“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, she did.”
“I need you to think about this. Did she know who you were?” He’s staring at me. “Do you remember what she said to you?”
Dylan raises his head and lowers it slowly. “She asked me….” He swallows visibly. “She asked me if I wanted to get Tayler back.”
Okay. This is getting weird. “What did she mean?”
Turning toward me, Dylan steps back into the room. “She said she’d help me get Tayler back.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“And did she? Help you?”
The look on Dylan’s face reminds me of the times my little brother was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. “She did surveillance.”
“Surveillance?”
“On Tayler. She took the photos. Most of ’em.”
“She was in Ames? Helping you?” Her dad promised he’d do his best to keep Kara out of Ames after the incidents with Quinn Maxwell. It was either that or Quinn was going to press charges. “Was she staying in her apartment at that time?”
“Off and on. Her dad made her come home sometimes.”
So Dad knew. Interesting.
If his daughter weren’t dead, I’d have him in here to answer a few questions. But now’s not the time for that.
“Thanks, Dylan.” I turn to head back into the booth.
“Can I leave now?” His voice is calmer than before.
“That’s up to the captain. I’ll see what I can do.”
“All right.”
When I hear the door click closed, I move into the booth with the captain as he mutters, “That little girl was up to no good.”
I know he’s referring to Kara, and I think he’s right. “Did you hear Dylan say she had ‘a bunch of irons in the fire’?” I shake my head. “Blackmail.”
The captain nods and chews on what looks to be a cookie. Where’d he get a cookie? “You’ll need to go through her place with a fine-tooth comb. See if she’s got anything there that can help us figure out who she was extracting money from.”
“Me? What about Trumbull?”
“He’s got some personal, er, stuff going on.”
I arch my brow and wait for more.
He sighs. “His wife’s fucking around on him. His head isn’t in the game.”
“And?” What does this all mean to me?
“And congratulations,” he deadpans. “You’re now the detective in charge of this case.”
“But—”
“Now get to work.” And with that, he’s up and out of the booth before I can say another word.
I sure as hell hope I get a raise for this.
Chapter Eight
Gage
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—Finch gets assigned to help me with the case since Detective Trumbull is AWOL. The captain decided to release Dylan, warning him to stay away from Kara Becker’s apartment. Hopefully he passed along the same advice as it relates to Tayler. She’s out on bail thanks to Luke, so Dylan needs to stay far away from her as well. And with the new information from Forrester, Tayler has a good shot at fighting the charges. Hopefully her lawyer’s good enough to see the evidence against Tayler is circumstantial at best. With Dylan’s knowledge about Kara attempting to blackmail at least one person, her chances are even better.
That’s where Finch and I start off our day—trying to figure out who Kara was extorting by searching her apartment again. The initial search was more superficial. The team gathered fibers, got fingerprints from every surface, took a multitude of photographs, etc. Now Finch and I are going through her place with a fine-tooth comb, and while we’re here, Detective Dan has decided to put in a day’s work as well. He’s going through all of Becker’s social media accounts, phone records including text messages, and the stuff we got from her car, including a journal she had in her glove box.
“Sir,” Finch says from her bedroom. I gave him the task of going through that room, making sure not to leave any stone unturned because you’d be surprised where people hide stuff. Example: The freezer is a common hiding place, as are the backs and bottoms of drawers.
“Yeah?” I say from the kitchen.
“Found something.”
Stepping into the bedroom, my feet sound like I’m walking on dry leaves thanks to the shoe covers I’ve got on. Rubber gloves and a hair covering help round out the outfit. “Whatcha got?”
Finch has the mattress pushed off the bed. It’s now leaning against the wall. He points to the platform bed, where a manila envelope, one about nine by eleven inches, has been hidden between two boards. He’s right. He found something.
“Let’s take photos before you extract it.” Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I take pics of the slats on the platform then back up and take more shots from different angles. “Okay.” I nod.
I watch as Finch carefully tugs at the corner until it slides free. Bending the metal closure, he opens the top and peers inside. “Photos.” He turns the envelope over, the contents landing on the bed frame. As he leans in, I step closer. Using his gloved hand, Finch spreads them out farther so we can see each one.
Finch speaks first. “Weird that these are printed out.” On photo paper, no less. “These days, it’s all digital files.”
“Hmm. True. For effect, maybe.”
“Huh?”
I stare down at six eight-by ten-inch photos. Three include images of a man and a woman. You can’t see the woman, only her arms and legs, but it’s obvious what they’re doing. “You know, I bet she printed them off so she could mail them or show them without having her camera or phone grabbed. Plus, a hard copy is going to have more impact. For effect,” I repeat so he understands what I mean.
“So, who are they?”
“No idea.” I lean closer to the images. “The guy’s older.” I point to the hair.
“They’re in some kind of office.” Finch looks up at me, then back down. “There’s a desk and some bookshelves.”
“Yep.” And it’s obvious what they’re doing since the man’s pants are down around his ankles.
Finch pushes the top
