Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (29 page)

“Anything else?” She stood up and looked at Jeremy.

No answer.

She walked past him, stopping in the kitchen when she noticed the silver laptop on the counter. Liam had been using it that morning. Should she take that, too? Computer analysis could take days or even weeks. She intended to copy everything and bring it all back, but what if something got delayed? Leaving Liam with nothing could paralyze his business.

“Thunder ain’t rain,” Jeremy said from the doorway.

She looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he didn’t say, and she returned her attention to the laptop.

Screw it. Liam was a big boy. He’d just have to handle it. Tara had dealt with pissed-off men before, and no doubt she’d have to do it again.

Tara snapped shut the computer and tucked it under her arm. Then she filled out an evidence receipt, and dread expanded inside her as she listed all the items she’d taken. With a quick flourish, she signed her name at the bottom of the receipt.

“Give this to Liam,” she said, holding it out to Jeremy.

He remained stock-still. “Give it to him yourself.”

“A
nd . . . you’re in.”

The techie from Tara’s office rolled back in the desk chair and gestured to the screen.

“That was fast.” Tara peered over his shoulder. She and M.J. were crowded behind their visitor in the makeshift war room at the sheriff’s office.

“I wouldn’t say fast,” he told her. “Usually I can do it in fifteen minutes. This guy’s pass codes were harder than average.”

“So I’ve got access to everything?” Tara took a seat beside him.

“On this you do. I’ll need some time with those thumb drives.”

“Have at it.”

Tara took off her blazer, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. M.J. joined her, and within minutes it became clear why Liam had been so protective of his records.

They were a gold mine of information, both sensitive and highly personal, including detailed dossiers on every person who’d ever hired Wolfe Security. His master client list read like a who’s who of Texas VIPs, from politicians and singers to NFL athletes who probably didn’t want it made public that they’d ever felt the need to hire a bodyguard.

Catalina Reyes had a folder, and Tara dragged it onto the desktop but decided to save it for later. Liam certainly would have already reviewed it for clues, and the more urgent matter right now was the suspect list.

Tara started with the personnel files. There were a daunting 112, all current or former employees of Wolfe Security.

“One hundred and twelve employees? In three short years?” M.J. asked. “We’ll be here all week.”

A spreadsheet file caught Tara’s eye, and she clicked it open. “Maybe not.”

“What’s that?”

“Shortcut.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Looks like a list of everyone working for him since, let’s see, his first year of operation.”

“Let’s start with recent.”

Tara clicked open a spreadsheet for the current year. “Okay, forty-six. That’s a more manageable number.”

“That’s how many he has working for him now?”

“Looks like.”

“Damn, can you imagine his payroll?”

Tara couldn’t imagine it. And she really didn’t want to. Thinking about Liam’s financial success made her antsy for some reason, and it wasn’t something she wanted to analyze now. Instead she focused on the spreadsheet, paying close attention to column labels across the top.

“Hey, look.” M.J. tapped the screen. “Past military service. He did our homework for us.”

“It’s broken down into branches and even units.” Tara’s pulse picked up as she scanned the list. “Here’s a guy from DEVGRU. That’s SEAL Team Six.”

He also had columns for law enforcement, emergency services, and private security.

“Not a lot of women on this list,” M.J. muttered.

“Nope.”

“I don’t see any, in fact.”

“Whoa, look at this.” Tara clicked on a cell that contained an acronym she recognized. “CQC.”

“What’s that?”

“Close-quarters combat. There’s a whole category here for what he calls ‘special skills,’ including CQC, sharpshooting, pararescue training.”

M.J. leaned closer. “Didn’t you say the weapon used, the Full Black knife, was originally designed for pararescuemen?”

“Yeah, I’ll look at those guys first,” she said, leaning closer to study the PT column. Everyone had three scores listed: speed, strength, and agility.

“That might be useful,” M.J. said. “We’re definitely looking for someone strong enough to carry a hundred-twenty-pound woman more than half a mile.”

“Thing is, these men aren’t your average Joes. I’d bet everyone on this list could do that. Did you see Liam’s PT course?”

“No.”

“Well, I did, and it’s no cakewalk.”

M.J.’s phone beeped with an incoming message, and she muttered a curse.

“What is it?”

“Sorry, but I have to go do an interview.” She stood up and gathered her purse to leave. “What are you going to tackle first?”

“I’ll run a detailed criminal history on this entire list, starting with the current year,” Tara said. “That’s a hundred and twelve men.”

“He’s bound to hire at least some women, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’ll help a lot. I can probably whittle it down to a hundred ten.”

Tara settled in and got to work, and she soon discovered her estimate wasn’t far off. Of the complete roster of employees, past and present, there were only four females. Everyone else had to be systematically run through the database, which resulted in some interesting discoveries.

First off, Liam seemed thorough in his background checks. Only a handful of the men he’d hired had criminal histories at all, and those who did had offenses that were either minor or so far in the past that they didn’t seem relevant. One guy had been busted for drugs his senior year of college, which had resulted in him getting kicked out of school, joining the Marines, and ultimately ending up in an elite unit in Afghanistan. The man was one of Liam’s first hires. Another guy had a DUI conviction in his early twenties, but when Tara opened his individual file, she discovered detailed notes about the treatment program he’d gone through prior to joining the Army.

And it wasn’t just military guys who seemed attracted to Wolfe Security. Liam’s workforce included ex-cops, ex-DEA, ex-ATF, even a former FBI agent.

After the criminal histories were completed, Tara went through the list again, this time adding men whose special skills included anything related to knives.

That finished, she clicked open the file that contained the other list she wanted to check: trainees, the men and women who had been through one of Liam’s intensive boot camps. Tara scrolled through the spreadsheet, letting out a moan as it kept going and going.

Tara’s phone chimed. The Delphi Center. Her heart did a little dance as she answered it. “Rushing.”

“It’s Mia Voss at the DNA lab. Do you have a minute?”

“Absolutely.”

“I have good news and bad.”

Tara held her breath.

“You recall the tooth we were examining in the Catalina Reyes case?”

“The right first molar that was inside her throat. Yes, I remember.” Tara’s pulse sped up. “Did you get DNA?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. We have two separate profiles, one from the victim and then a second profile. That’s the good news.”

Tara leaned back in her chair. DNA evidence was huge. The second profile would be her attacker. Possibly blood from his fist when he knocked out her tooth.

“What’s the bad news?” Tara asked.

“Unfortunately, the profile doesn’t match anything in the Offender Index. Or even the Forensic Index.”

“You mean—”

“The Offender Index includes convicts,” Mia said, “along with various arrestees, although not every arrestee who has had a sample collected has been entered in the system yet. The new rules requiring DNA from
all
federal arrestees has created a tremendous backlog.”

“I’ve heard,” Tara said. “What about the Forensic Index? That’s un-ID’d DNA from crime scenes, right?”

“Correct. No match there, either,” Mia said. “So, the good news is we have DNA that I believe belongs to the perpetrator. However, he’s not in the system, so you’re going to have to come up with a suspect before we can run a comparison.”

Tara’s mind was spinning. “What about military?” she asked.

“How do you mean?”

“We have reason to believe the UNSUB might have a military background. The military keeps DNA samples of everyone on file, right?”

“That’s true,” Mia said. “Ever since Desert Storm.”

The next few seconds were filled with silence.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mia said. “My husband’s a homicide detective, so I know just what you’re going to ask, and the answer is no. Those records are for ID purposes. Human remains. The Department of Defense won’t permit me to run a blind search of their database. They’re very protective.”

“What about—”

“If you had a particular suspect developed you
might
be able to get a court order,” Mia said. “But I’d say that’s a long shot, not to mention time-consuming. If you zero in on a suspect, it would probably be easier to collect a DNA sample surreptitiously. You know, tail the guy around and collect a discarded cigarette butt or drinking cup or something.”

“I can tell you’re married to a cop,” Tara said.

“Yes, well. The thinking rubs off. Listen, I know you’re frustrated. But keep me posted, all right? If you come up with a viable suspect—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

They ended the call, and Tara stared at her list again. DNA evidence was huge, but now more than ever she needed a suspect. And the fact that the DNA profile didn’t match anyone already in the system meant that several of the suspects they had—the ones with criminal records—were most likely dead ends.

Back to Liam’s database. Tara stared at the list on the screen, hundreds and hundreds of names. She ran a hand through her hair. “Damn it.”

“What’s that?”

She glanced up to see Brannon standing in the doorway. “I’m drowning here.”

“You look like it.” He stepped into the cramped room and had the nerve to smell like aftershave instead of BO and frustration. He leaned close and looked over her shoulder. “Looks tedious.”

“It is.”

“How about a break?”

“I already had a sandwich.”

“I meant dinner. It’s almost five.”

Tara blinked up at him. She checked the clock on her computer and realized she had, indeed, spent four hours in front of the screen.

“Okay, but I’m driving.” She got up and grabbed her blazer.

“Then I get to pick the place,” Brannon said.

Five minutes later, they were in her Explorer and headed toward Dunn’s Landing, where Brannon had heard the diner served up an unbeatable meat-loaf-and-macaroni special on Thursday evenings.

Tara felt dazed as she drove. Too little sleep, too much computer time, and the hypnotic
swish-swish
of the wiper blades threatened to put her out. No meat-loaf-and-mac for her. She’d be better off with a crisp green salad and about three Cokes to wake her up.

Brannon fiddled with the knobs on her dashboard. “When are you going to get rid of this thing?”

“What, the Beast?”

“You’ve got to be approaching two hundred thousand miles by now.”

She snorted. “Passed that years ago.”

He managed to get a breath of warm air going and settled back in the seat. “So, how does your boyfriend feel about you seizing his computers?”

She glanced at him, surprised. Had M.J. said something? “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever he is, I’d think he’d be pissed.”

Tara gritted her teeth. She didn’t like being needled on this topic. She didn’t like that it was a topic at all when they were supposed to be concentrating on a case. Did she go around asking the men she worked with about their personal lives? No.

But then, Brannon was different. They had a past together—shallow and infrequent, yes, but still a past—so maybe he thought he was entitled to some sort of status update.

He wasn’t.

She focused on the road, trying not to think about Liam, which was impossible now that Brannon had brought it up. What
was
Liam? She didn’t know. She had a sudden memory of him looming over her in the sparring ring, and she felt her cheeks heat. Was he simply a man she’d had scorching-hot sex with? Or was there more going on? She pictured the look on his face when he’d given her his gate key. He’d downplayed the gesture, but it had been symbolic. She knew that now—hell, she’d known it at the time.

Guilt gnawed at her. The crazy thing was that she’d
wanted
to take the key. She’d felt this little burst of joy when he’d handed it to her, like he was asking her to go steady or something. Like she wasn’t merely some woman he’d shagged on the floor of his gym and then sent home without breakfast. And how had she responded to that rush of giddiness?

She’d rejected him.

Really, it was no wonder she couldn’t maintain a relationship. Or even start one in the first place. Somehow she always sabotaged herself.