Page 46 of Girl Lost
“Pretty sure this is it,” Corbin said, turning onto a gravel driveway.
The car lurched over another bump. A chain-link fence, rusted and topped with barbed wire, enclosed the property. A young officer stood guard at the entrance, blocking the way.
The officer ducked his head to see in the car. “Evening.” He checked their credentials, his gaze lingering on Luna’s consultant badge, then scribbled their names in a logbook. “Through there, agents. The body’s in the woods, past the blue hull, about fifty yards in the woods.” He gestured with his flashlight. “Follow the drive as far as you can, then you’ll see the cruisers.”
“Thanks.” Corbin rolled up his window and headed into the sprawling junkyard.
The boat graveyard.
Acres of overgrown weeds and forgotten dreams. Hundreds of boats in various states of decay spread out in every direction. Some, sleek and fiberglass, their lines still hinting at past glory. Others, hulks of rotting wood and peeling paint, sunken into the earth, consumed by the relentless march of time and the humid Florida air.
The driveway meandered around, then disappeared into the maze of boats and overgrown weeds.
They emerged into a clearing, the ground littered with broken masts, tangled fishing nets, and the skeletal remains of long-forgotten vessels. More police cruisers were parked ahead, their lights flashing, along with a couple of ambulances. The doors were open, the beds empty. A group of paramedics stood around, checking their phones and chatting.
She saw the black SUV, its dark windows reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. “Medical Examiner” painted on the side. And in smaller letters beneath it: “Trauma Services.”
Corbin parked behind one of the cruisers. “Stick with me.”
“Got it.” She climbed out, pulling her suit jacket closed, covering the paddle holster clipped to the back of her belt. The sun was beginning to set, but the heat lingered and she questioned the sanity of wearing a suit in the middle of September in Florida. Rules were rules.
Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a section of the junkyard. She followed Corbin through a narrow path, weeds brushingagainst her legs, the scent of mildew and decay filling the air. Tick check later. Especially around her ankles and the burn bandage. A group of uniformed police officers stood clustered at the edge of the woods, watching them approach. Recognition dawned in their eyes.
“Hey, King.” A burly man with a thick mustache stepped forward. “You the lead on this?”
“Yeah.” Corbin gestured to Luna. “This is Agent Rosati.”
Agent Rosati. Her heart skipped a beat. He meant the consultant badge, but years of deep cover had ingrained a different kind of meaning to the wordagentand extreme caution when meeting strangers.
“Special Agent Ron Ayres, at your service.” Ayres dipped his head and smiled.
“Nice to meet you.” Luna immediately liked the man. He seemed rather unfazed by the situation. Even his wardrobe of a striped, button-up polo under a sports coat, loafers, and a Havana hat matched his casual demeanor.
Corbin swatted the back of his neck. “What’ve we got here?”
“Nothing pretty. Real messed up back there.” Ayres’s mustache twitched.
She shifted her gaze to the line of trees where the crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A teenage girl. Back there. Carlie Tinch. The pretty blond teenager she’d seen in the photograph. Was Ayres sure it was Carlie?
She asked, “You’ve seen the crime scene?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ayres blotted his forehead with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. “Like I said, it ain’t pretty.”
“Never is.” Corbin paused, and no matter the cause of death, she figured this particular victim would be the ugliest case Corbin would ever work. “Who found the body?”
Ayres didn’t have a chance to respond.
“Agent King.” A woman detached herself from the group of uniformed officers and strode toward them. She wore a crisp whiteshirt and dark slacks. No tie. No jacket. Her badge hung on a chain around her neck.
Special Agent Jody Miller rushed the introductions and said, “Over here.”
They fell into step beside her, listening as she spoke almost rapid-fire. “Witnesses found her a couple hours ago and called it in.” Miller gestured to two men sitting on overturned buckets near a hulking sailboat. She checked her notes. “Brock Hepner on the left and Levi Anderson on the right.”
To Luna, both men looked like a mix of classic surfer and beach bum. Brock had dark wavy hair and wore faded swim trunks, a dirty tank top, and leather sandals. He had a thick black mustache that she was pretty sure he’d regret when the future Brock saw photos of it.
Levi was taller, with long, curly, sun-bleached blond hair and a few days of beard growth. He held a faded red baseball cap in one hand and a dog leash in the other. A muddy golden retriever lay panting at his feet.
“You the ones who found the body?” Corbin asked.
