Page 76 of The Dollmaker

“What kind of makeup?”

“I don’t know. The pictures taken at the crime scene were poorly done. I have no clear view of Kara’s face.”

Vargas tapped her finger against her hip. “So, assuming that is all true, we have a guy who likes to make dolls out of living women?”

“A dollmaker. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Or are you trying to find a reason for your sister’s death other than the fact she took a walk on the wild side and took too many drugs?”

“Goddamn it, Kara didn’t take drugs,” he said, louder than intended.

Nonplussed, she pulled the picture from his fingers. “I’m not trying to trash your sister. I really am not. But I’m asking all the tough questions I would of any family member.”

He drew in a breath, locking down his frustration. “I get that. I do.”

“But you hate it. And believe me, I know how it hurts to have family questioned.”

How many times had he played the role of devil’s advocate to solve a case? “My sister didn’t use.”

“Okay. I’ll take you at your word on Tessa, your sister, and the cousin who remembers something Elena Hayes said twelve years ago. But,” she added more softly, “I will not ignore any evidence pointing me in a different direction, even if what I find ends up pissing you off. I’d be doing a disservice to your sister and Diane if I did.”

He released his breath. “Fair enough.”

“In the meantime, we need to get ahold of Elena Hayes.”

“Agreed.”

She studied the picture again. Reached for her phone and dialed. Phone to her ear, she said, “Calling Elena now.” After a pause, she held out her phone and they both listened to the voice-mail greeting. At the beep, “Elena, this is Agent Julia Vargas with the Virginia State Police. I need you to call me immediately.” She left her number and ended the call.

“Keep me posted,” Sharp said.

“Will do.”

“And Vargas, thanks. I appreciate the good work.”

The corner of her lip tilted into a grin. “I have a talent for irritating people.”

“Keep it that way.”

As she got in her car, he slid back behind the wheel of his car. He reached for the coffee in his cup holder and took a sip. It was stone-cold. His cell rang.

“Agent Sharp,” he said.

“Deputy Mathew Ryan. I hear you’re looking for Jimmy Dillon.”

“I sure as hell am.”

“One of my deputies stopped him on I-64 driving west about twenty minutes ago. He was driving nearly one hundred miles an hour and gave the officer one hell of a chase. We got him now. He’s all yours if you want him.”

“I do. I’ll be there within the hour.”

He maneuvered onto the interstate, and twenty-five minutes later he walked through the front doors of the small brick building housing the sheriff’s department.

Inside the sheriff’s office an officer glanced up, standing when Sharp entered.

“I’m Agent Dakota Sharp. Deputy Mathew Ryan called and said you’ve got Jimmy Dillon in a cell.”

“I’m Ryan. Your suspect, Dillon, gave us quite a chase. He’s in holding and waiting for you.”

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