Guilt Game_The Extractor Page 7

  Using the general location and county as references, she googled Damascus prison camp and came up with several articles. The top story was embedded in a historical website and mentioned that the work camp had been closed in the eighties for lack of funding, then eventually sold to an anonymous private party. Was the Sister Love group living in an old minimum-security county jail? Tracking down the ownership of the property was important, but it could be time consuming. First, she needed to see if it was occupied. She texted Marty: Ready? Let’s take the truck. They co-owned an old Chevy, using it mostly for hauling yard supplies and occasional investigative jobs like this one.

  Her stepdad walked into her house before she finished pouring coffee in a travel mug. His jeans and blue work shirt were perfect for the excursion.

  “Grab a couple of our signs,” she said.

  “Already in the truck.”

  He would be the perfect investigative partner if he were a little more detached from her. Maybe a lot more detached.

  “What are you smiling about?” Marty looked at her the way a cop would.

  “Just thinking about how efficient you are.”

  “Damn straight.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s get rolling.

  They stopped behind a coffee shop–bike store combo five blocks from their duplex. Another thing she loved about Portland: the quirky shops. Rox and Marty each grabbed a magnetic “Builder’s Electric” sign they’d borrowed from a friend, hopped out, and slapped them on the truck doors. In a rural area like Damascus, the truck might stand out as non-local. But nobody paid attention to contractors’ vehicles. They had legitimate reasons to be everywhere.

  Back behind the wheel, Marty asked, “Where are we going?”

  “South to Damascus and Barton Road. There’s an old work-camp-style prison out there, and I think the cult might have moved in.”

  “No kidding? Are they renting it from the county?”

  “It was sold to a private party decades ago, and I have no idea who owns it. Yet.”

  “A prison!” Marty snorted. “A fitting setup for a cult.”

  “They could be squatters, with no one really paying attention. The location is pretty remote.”

  “Ballsy.”

  Once they were on the freeway, Rox asked, “Any ideas for conning Blackstone into bringing Emma to us?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. He’s ex-military, and we need to exploit that. Appeal to his patriotism with some kind of award or ceremony?”

  “Maybe we can find one of his army buddies.” But that might be a waste of time. People who served in a war together often bonded for life. The same was true for cops and field agents who kept each other alive. Rox rejected the idea. “Maybe not. He’s pretty reclusive. I think we may just have to stage a coup. But a call I made to the utility company this morning gave me an idea.”

  “Cut the power to the place?”

  Rox laughed. “For an ex-cop, you sure think like a deviant.”

  He turned to grin at her. “I’ve chased my share, and it’s often a fine line between the two anyway.”

  “I was thinking we might call in a power outage at the address, and when Blackstone and company are distracted by the utility visit, rush in and grab her.” Rox tried to visualize the scene. “Maybe that won’t create enough time. We’ll have to analyze the access around the place.”

  “He must leave the property sometimes. We could set up a video camera across the road from the driveway, then check—” Marty cut off his thought. “Never mind. That could take weeks, and we don’t have that kind of time.”

  Rox snapped her fingers. “I could send a check meant for the charity, but made out to him personally. He would have to go to the bank to cash it.”

  “Nope.” Marty shook his head. “He could sign it and have one of the members deposit it in an ATM.”

  “Of course.” Rox racked her brain for reasons a person would have to leave the house. “We can’t set the place on fire—it’s made of concrete.” She laughed. “But we might be able to stimulate a trip to the ER.”

  Marty turned and raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  “Still thinking. Maybe send him a gift. Something that gives him food poisoning.” They both laughed. “I know, too risky. I’m just brainstorming here.”

  “We need to question his neighbors.” Marty’s beat cop experience came in handy.

  “Great idea, but we’ll need to be subtle. Maybe we can pretend to be looking at property to buy.”

  “Nice touch.”

  They talked through another round of ideas and rejected all of them. After a minute of quiet, her stepdad asked, “When is your next magnet treatment?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Thanks, but your time would be better spent at the county courthouse tracking down the property owner.”

  “Will do.”

  Rox had a pang of guilt for sending the old man to do the grunt work that bored her. He was supposed to be retired, but he helped with the fieldwork for the excitement. Cops often became adrenaline junkies and didn’t retire well. “But you don’t have to. It’s a nice day for golf.”

  He laughed. “If I ever choose golf over working a case with you, just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

  Rox laughed too. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, they approached the lane to the old county work camp. There was no road sign indicating a name or even route number. “Pass the turnoff,” Rox instructed. “We can’t go down the road in the truck. Too obvious.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  The area was densely wooded with patches of clearing for homes and fields. After they turned around, Rox spotted a house down the work camp lane in a clearing a few hundred feet from the main road. No cars were visible in its parking area. “Make the turn, then pull down that first driveway and park. We’ll cut through the woods.”

  “Grab the binoculars from under your seat.”

  Rox reached down and pulled them out. “What do you keep these for?”

  “Getting a closer look.” He gave her a smirk, drove down the gravel driveway, and parked next to a cluster of thick fir trees.

  In the distance, a dog started barking. “I hope no one is home here.” Rox opened the passenger door and climbed out. Marty grabbed a handgun from under the seat on his side and joined her next to the truck.

  Rox started to comment, then held back. She owned a Glock, but almost never carried it on her body. The last thing she wanted was to exchange gunfire. But she knew there was nothing she could say that would change Marty’s mind, and part of her felt better knowing he was armed.

  She zipped up her light jacket. “The work camp is a half mile through these trees.” She pointed south, down the side road.

  “If I’d known the plan, I could have worn camouflage.”

  His eyes twinkled, and she realized he was kidding. But was it funny? Her new awareness could be confusing.

  Marty started into the woods, and Rox followed, her stomach rumbling. Maybe they would stop for a real breakfast on the way home.

  Without a trail, the walk was slow and laborious, but still enjoyable. It beat the hell out of sitting at a desk, scanning digital data for anomalies! Which she had done with most of her time at the agency. As they approached the clearing where the concrete buildings stood, two vehicles came into sight, a slate-blue Bronco and a red minivan, both at least twenty years old.

  Yes! She’d been right about her hunch that people were living here.

  “No white van,” Marty whispered.

  “It’s probably at the soup kitchen.” Rox moved behind a big fir tree at the edge of the woods. Beyond it was an open grass field with a massive garden between the field and the buildings. A six-foot wire fence surrounded the garden, which was only partially planted. She scanned the property with the binoculars, settling on the vehicles. But from the side, she couldn’t read the license
numbers. “I need a better view of the plates.” She kept her voice down and started in the direction of the dead-end lane. After a hundred yards, she turned and focused on the cars. The minivan was closest, and she could barely read the number. Rox stepped forward.

  Loud barking made them both jump. A big wolf-like dog charged at them from the woods to the south.

  “Shit!” Marty reached for his weapon.

  “No.” She grabbed his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Rox spun around and took off, her stepdad following. They hauled ass through the dense trees, glancing over their shoulders. The dog was following them but from a distance. “It didn’t come from the work camp. It might be wild.” Adrenaline made her voice sound tight.

  “I’ll shoot it if I have to.”

  Rox was mostly worried about Blackstone discovering he was being spied on. She glanced back again and didn’t see the dog. But they kept up their pace until they reached the truck.

  Inside she said, “I think I got the license plate of the minivan.”

  “And we got confirmation that the work camp is occupied.”

  She held up her hand for a high five, surprising herself. Marty laughed and slapped her palm.

  Suddenly the big dog leaped on the hood of the truck, barking and snarling. Rox let out a startled yelp.

  “Holy shit!” Marty cranked the engine, put the truck in reverse, and gunned it.

  The dog slid off, still barking. Marty turned the truck in a fast, tight spin and entered the road.

  Rox looked back, hoping they wouldn’t be followed.

  CHAPTER 9

  A few hours later

  Rox walked out of her second magnetic treatment with a massive headache. She’d been warned of that possible side effect, but it worried her anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t continue. Changing her brain’s connections felt so unnatural, like getting cosmetic surgery or trying to be someone she wasn’t. Unsure if she had aspirin at home, she stopped at the store and bought some, grabbing a Reese’s peanut butter cup from the rack near the checkout at the last minute. Her addiction to them escalated when she was stressed or in pain. She ate the candy on the way home but didn’t listen to music, not wanting a repeat of the crying episode.

  At home, she checked her text messages. Nothing from her boyfriend. She called him, but he didn’t answer, so she left a message. “Hey, Kyle. I need a small favor. Can you get me the name of a car owner? It’s for the case I’m working. I’ll buy you dinner if you have time.” She gave the license plate number she’d memorized, then with her head still pounding, lay down to sleep for a while.

  Kyle’s return call an hour later woke her from a weird sleep. She sat up and took the call. “Hey. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “Of course. How was your second treatment?”

  “It gave me a headache, but I slept and it’s better now.”

  “Did you tell the doctor?”

  “No. It’s not a big deal.” She didn’t want to talk about the treatments. “Hey, did you get the license plate?”

  “Registered to Margo Preston.”

  “Thanks. What address is listed?”

  He rattled off a street in north Portland.

  Probably not relevant. “I think that’s an old location. Anything interesting I should know about her?”

  “One DUI years ago, and her occupation is listed as a caregiver.”

  An odd mix. “Thanks. What about my dinner invite?”

  “I can’t. I have a stakeout tonight. We think we have a lead on the I-5 Killer.”

  “Great news, but be careful.”

  “You too. I’ve gotta go.”

  “See you.” Rox hung up and headed for the kitchen. The headache had eased some, but it was still bothering her. She downed a glass of water and another aspirin, then sat at her computer. Her friend Sergio had sent a short email from his private server with the names of three men who’d served in Blackstone’s unit with a promise of more information later. She added the names to her paper file, put the document back in the floor safe, and continued her research. News stories indicated that one of the men, Bruce Anderson, had become a local politician and now lived in Vancouver, just across the river from Portland. Blackstone and Anderson lived close enough to have stayed in touch. Rox searched for his contact information and quickly found his web page. Politicians loved publicity. She called the number and got a slick message. His voice was strong and pleasant, and his photo showed a handsome man in his mid-to-late thirties. Or so he looked. She could never tell, and after insulting a few women, she’d quit guessing.

  Rox left what she hoped was an intriguing message of her own: “This is Karina Jones, a private investigator. I’m looking for one of the men you served with. A young girl’s life could be at stake. Please call me.” She left her burner number, careful as always not to get any extraction-related calls on her personal phone. After she hung up, she wondered if it had been a mistake not to mention Blackstone by name. No. If Anderson and Blackstone were best friends, that could have backfired, with Anderson tipping him off. She had to sound out Anderson and play this carefully.

  The Skype icon vibrated at the bottom of her computer screen, so she opened it and braced herself for the creepy notification sound. The only person who contacted her this way was her mother, and because she rarely heard from her, she always took the call. Georgia’s pretty face came into view, perfectly centered on the screen. “Hi, Roxanne.”

  Rox nodded. “Hello, Georgia.” No one but her mother called her Roxanne. She honored her mother’s wishes by calling her Georgia instead of Mom, but the selfish woman had never done the same for her by calling her Rox. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, I was just cast in a new play I’m excited about.” Her mother beamed. She was mostly a voice actor and audiobook narrator now, but she still took acting jobs when she could get them.

  “Congratulations! I’m glad you’re still getting roles.” Rox had made peace with her mother’s abandonment long ago and accepted whatever Georgia had to offer. It wasn’t much.

  “Me too. It gets harder every year, and I’m thinking about a face-lift.”

  Rox didn’t really care. “Be careful about choosing a great cosmetic surgeon.”

  “Of course. I know just the guy.” Georgia leaned forward. “What’s new with you?”

  “I started a magnetic stimulation treatment for my brain.”

  Her mother’s brow pinched. “For your disorder?”

  “We don’t call it that, but yes.”

  Georgia’s eyes rolled up, a nervous tic she had. “You’re obviously still anal.”

  It hit Rox like a punch in the gut. The eye rolling wasn’t a tic. Her mother had been making fun of her all her life!

  “So what are the effects of the treatment?” Georgia asked.

  Rox thought of several things to say, none of them pleasant. “For one, I notice now when people roll their eyes and mock me. I have to go.” She clicked the icon to close the video call.

  She moved away from the computer, her emotions in turmoil. Hurt, anger, and confusion all fought to surface at the same time. She pulled on a sweater, navy blue, and went out for a walk since she’d missed one that morning. After ten minutes, she felt calm enough to laugh out loud. This was really about Georgia. She probably rolled her eyes at everyone. Narcissists were like that.

  Still, she’d felt better about herself and her mother before the treatments. Now she wondered if Georgia’s selfishness in leaving them had been the reason Jolene was so insecure and needy—which had led her to join a cult. And Rox was no longer sure she wanted to be more like everyone else. Being emotionally aware was rather painful. But maybe she just needed time to adjust and evaluate. She stopped walking, found the clinic listing in her cell phone, and left a message asking to reschedule her next treatment. It would be better to wait until she’d completed Emma’s extraction and had more time to see how she handled the changes without the pressure of an intense case. Feeling better—
and hungry now—Rox headed home.

  In the kitchen, she pulled a container of spaghetti sauce from the freezer, dumped it in a pan, and turned on the stove. She always made a big batch and froze it for several dinners, usually inviting Marty, who’d taught her how to make it. When he came over, she cooked vermicelli to go with it, but alone, she spooned it up like chili.

  While the sauce heated, she turned on the news. After ten minutes of political bullshit, the newscaster, a cute older guy with whitish-gray hair, pulled his face into a sad expression. “Just hours ago, a body was found near the interstate just south of the 205 junction. Police have labeled the death a homicide and say the young woman could be another victim of the I-5 Killer. If so, she would be the fourth victim since October of last year. The task force is asking for the public’s help to identify the victim. If you knew this woman or saw her anytime in the last twenty-four hours, please call this number.” Next to the phone number, an image of the young woman was displayed on the screen. She had long ash-colored hair and a chubby face.

  Rox sucked in her breath. It was Bethany, the girl she’d chatted with at the soup kitchen.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rox grabbed her phone and called Kyle. She didn’t expect him to answer, but she planned to leave a message in case the task force hadn’t identified Bethany yet. As his cell rang, she visualized herself sitting in the soup kitchen in a nun’s habit, chatting with the murder victim hours before her death. Oh hell. The subsequent conversation with Kyle played out in her head too. Not good. Yet she had to tell him that Bethany was a member of Sister Love. Or had the task force already learned that? Maybe she should just hang up. Her chat with Bethany was probably irrelevant to the girl’s murder and the I-5 Killer investigation. But she had to say something.

  Kyle’s voice mail greeting ended. She played her report down the middle. “Hey, I just saw the news about the new I-5 victim. I wanted you to know she’s a member of Sister Love, the veterans’ charity, and that she had worked in their soup kitchen. I know you guys are keeping busy with the case, but call me when you have time.” Rox hung up. If Bethany had been murdered by the serial killer, the I-5 team would focus on that lead. Maybe her own visit with Bethany would never come up. Fat chance. Kyle was a good detective, and he would ask a lot of questions. Rox decided she would be honest about her visit to the soup kitchen but not mention the costume. That involved too much explanation. Kyle would also want to question Deacon Blackstone.