Page 82 of The Wolves Come at Night
Voice 1: “Good damn riddance.”
And the recording stopped.
When her heart slowed a fraction, she said, “Play it again.”
O’Roarke did, without saying a word. She could hear the scuffle now, moments before the shot.
“Again. Please.”
When it clicked off the third time, he said, “You were right. Jason Osborne didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
“It certainly sounds that way,” she agreed.
“There’s more. Remember you were pissed that the dumpster was moved? I was able to track down the company, and they gave my forensics team access to the dump site. Lucky for us, the dumpster was still there, intact, waiting to be sent to the landfill. They only go once a week and take all their construction dumpsters at the same time. Guess what we got?”
“Tell me.”
“A pillow. Remember that piece of fabric from the autopsy report? It was duck cotton, and the ME thought it was from the shirt Osborne was wearing? It’s also a match to this torn-up pillow.”
“Huh. So you think the killer tried to muffle the shot through the pillow? You’d think we’d have a lot more debris on the body than a tiny piece of fabric.”
“I know, I’ve never seen something like this that was so clean. There were cotton fibers recovered from the body, but again, they were attributed to his clothing and Georgia’s. The pillow is that heavy canvas cotton, fake-down polyester interior, and the bullet went right through. It’s as clean as a flesh wound, seared it, there’s a burn mark where it melted the interior. He must have had it pretty close to the weapon. What was the estimate on the shot?”
“Thirty-four inches, to be exact.”
“Well, our killer moved fast, to be able to hold Justin down and shoot him. They were arguing, clearly. I don’t know how he did it, but at least we know Osborne wasn’t alone when the gun went off.”
“So who was that with him?” She looked around the room. “The voice sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Play it again, O’Roarke. Please,” she added. They were doing her a favor now, she needed to remember her place.
O’Roarke complied.
And it was Marcus who said the magic words. “That sounds to me like Travis Bloom.”
They all spoke at once.
Lincoln: “The head of Georgia’s record label? I will be damned.”
O’Roarke: “Her parents said they were having problems.”
Renn: “Gosh, you think he’s responsible for all of these murders?”
Marcus: “We have to keep this quiet. He has means. A plane at his disposal. We spook him before we get evidence, we’ll lose him.”
Taylor: “The guitarist in the band warned me about him.”
The conversation jumped around, and Taylor watched them play it out, pride and sorrow mingling. She’d never do this with them again, at least not in this way. Theories flew fast and furious, but it was O’Roarke who clinched it. “I just pulled a VICAP report. Plugged in the parameters—fifteen-year window, women in their early twenties with connections to music. You aren’t going to believe this. Guess where there’s another cluster of missing persons? Five, to be exact, over the same time frame.”
“Los Angeles?” Taylor suggested.
“Give that lady a prize.”
Marcus had his notebook out. “Travis Bloom has a house in Santa Monica, and the label’s headquarters are on Sunset Boulevard. You think he’s been killing in both places—California and Tennessee?”
“I think we may have just broken this case wide open.”
Taylor was in the middle of giving the whole team high fives when Baldwin walked in the door. She intercepted him with a hug, to the wolf whistles of her former team.
He kissed her soundly, then arched a brow. “What am I missing?”
