrong.

The scents of stale beer and cigarettes mingled as they crossed the wide-planked floor toward the bar. Hayden’s gaze was drawn to Paige Sheldon’s missing person flyer.

“I can’t wait to find him,” Brogan said.

“Odd to be closed,” Hayden stated.

“Garnet’s day isn’t starting well, considering one of his employees is in a body bag on her way to the morgue.” Brogan rubbed the back of his neck. “When the hair on the back of my neck rises, it’s always a sign of trouble.”

“What’s it doing now?” Hayden asked.

“Dancing like demons.”

Hayden looked behind the bar, making sure it was secure, while Brogan searched a small closet used for storing supplies.

Hayden pushed through the saloon doors into the kitchen. There were stacks of dirty cups, glasses, and plates on the counter next to a large stainless steel sink, as if someone had been interrupted before the evening cleanup could be completed.

They searched a pantry stocked with paper products, boxes filled with Second Chances matches, large jars of cherries and olives, canisters of peanuts, and extra cases of whiskey and vodka. A mop and several brooms leaned in the corner, and a box overflowed with a blend of Fourth of July, Saint Patrick’s Day, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day decorations.

“He’s got to have some kind of an office,” Brogan said.

Hayden moved toward the closed door on the far side of the kitchen, his weapon raised and body coiled. Brogan stood to one side of the door as Hayden gently pushed it open and found a long set of stairs that led down to a basement.

He clicked on a light and moved down the stairs. The deeper he descended, the stronger the coppery scent of blood and urine grew.

At the bottom, he glanced over his shoulder to the right and saw a large desk covered with stacks of papers, a half dozen coffee cups, a pizza box with one slice remaining, and an older laptop. No sign of Garnet.

He and Brogan shifted to the left, searching as they moved to an alcove behind the stairs, where they discovered Garnet’s mangled body lashed to a chair.

Garnet’s hands, still tied to the arms of the chair, were broken in several places. The dead man’s left knee was twisted at a cruel angle, his right knee swollen and bruised. Blood and urine pooled under and around the chair. None of these injuries had killed Garnet. What had finally finished him was the slice across his throat. The cut ran from ear to ear.

Frustration rushed over Hayden as he stared at the dead man’s gaping mouth and glassy eyes staring toward the ceiling. If he’d had any doubts that Garnet was the key to those graves and to Josie’s disappearance, he didn’t any longer. Someone else had figured out what Garnet and Heather were doing, and they’d dished out their own brand of justice.

He holstered his gun before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling on latex gloves. Brogan did the same. The bar was now officially a crime scene.

“Wonder who got to him first?” Brogan moved to the back door that led to the alley and checked it. “It’s locked, but that’s easy enough to do as you’re going out the door.”

“The front door upstairs was locked, which means the killer had to have left through the back door. Let’s hope the security cameras facing the alley recorded whoever it was.”

Hayden cataloged the man’s injuries. “He didn’t die quickly, and it looks like he might have been trying to keep his secrets.”

“That still might have given him time to kill Heather,” Brogan said.

Garnet could have killed Heather, but in light of the torture he’d endured only a few hours ago, it was highly unlikely. “I don’t think so. Garnet might have been taking the girls, holding them and even killing them, but there’s another player in this game.”

“He’s cleaning house?” Brogan asked.

“Crow, Macy, Heather, and Garnet all had some connection to those girls in the basement.”

“Dirk also might be considered connected to this,” Brogan said.

So was Faith.

The pounding on Dirk’s trailer door woke him from a sound sleep. He lurched to his feet, causing empty beer cans to rattle from his lap to the floor. He staggered forward and looked out the window to find a man in a dark suit, his eyes hooded with sunglasses. Fuck. The cops.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he blinked and sniffed in a lungful of what passed for fresh air in his trailer. He opened the door. “Yeah.”

The man looked up at him, and even with dark glasses, his gaze felt cold and heavy. “Dirk Crow?”

“That’s right.”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thursday, June 28, 9:00 p.m.

Faith poured a glass of wine and sipped it slowly, closing her eyes as she tried to forget the day. She carried the glass into the living room and sat in her favorite chair. She sipped again as she kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell.

The doorbell rang and she moved leisurely to the door, peering through the peephole. Mitchell Hayden towered on her front porch.

She opened the door. “Hayden.”

He removed his hat. “Mind if I come in?”

She was glad to see him. “Sure.” And when he stepped inside, she said, “Can I get you a wine or beer?”

“Beer, if you have it.”

“Coming right up.” She closed the door behind him. “Follow me.”

She sensed his curiosity as he moved through her house, staring at her odd blend of artwork. He paused to study the oil painting featuring exquisitely detailed flowers in a vase done by a Russian artist in Washington, DC.

“Nice place. Some art collection.”

She opened the refrigerator, selected a craft beer, twisted off the top, and handed it to him. “My grandmother started it,” she said. “She and my mother introduced me to art when I was a child. A lot of what you see is their collection. I’ve only had the money in the last few years to begin collecting for myself.”

He took a sip, his gaze on her. “I wouldn’t know good art if it broadsided me.”

“It’s not complicated. If you like it and it makes you feel good, then that’s all that matters.”

“What pieces did you buy?”

“With my very own money?” She sipped her wine and moved to an acrylic seascape with a young woman and her two small blond children. The three all looked toward the ocean, their faces either turned away or covered with the brim of a hat. “When I think about it now, it’s kind of prophetic. A faceless mother with two blond children.”

His frown deepened as he looked at her. “How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m a champ.”

“Seriously?”

This conversation felt more intimate in some ways than the sex they’d had. “Confused. Angry. Hurt. More confused. Where the hell did I come from?” She shook her head. “I always wondered why my parents weren’t more honest about my adoption. Now I know.”

“I can only assume they thought they were protecting you.”

“Or themselves.”

She didn’t want to talk about herself or her issues any longer. “How is the excavation going?”

“They unearthed the last two bodies this afternoon. They’re also female. We’ll be viewing all the remains tomorrow. Now it’s a matter of confirming they’re who we think they are.” He took a pull on the beer. She set down her wine glass, took his beer, and set it on the counter as well. “Garnet and his coworker were found murdered tonight.”

“What?” Her first reaction was frustration. She feared now that it might never get sorted out.

“Neither one of them died easy. We still don’t know who or why, but the forensic team is going over their murder scenes now. There were supplies for a newborn at both crime scenes.”

She wasn’t sorry for either one of them. That wasn’t a very Christian thought, but she still couldn’t begin to imagine the pain and suffering those two monsters had caused.

There was so much death and loss. And in this moment she was tired of trying to process it all. “Do you have to be anywhere in the next hour?”

“Nope.”

She smiled. “Can I take your jacket?”

“Sure.” He shrugged it off and handed it to her. She laid it on the chair. She’d never brought him back to her home. Up until now it had been hotel rooms, and they’d kept whatever it was between them at arm’s distance.