Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (top novels TXT) 📗

need to come forward with what she’d learned last night too. “I’m not jumping to the conclusion we have a serial killer, but I spoke with an FBI profiler yesterday.”

Trent stood. “You’re bringing in the FBI?”

Amanda smirked. “Not exactly. But an agent happened to be at Becky’s when I went for a visit.”

“Brandon Fisher.” A conclusion, not a question, and Amanda wasn’t sure what to make of Trent’s tone—excitement or distaste.

“Good guess.”

“Well, it’s not a secret that Becky’s seeing him. You talked to him about our investigations?”

“I did, and he thinks it might be the work of a—”

Natalie Ryan, a.k.a. Cougar, another homicide detective, walked past Amanda’s cubicle, and smiled in greeting. They smiled back.

When Cougar was out of earshot, Amanda finished her statement. “Brandon thinks we should seriously consider a serial killer is at work here.”

Trent had this expression on his face that was a mix of fear and excitement. “I told you.”

“No, you don’t get to do that.”

Her chastisement didn’t stop him from smirking his I-told-you-so smirk.

“I’m still keeping an open mind,” she said, clinging stiffly to the idea.

“Uh-huh. So what did he suggest?”

She told him that Brandon thought their killer might have murdered before and that he also might have been affected by something similar earlier in his life. Possibly something involving a loved one.

“Perfect. I can get behind that.”

“We only have two bodies, but his analysis was persuasive. We should look at similar closed cases. He could have served time, gotten out. I might be able to start searching if you stop interrupting me,” she teased.

“Surely you’re not complaining that I brought you a coffee.”

“Would never dream of it.” She laughed. When they’d first been partnered, Trent had been an easygoing guy—so easygoing that it had rubbed her the wrong way. As she’d come to discover in the last three months, he could return sass just as easy as she could dish it out. “Don’t you have a phone call to make?”

“Fine. I’ll reach out to my contact in Property Crimes and see what he says.” He went over to his cubicle.

“You do that.” She was smiling as she turned her gaze to her monitor again. The expression faded at the sight of the windows she had up. One was Spencer’s interview, one was a picture of the room where Doe had been found, and the other was Doe’s computer-rendered photo.

Amanda took in Doe’s round face, milky complexion, blond hair, and brown eyes. So young, and to have known so much evil. All the bruises to her body and the pummeling of her spirit—the girl hadn’t stood a chance in this life. There was something far more heartbreaking seeing her this way than in the back of the medic’s vehicle or even on the slab at the morgue. Here she was, a combination of pixels, like she had never been real. The face looking back at Amanda was not only lifeless, but cold and sterile.

She heard Trent on the phone and held out hope the call would get them somewhere in identifying her.

“Uh-huh… Just repeat that one more time?” A few seconds later, Trent proceeded to rattle off an address that presumably his caller had given him. “Thanks.” He shot to his feet and ran around to her cubicle. “A dragonfly pin matching the description of the one with Jane Doe was reported stolen three years ago by Leila and Henry Foster out of Washington.”

She pulled a background on the Fosters. “They have a daughter named Crystal…” She opened the Missing Persons database and keyed in Crystal Foster, and the report popped up immediately. There was a photo attached, and it could have been their Jane Doe. “Foster was reported missing three years ago. She was thirteen. That means if she’s our victim, she was only sixteen when she died.” Amanda mulled on that. “Just a child.” She scanned the personal effects section for any mention of the pin. She found gobbledygook that might have been meant to spell “dragonfly pin.” Likely a bad case of fat-finger syndrome.

She looked at the photo again, impossible to tell for certain if it was their Jane Doe, but they should speak to the Fosters. She got to her feet. “Time for a road trip.”

“Okay,” he dragged. “But you know who they are, right?”

“You mean besides possibly being the parents of a murdered girl?”

“They own Protect It, a publicly traded security firm. One of the largest in North America.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“No, but you might not be able to just go up to their door and get an audience.”

“Do they put their pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Then, they’re human, and their daughter may be lying in the morgue. Trust me, they’ll want to speak with us.”

Twenty-Six

By the time Amanda and Trent had briefed Malone and made it to Washington, it was nearing eleven in the morning. They arrived at the Fosters’ house, which was regal and spoke of money. Hired help answered the door and saw Amanda and Trent to a parlor. High ceilings, large windows, and wainscoting accentuated the space, and the morning sun drenched the room with light and warmth.

“Mrs. Foster will be with you shortly,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” Amanda told her.

The woman left, but neither Amanda nor Trent sat down on the high-end furniture that looked like it should be observed rather than used. Crystal wouldn’t have lacked for anything financially, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t neglected in other ways. Amanda couldn’t brush aside Doe’s childhood broken bones and that they could mean possible abuse. But was Jane Doe Crystal Foster?

“Detectives?” A blond woman with blue eyes, dressed meticulously in a white silk crepe pantsuit, entered the room.

Amanda bridged the gap. “I’m Detective Amanda Steele.”

“Yes, and you?” The woman looked past her to Trent, who stepped forward, holding out a hand to accompany his introduction.

The woman disregarded his proffered hand and crossed her arms loosely. “I am Leila Foster, though I’m sure you