“The tourists?” Jack repeated.
“Gringos. They came and left early. One couple, older. Gramps. Took pictures, had bottled water, left. The other, a woman, came in about the same time, had Jack straight up.”
“When did she leave? Or was she with the couple?”
“I thought she was their daughter, but she stayed longer. Maybe left at nine.”
“What did she look like?” Padre asked.
Jack glanced at him. He had almost forgotten the priest was in the room. He didn’t look well.
Pablo muttered under his breath. “I don’t remember. I swear, maybe someone else will remember. She had a ball cap on. That’s all I know. I swear. She could have been twenty or fifty, for all I know.”
“What was she wearing?” Padre asked.
“Clothes.”
Jack leaned forward.
“I don’t know!” Pablo exclaimed, pushing his sloppy handwritten list at Jack. “I don’t remember. Nothing that stands out. Jeans, maybe.”
“Did she talk to anyone?”
Pablo looked worried and relieved at the same time. “Carlos brought her the drink. Maybe he talked to her some. She was there, then she wasn’t. I don’t keep my eyes on everyone all the time. I have work to do, bills to pay, stock and cleaning. I’m not a babysitter. Talk to Carlos, talk to everyone. I’m real sorry about Senor Scout, but I don’t know anything else. I swear, Senor Jack, I know nothing.”
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday morning was a whirlwind-Megan barely had time to pack an overnight bag and arrange for her neighbor Jesse to take care of Mouse-and by three p.m. central time, Megan landed in Austin, Texas. Hans had called for a liaison to meet them from the FBI’s Austin field office. Renny Davis was a tall, thin man with a complexion and sharp features that suggested part Native American heritage.
“Thanks for picking us up,” Hans said after introductions.
“My pleasure,” Davis said. “I’ve heard great things about you. I’m signed up for one of your classes in the fall-advanced victimology-as part of ERT training.”
“I look forward to seeing you in class,” Hans said.
They made small talk as they walked to Davis’s car. As the Austin agent drove, Megan asked, “Have you been involved with the Johnson homicide from the beginning?”
“Nope,” Davis said. “No need to be. I didn’t even know about it, other than a cursory news program, until headquarters issued the hot sheet.”
Megan looked at her notes. “That was issued on Friday. Three days before Price was killed. Vegas ran the M.O. and up popped Johnson, so they contacted their local FBI office about a killer crossing state lines. That was … last Wednesday.”
“I contacted Jose when I got the sheet. He’s the detective in charge, I’ve worked with him before. He told me they had shit-excuse me-and were hoping that Vegas would come up with something more. You headed there next?”
Megan glanced at Hans with raised eyebrows. “Are we?”
“Yes. If we get what we need here, we’ll be on a plane tomorrow night. The Vegas file is pretty thin. Either there was no evidence or it hasn’t been processed. We might be able to help expedite on that end.”
Davis asked, “Do you think he’ll strike again so soon?”
“They could have been waiting for a specific day,” Megan said, “or they didn’t have a good opportunity. Perry had an on-again/off-again girlfriend. There’s nothing here about whether they were on or off and for how long. Just that she hadn’t seen him in two days.”
“Exactly,” Hans said. “They want their victims alone.”
“What did local police think happened?” Megan asked Davis.
“For a while the thought was organized crime. The hamstrings, the torture-restraint. As if he knew something or hadn’t paid up, or maybe screwed around with another man’s wife. But nothing connected. Even his ex was shocked and had nothing but good things to say about him.”
“Then why’d they divorce?” Hans asked.
Megan knew there were many reasons to divorce, even if you liked your spouse.
Davis shrugged. “Jose might know. Johnson was well-liked by friends and family, thought to be moody, and had a few friends from his army days who took his death pretty hard. But no one with a beef, no one who knew of a problem, no disgruntled customers.”
“We’ll need to talk to his friends from the army,” Megan said.
Davis pulled up in front of the main Austin police station. He slid an official business placard on his dash and they got out.
Jose Vasquez was much younger than Megan had thought after speaking with him on the phone. He looked about twenty, but being a detective, Megan figured he had to be closer to thirty. He was short and wiry, completely antithetical to his deep voice.
He and Davis knew each other, and Megan could tell that having the local fed with them was a big benefit.
“I found you a conference room,” Jose said, “and all my files are there. Got photos, the coroner’s notes you asked for, Agent Vigo, witness statements, evidence reports. The whole nine yards.”
“Can we get out to the crime scene?” Megan asked.
“It’s been cleaned out. Everything was left to Johnson’s kids, and his ex is selling the place and putting the money into a trust for them. Probably best thing, I wouldn’t be too keen on keeping a place where someone I cared about was killed.”
“But we can still access it, right?” she asked.
“I’ll get us in, just takes a call. Why don’t you sit down, make yourselves at home-coffee is right around the corner.” He left.
Hans sat down, full of nervous energy. Very unlike his usually easygoing demeanor. “Something up?” Megan asked casually.
“There’s something off. I don’t know what. I need more information, as much as I can get, and maybe I’ll figure out what’s bothering me.”
“We got the parking garage security tapes back. Someone scrambled the digital code.”
“And no one noticed?” Davis asked.
“They’re not monitored twenty-four/seven. They’re supposed to be a deterrent.”
“Seems like the killers would have had to know that, otherwise they wouldn’t have been comfortable sitting there for hours. What about the switched license plates?” Hans asked. “Is Sac P.D. following up on that?”
“Yes,” Megan said, then explained to Davis about the security guard making rounds in the garage and taking note of the license plates of cars left overnight. She then said to Hans, “What I don’t get is, they obviously knew all about the security at the garage, but how did they know Price would be there? The guy’s homeless.”
“Maybe they picked him up. Or have been following him for a few days, finding out where he liked to walk or sleep. Where was he attacked?”
“In the stairwell of the garage.”
“Could he have been sleeping in there?”
“It’s possible,” Megan said. “Black and his people are talking to the victim’s friends. But the homeless don’t like talking to cops. So far he’s not getting a lot out of them.”
But it made sense that the killers had watched Price, just like they knew when Duane Johnson would be coming home from work.
