Thomas nodded at the bag on the passenger seat. Justine’s wallet sat atop a folded sweatshirt. Snatching the wallet, he opened it and found a hundred dollars in cash and two credit cards.
“This wasn’t a robbery. If someone took her, he left her bag with the wallet inside.”
Presley popped the trunk.
“I found where the smell is coming from. I guess cold cuts don’t last long inside a hot car. I’ll radio the station and have the crime techs check the car for evidence. But it appears someone snatched her out of the parking lot and drove off.”
“I take it the shopping market has security cameras.”
“They do, but it was foggy last night. Not sure how much we’ll see.”
Presley followed Thomas inside. The store manager led them to a gloomy room in the back and copied the security camera footage. Thomas gave the video a quick scan and came to the same conclusion as Presley. Too foggy. Between the poor camera quality and the dense mist, he couldn’t spot the Acura, though he caught Adkins pushing a shopping cart through the automatic doors.
“I’ll have our lab clean up the video and bring out the details,” Presley said.
Thomas didn’t think it would make a difference.
“I need the names of everyone working last night,” Thomas told the manager.
“I can get those for you. Harry Sims is here now. He’s my assistant manager. Harry closed the store at midnight.”
Sims remembered Adkins after Thomas showed him a picture of her driver’s license.
“There were only two or three shoppers in the store after ten,” Sims said, creasing his forehead as he remembered.
“Anyone following her or acting strangely?”
“No, but a van almost ran me over when I went outside to corral the shopping carts.”
“What time did this occur?”
“Sometime between ten-thirty and eleven. I figured it was a kid hot-rodding through the parking lot.”
“Did you get a look at the driver or read the license plate?”
“It was too damn foggy.”
“How about the make and model?”
“Couldn’t tell you. It was a dark color, maybe blue or black. Sorry I can’t help more.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday, August 13th
11:45 a.m.
Raven followed Darren to the state park and left her black Nissan Rogue beside his truck. They split off after Darren noticed his trail cameras had arrived. Raven knocked on the door to Paul Phipps’s cabin and didn’t get an answer. She peeked through the windows. They hadn’t made the bed before they left, and a stack of dishes littered the sink.
She followed the trail into the forest, intent on catching up to Darren. Now that they were away from LeVar and Scout, she wanted to tell him about the lacerations on Chelsey’s chest. An unthinkable idea passed through her head. Was Chelsey cutting herself?
Darren was probably halfway to Lucifer Falls. The woods seemed darker than when she’d hiked with Darren. Being alone lent an ominous overtone to the forest. Leaves crunched in the distance as someone cut between the trails, breaking park rules by taking a shortcut. It could have been Darren, or a hiker in a hurry. Or the Lucifer Falls killer.
She stopped beside a tree and listened as the footsteps moved away. Then she heard nothing except bird calls and animals rustling through the gloom. This was a bad idea. Darren was too far ahead, and her nerves were frayed. As she turned back to the cabins, she spotted footprints in the dirt circling cabin three. She wouldn’t have given the prints a second thought except they congregated in two places—outside the door and beneath the dusty window. It appeared someone had searched for a way inside the cabin.
She followed the prints and knelt to examine a cluster beneath the window. The prints fit a male sneaker, size ten or eleven.
Raven circled cabin three and knocked. Again, nobody answered. Most campers were out on the lake or walking the trails at this time of day, though she suspected some would return soon for lunch.
A dirt and stone path fronted the cabins and merged with the ridge trail. She walked down the path, her focus on the space between the cabins. Between cabins seven and eight, she found another set of prints. Again they converged beneath the window and at the door.
She stopped beside the prints and snapped a photograph with her phone. Everything appeared identical—the tread pattern, shoe size, and print depth. Someone was testing the locks on the doors and windows. This had to be the same person who swiped two-hundred dollars from Paul Phipps’s wife. She searched along the window. The pane was off its tracks, as if someone jostled it open recently.
“What are you doing there?”
Raven swung around to a lanky man with gray, wispy hair, a white mustache, and glasses.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. But did you notice anyone circling the cabins or trying to break inside the last few days?”
“Can’t say that I did, and I would have called the cops, anyhow. Who are you?”
“Raven Hopkins. I’m a private investigator with Wolf Lake Consulting.”
“A private eye, eh? You got identification?”
“I have my driver’s license, if that helps.”
Raven removed the license from her wallet and showed it to the man. He narrowed his eyes.
“Looks like you are who you say you are. But that doesn’t mean you’re a private investigator. What business do you have at the camp?”
“One of your neighbors hired me after his wife had money stolen from her wallet.”
“You don’t say.”
Raven removed a pen and notepad.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Shillingford. Cole Shillingford.”
“Mr. Shillingford, have you or your neighbors lost any items of value over the last week?”
He called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Raven.
“Aileen, come out here.”
A gray-haired woman in a flannel shirt and jeans emerged from the cabin. She glanced at Raven and widened her eyes.
“Should I call the police, Cole?”
“She says she’s a private investigator. Claims a camper hired her to catch the thief running around these parts.” The woman edged
