Page 63 of The Wolves Come at Night
“What a mess,” Taylor said, pulling down her ponytail and running her hands through her thick blond hair. “In the meantime, we need to pull all the missing person files for this region and be prepared to match them to DNA from CODIS. Maybe we’ll get a few closes. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”
“It will, and I’m on it,” Marcus replied. “Linc sent me the database. Remember all the old case binders we gave to the Cold Case Unit when they moved into our offices? They packaged them up and cataloged everything, so it’s all online. Gonna make the search that much easier—assuming these ladies have been reported missing from the mid-state, of course.”
“God bless Linc.”
“No kidding,” Marcus muttered.
“So what are our next steps?” O’Roarke asked.
“I propose we turn these four deaths over to Marcus to run full time,” Taylor said. “We don’t know yet if these people were murdered or just disposed of, though naturally, I lean toward the former. They need their own investigation, and I’m not willing to let Carson Conway’s disappearance lose steam. Unless you’re not okay with that?”
O’Roarke shook his head, though he hardly had a say in the matter. She’d learned through many experiences with multijurisdictional task forces that everyone needs to be respected and feel like they’re being heard. That solves 90 percent of the problems.
Marcus said, “I can grab Renn and get on it.”
“Good. I’ll let Renn know we need him. The task force stays focused on finding Carson. This could be a giant coincidence, nothing more.”
She wished she believed that.
“What about the phone?” O’Roarke asked. “Do you know whose it is?”
“We’re waiting on our tech support to get it up and running. It was wet when we found it, might be fried entirely, but they’re magicians. I gave them the passcode from Georgia Wray’s parents, so if they can get the phone working, we can give it a try. It’s a standard burner, digital SIM card. No usable prints or DNA. Chances are it’s hers. But, and this is a big but, it doesn’t negate the murder-suicide theory at all. It only means we have to look at Justin Osborne as a possible serial killer. He brought his ex-girlfriend to a place he knew was safe in order to murder her. Bad luck that someone was there and saw him. He panicked, ran, then shot himself when he realized his secret was going to be revealed.”
O’Roarke fiddled with his notebook. “Feels weird, don’t you think?”
“For a kid his age? Yes. But logic dictates we have to at least entertain the idea.”
“I don’t disagree. Can I see the man’s home?”
“Sure. Not a problem. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” he said, grinning.
Thirty-Three
Taylor drove O’Roarke to Justin Osborne’s place herself, just to get a better sense of the man. She hadn’t worked with him before. He was quiet, serious, and seemed to know what he was doing. She’d been fooled before, but he seemed like a decent enough investigator. Still, he’d challenged her, she’d been right, and now things were strained.
“Hungry?” she asked, lobbing an olive branch.
“Famished.”
“I know this great little place. Donuts that will make you weep. That work?”
“I am more than happy to perpetuate our most overdone stereotype. Let’s do it.”
She got in the drive-through line for the Donut Distillery, ordered a six-pack of whisky glazed and an almond milk chai. “Coffee?” she asked him.
“I’ll take a chai, too. Oat milk, please.”
She parked in the lot, passed over his chai and some napkins, and they dug in.
O’Roarke moaned in ecstasy at the first bite. “I’m gonna be down here every day from now on. These are killer.”
“They are. When’d you join the TBI?” she asked, wiping icing from her lip.
“What?” He looked over at her, then the question computed. He swiped at his own mouth with a napkin. “Oh. A couple of years ago. Moved here from Colorado, I worked with the CBI out there. Our daughter is at Belmont, we thought it would be better to be closer, so we all moved.”
“Your kid’s the same age as Carson, then?”
