Texas Cold Case Threat
Author
Jessica R. Patch
Reads
17.5K
Chapters
18
ONE
You got the wrong guy.
Agent Chelsey Banks’s stomach knotted as she recalled the carefully typed words of the letter she’d received almost three weeks ago revealing intimate details that proved her profile had led authorities in the wrong direction concerning a Dallas mass shooting. Dreading the truth that she’d somehow made a mistake, but unwilling to hide the letter, she’d promptly taken it to her section chief in Quantico, then asked for a personal leave of absence. She hopped a plane from Virginia to Gran Valle, a gorgeous rural valley town flanked by the Davis Mountains and, farther southwest, the Glass Mountains. She’d visited before and had been impressed with the peaceful community and quiet scenery.
But she was feeling no peace at the moment, not even on her nightly horseback ride. She’d been staying on Redd Rock Ranch for a little over two weeks now, and the guilt nipping at her bones hadn’t ceased; it was like a moth gnawing away at an old sweater. Section chief Bob Wright had tried to assuage her guilt but agreed a reprieve would do her good.
The profile was solid with the information you had available, Chelsey. Not every behavioral analyst hits the mark one hundred percent of the time. Not even you.
But she had until this flub. Granted, it had led to Marty Stockton—a bad man who had indeed done bad things. But it hadn’t been Marty who had opened fire on an all-women’s gym in Dallas one Saturday morning over six years ago. And there was no absolving him of the crime now. A week before the letter arrived at her residence in Virginia, Mr. Stockton had been stabbed to death in the penitentiary cafeteria. Which hadn’t made the news, and that meant the real killer might have had personal knowledge on Marty Stockton and his life inside the pen that led to him sending Chelsey the letter.
Overwhelmed, shocked and humiliated, Chelsey had no choice but to leave—maybe forever. If for no other reason than utter shame. She’d prided herself on her impeccable record that led to the capture of vicious killers. She was meticulous. Careful. And correct. How many times had she said to colleagues, local law enforcement and the press, “I don’t get it wrong. You can trust what I’m telling you is accurate.” Especially concerning the Dallas mass shooting. After Marty’s arrest, Chelsey had stood in front of dozens of cameras and assured them they’d caught the right man, that the Dallas PD in tandem with her profile had brought justice to families of the fourteen gunned-down women and made the streets safer.
Her career might as well be over. Time to eat crow.
It didn’t matter that she’d been six years younger at the time or one of the youngest female agents to become a behavioral analyst with the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime—or what most people knew to be the Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU.
What mattered most to Chelsey and what would matter most to the sharks with cameras was that she’d been wrong after insisting, almost gloating, she’d been right. What had she missed from the interviews she’d been privy to and the files she’d analyzed? Something had slipped through her fingertips or the profile would have morphed and sent the DPD in another direction. They might have found the real killer, who for some reason wanted to revel in Chelsey’s blunder now—over six years later. Why would a killer who had gotten away with murder and would have continued to be scot-free out himself?
He wasn’t an idiot. He was clearly calculating and intelligent. It made no sense. Had he simply been waiting for the right moment to humiliate her? When she was just now taking her career to another level? Would he have even known this information? Since the mass shooting, Chelsey had increasingly been in the public eye on various cases, always worried the media might poke too hard and discover the truth about her, but hoping they wouldn’t. There wasn’t much of a trail. Not enough to send her slinking into the background.
Could this real killer have discovered her secret and that’s why he was now willing to come out of obscurity—to harass her? What kind of monster would do that?
She rubbed Cortessa’s dark mane as the chestnut mare guided her down the craggy trail. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? No judgment from you. Just steady companionship.” She sighed as the horizon displayed hues of orange, pink and violet, signaling that the sun was snuggling in for the night. The thick, arid May air swirled with enough heat to hint at a typical sweltering summer. But Chelsey had always loved Texas heat. If ever there was proof of a Creator, it was here in the mountains and valleys of West Texas. She missed Texas often, but her home and job were in Virginia now, where she could use the skills she’d gained by crooked means for good. For justice.
No one knew about her father. Her past.
They only knew what she wanted them to know. She had been bred for deception. But then, having a con artist for a father would do that. The early years, he’d called them games. How to pickpocket, how to spot a good mark. How to fake cry and play pretend. Chelsey had adored her father. He was bold and fun. Full of enthusiasm and life. Mom had died not long after she was born. Dad had been her entire world, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him. He had always championed and encouraged her, even when she’d told him at eighteen she was done aiding him and going into law enforcement.
He’d seen it as a get-out-of-jail-free card.
And basically, it had been.
The last thing she wanted to think about was Dad. Except he’d called and let her know he’d be back in their hometown of Abilene for a few days and wanted to see her if she could take a little time to fly in from Quantico. She hadn’t revealed to him that she was only four hours south on a weekend ranch that belonged to a family friend of her best friend since childhood.
Tack Holliday. A man completely opposite of her sophisticated father, who’d rather enjoy an espresso in an upscale city than hike through mountains or sleep outside in a tent and sleeping bag. Chelsey found her first smile of the day thinking of Tack. They’d met when she’d come to live with her aunt in Abilene at the ripe old age of five. Dad had told her he’d traveled for business—more like escaping consequences from one scam to another city to plan another. Tack’s mom and Aunt Jeanine had been best friends and attended the same church. It was Tack who’d taught her how to saddle a horse, to ride and to barrel race. Chelsey had won several blue ribbons, and it was a way to focus her energy and pass time missing her father, who popped in at least once a month. They’d even gone to the police academy together.
Now, Tack was a Texas Ranger and a good one, too. He was the epitome of cowboy, from his six-foot four-inch frame to his dusty boots and confident swagger. She’d often told him he looked like Blake Shelton minus the ability to sing a single note on key, and he bore a few more streaks of gray at the temples than the country artist. But working these kinds of jobs did that.
Cortessa clip-clopped down the, rocky trail where ranchers had trotted for generations. While the land was still worked, the owners had built a much bigger home north of this acreage but kept their first ranch house as a weekend getaway and place their eldest son, Dusty, lived when home from the rodeo. He and Tack had been good friends through the rodeo circuit and horse racing, and Dusty’s family had become like family to Tack. They had been more than happy to offer the ranch, especially since Dusty was away on the bull riding circuit.
Tack didn’t know she might need a place longer than a few weeks, since this wasn’t vacation. But she couldn’t bring herself to confide in her oldest friend that she was a fake and had come by her professional skills through nefarious means and was probably going to become a washed-up hack. Nor did he know the colossal secret she’d been keeping from him for almost twenty years. If he ever got wind of it...her friendship with Tack would be over in a split second, and she’d come to depend on their relationship over the years. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to confess.
The small ranch came into view, the metal windmill spinning in languid circles in the evening breeze. The housekeeper was here. Izzy’s beat-up Dodge Caravan was in the driveway. A white Ford truck had parked behind her. Probably her brother, Juan, the head mechanic on the ranch.
She slowly dismounted and roped Cortessa to the post, removed her bridle and bit, then rubbed her muzzle. “Be a good girl and I’ll get you to the stable soon.” The horse slurped from a water trough by the fence post.
She’d kept the side door to the home unlocked and entered through the kitchen, the scents of chili powder and cilantro hanging in the air from her late lunch. Izzy had brought her tamales yesterday. The house was quiet. Groceries sat on the kitchen island in plastic bags. Rivulets of condensation dripped from the gallon of milk. Izzy wasn’t one to be idle or slow about her work. A sense of warning corded in her gut.
The kitchen opened into a rustic living space, and a hall to the left would lead to three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Quietly, she removed her boots and remained in sock feet. She didn’t want the sound of clicking on hardwood to tip off a possible intruder, but something wasn’t right.
A dull thump in the back of the house snagged her attention. Her gun was on her nightstand in the master bedroom. She glanced at the knife block and slid out the butcher knife, then inched down the hallway, her back against the wall until she paused by the first guest room. The door was open. She listened, looked down and noticed boot prints, likely size twelve.
A gurgling noise drew her attention to the adjacent guest room.
“Shut up,” a deep, husky voice growled.
Chelsey’s hairs stood on end. Whoever had driven the white Ford had Izzy. She needed her gun! If she stayed quiet, she could slip in, grab it and hopefully aid Izzy in time. Heart pounding, she moved silently but stealthily until she hit an old, creaky joist. Her body froze, breath caught.
Had the man heard it? Blood rushed into her ears, causing her to hear nothing but sounds like a whirring fan. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
It felt like a standoff. She feared moving, and he might be paused listening. One more step. She took it. Then another until she was almost to the master bedroom, the guest bathroom sandwiched between the two rooms. She began backing into the bedroom when a hulking dark figure charged her like a raging bull from the stall. He wore dark jeans and a long-sleeved black work shirt and matching cowboy hat. His face was covered in a navy blue bandanna like some kind of outlaw, and he clutched something in his hand.
A taser!
Chelsey bolted for her nightstand, but he caught her as she reached out for the butt of her gun and yanked her toward him. As she stumbled backward, she swiped his arm with the butcher knife. He growled and cursed. Chelsey wasn’t going down without a war. In the next room, a life hung in the balance. She had to fight and live to save Izzy as well as herself.
The man released the back of her tank top, instinctively grabbing his wounded upper arm, and she turned and kneed him in the groin, sending him into a bent position. She swung the blade again, but he enclosed her wrist with an iron grip and banged it against the closet door until her only weapon clattered to the floor.
He hauled her up and thrust her onto the bed. She bounced from the force but used the spring to focus and kick him in the chest with both her feet. He toppled backward into the closet door. Finally, she retrieved her gun as a massive volt of electricity seared her ribs, stunning her with a shocking jolt.
A fist connected with her left cheek, and then she saw nothing.
Tack Holliday turned on the gravel road that led to the Redd Rock Ranch. Up ahead the rugged fencing flanked the big iron gate, holding two prominent Rs turned inward inside a metal circle. He’d been here dozens of times to hang for the weekend with his buddy Dusty, so when Chelsey had called inquiring about a peaceful place where she could chill for a few weeks, he’d immediately thought of here, especially since she’d have the place to herself. He’d called the Reddingtons to get permission, which they’d gladly given.
Tack wouldn’t mind owning a little ranch like this. It had always been on his dream list. Nothing as massive as Redd Rock—the Reddingtons were one of the leading beef cattle ranchers in the state of Texas. Tack would be content with about a hundred acres and a little homestead. A bachelor’s life. Not that Tack didn’t date, but never seriously or with women who had intentions of a permanent relationship. Tack wasn’t the type to string a woman along. He’d been raised better than that.
Plumes of dust billowed behind his Silverado as he pulled through the gate, noticing a van in the drive. Too banged-up to be a rental if Chelsey had changed her mind about getting one. Tack had picked her up at the airport, and she’d insisted she wouldn’t need a vehicle right away since she wanted to enjoy the ranch and the amenities, like the pool, horses and hiking trails.
Who on earth had she made friends with in two weeks? Chelsey was friendly enough, but wary and often guarded. The woman had a hilarious side, but it only popped out with those she was most comfortable around. Like Tack. But even so, she kept things close to the vest even from him at times—like the reason for her request for time off and the need for a little out-of-the-way place to relax.
Chelsey was nothing if not a workaholic, laser-focused on her career as an FBI behavioral analyst in the BAU. She lived for the hunt, the traveling to consult for local law agencies. For putting tiny pieces together until they formed a complete picture that aided law enforcement in catching killers. The woman had a knack for it, he’d give her that. Savvy. Observant. Her mind never shut off or slowed down, and she hadn’t taken a vacation in years. Not for more than a long weekend.
Three, maybe four weeks off? Didn’t sit right. He parked behind the van as sirens blared and he caught the flashes of blue lights in his rearview. His heart rate kicked up and he leaped from his truck, gun and Texas Ranger shield in hand. He bolted for the front door as Chelsey burst out, the left side of her face red, her lower lip split and her eye beginning to blacken.
“Chelsey, what is going on?” he boomed. “Who did this to you?” He sprinted for her as paramedics leaped from the ambulance and headed toward them.
“This way!” she shouted to the paramedics, ignoring Tack, as they rushed around him and inside. The sheriff’s deputies approached and nodded when Tack raised his Texas Ranger shield then followed them inside.
“What is going on?” he asked again when he reached the hallway where Chelsey stood, a scowl on her face and her arms folded over her chest. Her long, dark hair was half out of a ponytail, and one of her huge brown eyes was swelling fast. “You need ice on that.” He touched her cheek, and a paramedic pushed between them.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?”
“Clearly I’m hurt,” she snapped, “but I don’t have time to be upset about it.” She huffed and waved him off. “Sorry. I’m fine. Really. I’m refusing medical treatment.”
The sheriff’s deputy scratched his head and pulled out his notebook as the medical team carried out a young woman with long, dark hair. She wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t conscious, either.
“Can you tell me what happened, Agent Banks?” the deputy asked.
Tack would like to know, too. His heart rate still hadn’t settled.
“I came in from a ride. Around seven. Izzy Garcia—the housekeeper, lives in one of the bunks on the ranch—that’s her gold van. Behind was a white Ford. Older. Didn’t get the plates. I thought it might be her brother Juan, the ranch mechanic. But when I got inside, I could tell something was off. I moved down the hallway, and the intruder attacked me. We tangled. I sliced his left upper biceps with the butcher knife and went for my gun. By the time I reached it, he got to me with a taser.”
“How bad’s the burn?” the paramedic asked.
Chelsey sighed and raised the side of her white tank top, revealing a small red sear on her naturally bronzed skin. “Probably needs some ointment or whatever. I’m more concerned with Izzy.”
“We won’t know more until the doc sees her. But she’s alive. Thanks to you, I believe.”
“Did you recognize the intruder?” Tack asked. “Seen him before on the ranch?”
She described what he’d been wearing. “He looked like some kind of Wild West outlaw.” She shuddered. “When I came to after he decked me, he was gone. I was afraid he’d gone back and finished the job with Izzy or abducted her. Maybe he thought he had killed her. She was lying on the floor, a long piece of a braided horse’s rein around her neck. I loosened it, called in the cavalry. Thought I might need to start CPR, but she had a pulse. Faint.”
Tack wanted to wrap her in a bear hug, but she’d frown on that. She was a tough woman and composed in public. Even now when pain glimmered in her eyes and the aftereffects of fear still tremored in her hands, she was taking charge, working.
“You say she lives in one of the old cabins on the ranch?” Tack asked.
“Yes. She’s been living there and working as a housekeeper for the Reddingtons. Main house and the weekend ranch here. She’s a sweet girl. Friendly. Early twenties. She’s here on a temporary work visa from Mexico.”
Tack’s stomach constricted. He was working his own cold case right now. He’d joined the Unsolved Homicides division with the Rangers about four years ago. Company E. Moved from Houston, where he’d been working as a detective for the PD, to El Paso. “You said he wore a bandanna on his face? You get the color of his eyes? Anything?”
“No light in the bedroom. So no. Nothing he wore appeared expensive or unique. I saw the color of the bandanna because there was a light on in the guest room. I assume Izzy had turned it on, or maybe the killer wanted to see her clearly before he murdered her.” She drew her eyebrows together. “Why? Tack, is there an outlaw strangler running around West Texas I don’t know about?”
He turned to the deputy. “I’m going to take it from here.” This county was in his jurisdiction. “I think this attack might link to unsolved homicide cases I’m working now.”
“Cases plural?” Chelsey asked warily.
“Yeah.” After talking more extensively with the deputies, they left them with one civilian crime scene investigator to process the scene.
Tack walked into the kitchen and opened the freezer, found a bag of mixed vegetables, and handed it to Chelsey. “For the eye. Keep the swelling down.”
Chelsey accepted it and placed it on her cheek, wincing. “He’s got a nice right hook, I’ll give him that,” she said, but her voice cracked. He pretended not to notice. Let her keep her false bravado and dignity.
“Show me the horse rein he left behind.” He followed Chelsey to the guest bedroom closest to the bathroom. Lying on the floor was a braided brown leather horse’s rein. He squatted, and the CSI handed him a pair of latex gloves. The catalog number card lay beside the evidence, and powder from printing remained. “You done with this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Tack picked up the rein and studied it as Rosa Velasquez’s face came to mind. Dark hair but not black. Big brown eyes. Average build. Slim. Pouty lips. He glanced up at Chelsey, noticing she had the same features as the most recent victim in his cold case.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“You have puffy lips.”
“Yeah,” she smarted off, “I took one for the team here.”
He smirked. “No, I mean in general. You have lips women pay for.”
“Ugh, don’t talk like that. It freaks me out. What is going on? And quit looking at my lips.” She placed the frozen vegetables bag over them, amusing him.
He’d kissed those lips once when they were teenagers, but nothing came of it. Looking back, he was relieved. Tack had felt the deepest grief when he’d lost his youngest sister when he was only twenty-two and then his Houston PD partner—he’d been gunned down right before Tack’s eyes only a few years later, and he’d been utterly powerless to stop it. Charles had left behind a widow and a two-year-old son.
Tack didn’t see the point in investing so deeply in someone knowing that they were a vapor in the wind. Here today and gone tomorrow, leaving behind nothing but endless mourning and grief. Wasn’t worth it.
Better to keep Chelsey as a close friend. Besides, she loved her job, the travel. The limelight. She wasn’t one to settle down.
“I said stop staring at me,” she insisted, but he heard the amusement. “Tell me about your cold cases.”
Tack stood. “About four months ago, hikers illegally took their dog on the trails at Big Bend National Park, and while they were resting, the dog went to diggin’ and uncovered a human bone. Did what any retriever would and brought it to them. They wigged out, of course—nothing like your lab bringing you a human arm. They called the ranger and the authorities. Long story short, they found the remains of four unidentified women. But one of the bodies had been buried recently. We had enough to photograph and show around. Rosa Velasquez. Twenty-three. Here on a temporary work visa from Mexico. Working as a nanny for a ranch about twenty-five minutes west of here.”
“Did you get identification on the other three remains?”
Tack shook his head. “No dental records. No DNA matches. We know they were females about the same age and height as Rosa. What we do know by finding Rosa, only two days after her murder, was that she had ligature marks around her neck consistent with being strangled by a braided leather horse’s rein. Like this.”
Chelsey whistled low.
“Forensics found navy blue cotton fibers. You said he was wearing a navy blue bandanna over his face. Like an outlaw.”
Chelsey nodded. “He was. Dark jeans and shirt. Black gloves. Cowboy hat. It almost fell off when I kicked him into the closet door.”
“You kicked him into a door? Guess those kickboxing lessons paid off.”
“You better believe it.” She grinned and groaned. “My lip.”
Tack’s chest constricted at her injuries and at the fact that she fit the physical victim profile. Except she was pushing forty. But she could easily pass for late twenties. Only lines around her eyes creased when she grinned. But how would the Outlaw, as she’d described him, know she was here? She had no car. Went nowhere to his knowledge. Could he work on the Reddington ranch? If it was an employee, that narrowed down the suspect pool.
“Chels, does Izzy usually come by on Saturday nights and bring groceries? Is it her routine?”
“No. She said she’d be by on Mondays, except for this week due to extra cleaning for another client who was throwing a party later in the week.”
Tack frowned. “Could he have thought he was coming after you and caught Izzy instead? You both fit his victim description.”
“How? No one knows I’m here.”
“Employees who work here know about you.”
She stalked to the kitchen and started putting groceries away. Leave it to Chelsey to clean or chomp ice when she needed to think through something. He noticed a few envelopes on the counter at the same time Chelsey did. Izzy must have checked the mail. Chelsey seemed surprised to see the stack. Her face blanched as she touched a letter.
“What is it?”
Her head snapped his direction, and fear radiated in her eyes. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” She scooted the mail out of the way.
Tack knew better. Chelsey was hiding something. But why would she be getting mail at a ranch she’d only been staying at for a short time?
