Page 1 of Girl, Unknown

PROLOGUE

Sergeant Grant pulled open the door to the Heaven’s Garden apartment complex, a building whose name seemed like a cruel joke given its state of disrepair. Weeds peeked through the cracks in the walls and more than one ground-floor window had been cracked with bricks or footballs or, given how many times his crew got called out here, domestic violence.

This part of town had its share of problems, and there were some choice names in this very building that police were very familiar with. Dysfunctional young families, relationships glued together by drug dependencies, lonely men with penchants for ladies of the night whose encounters sometimes turned violent. The same issues plagued every decent-sized city in America, not just Davenport, Iowa.

But nine times out of ten, calls to this building were false alarms. The old woman in number thirty-nine, Margaret Hudson, had called in a noise complaint around an hour ago. Margaret, God bless her soul, always thought she was doing the Lord’s work by calling in the most minor annoyances. To her, a single raised voice was a cause for concern. An unfamiliar face hanging around the parking lot was a police issue. She’d once reported a group of children roleplaying as army soldiers on the front lawn because she deemed it a case of stolen valor.

But given the murder that took place last night - just a few miles over - Grant was playing it cautious. Tonight, it had been a minor noise complaint. Loud voices, thuds against the floorboards, everyday domestic stuff that certainly didn’t warrant police intervention. But it was Monday evening and the phone lines weren’t exactly on fire, so Grant made the short trip to the Heaven’s Garden building himself so he could put the issue on theactionedpile. He rarely made house calls himself these days, but he had all his best men working on the strangulation case from last night, so resources were tight.

Grant stepped into the hallway and headed up the stairs. His destination was apartment forty-nine, the one directly above Margaret’s domain. It was odd that Margaret reportedly knew very little about her neighbor above, especially when she knew the life stories of all the other residents in the building. Perhaps that was why Margaret had been so quick to call the police. Unfamiliarity bred suspicion. To Margaret, a few scratches against the floorboards was never mice or the trappings of a DIY project. Her mind always jumped to the worst-case scenario.

Apartment forty-nine came into view, with its freshly painted door and welcome mat that declaredTHE NEIGHBORS HAVE BETTER STUFF.Grant knocked on the door, waited, got nothing in the way of a response. He knocked again and said, “Police, open up.”

He brushed his feet against the doormat, if only to keep his limbs busy while he waited for the occupants on the other side to finally give in. If this was one of the classic dysfunctional couples that seemed to permeate this building, their hushed whispers usually followed a standard template. First they’d talk about hiding, pretending they weren’t home. Then they’d realize that doing so could give the officers reason to come back at another time, so this was the point they usually gave in and opened the door.

But a minute later, Grant was still on the wrong side of the door.

“Miss Parkinson, we’ve had reports of a noise disturbance. We just want to check everything’s alright.”

Grant leaned against the door frame and pressed his ear to the wood. No sound inside. Not even the sounds of a frantic heartbeat or anxious scuffling. After thirty years in the game, you developed an innate ability to sense life and movement in your proximity, even if your vision was obscured by doors and walls. Presences alerted your senses, and distressed presences doubly so. Grant could hear nothing of the sort, so he decided to chalk this one up to bad timing. The occupant – or occupants – must have fled in the twenty minutes between report and arrival. Not uncommon, Grant thought.

He breathed a heavy sigh then checked his watch. Just past eleven p.m. Might as well call it a day, he told himself.

But then Grant felt something beneath his feet. As he was leaning against the door frame, he began to gently slide backward. The welcome mat skidded underfoot, and as it gradually parted from the entranceway, it revealed a long streak of dark blood.

“Jesus,” Grant gasped. His heart doubled in speed. He backed away, gripped his weapon, and pulled the mat back with his foot.

A pool of blood, fed by a trickling stream running beneath the door.

Grant clicked his radio on and shouted, “Medics needed at forty-nine, Heaven’s Gardens, Cedar Road, urgently.”

He grabbed the door handle, shunning the surging dread as his fingers wrapped around the cool metal. He hadn’t expected it to be open, but one yank instantly granted him entrance to apartment forty-nine.

His vision followed the blood trail, captivated by its serpentine course from the doorway to the living room. He didn’t have to step beyond the threshold to find the source of the snaking liquid, because it stood out like the room’s grim centerpiece.

Grant rushed in, feet colliding with the hardwood floor as he approached the mess. His stomach tied itself in knots as the visual hit him like a tidal wave. It was a middle-aged woman lying on the ground, completely still, her eyes frozen open in a cruel parody of life. Grant grabbed her pulse, and prayed for a heartbeat, but all the signs pointed to the worst.

On his radio again. “I need backup, forensics, coroner, immediately,” he shouted.

Two brutal murders.

Two nights.

What was going on?

Grant needed the help of an old friend. Time to call in a favor. “And get me William Edis at the FBI.”

CHAPTER ONE

The man's face appeared at the door of the Black Horse Inn, his expression a mix of apprehension and determination. He checked in both directions with a quick glance, and when he saw no one, he opened the door ever so slowly, inching it until he could slip inside. He wasted no time in locking it and ensuring the blinds were fully closed.

”Dennis?” he called. “I’m here. Where are you?”

The man was around fifty, athletic frame, a large cap covering his forehead. A few days ago, he was one of the men entrusted with dispatching the young FBI agent, but he’d failed in his mission, and failure meant extreme measures had to be taken. He was part of the most prolific underground group in Virginia, and they couldn’t even take out a young, single female? The chief had given him an earful, threatened to lock him in the compound with nothing but maggots for a few weeks to teach him a lesson. The man resisted, promising to do better next time. They didn’t have tabs on the girl at the time, but Dennis – the owner of the Black Horse Inn – had called him not one hour ago with a new lead. A few days ago, the angelic-looking Dennis had set the whole plan in motion by convincing the girl to check out an old, abandoned factory. There, they’d tried to jump the girl, but she’d managed to best them, escape, and leave the Red Diamonds looking like fools.

Now, Dennis wanted to talk. He presumably had a lead for them to follow. They’d been watching the girl’s home but she never seemed to be there. That meant they needed eyes everywhere, because the longer she was alive, the more of a threat she posed. She’d seen some of their faces, and if she could somehow uncover their identities, their group was as good as perished. One toppled domino could collapse everything.

“In the office,” Dennis shouted. The man followed the voice across the restaurant area, around the counter, into the back of the inn.

---