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  Hatch was a little baffled as to why or how the girl ended up in a trashy strip club outside of Fort Hood. Monica relayed she’d been trying to get over to her half-brother who lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She’d run out of funds and thought she could make a quick buck. It was her second night at the club when she’d bumped into Randy.

  He offered her extra money if she went with him to his apartment for a private dance. Monica made him promise the two hundred dollars were for a dance only. She was scared, but it would’ve been enough cash to get her back on her way again and figured it was worth the risk. Monica broke down again during this point in her retelling. The anguish of the moments inside Randy Bosley’s apartment would leave a permanent emotional scar, long after the physical ones healed. And for all she’d endured, the large man paid her absolutely nothing. The last words he said to her as he put her out on the street were, “Go ahead and tell somebody what happened. Good luck getting anyone to believe your trashy ass.”

  Hatch replayed the girl’s story as she sat across from the man who’d brutalized her the previous night. He had an air of indifference. Being in the same room with him made her pulse quicken and she fought to control any emotional response. Effectiveness came in the cold, calculated control she’d learned through years of combat experience.

  She picked up her drink, a seltzer with lime. To the average bar goer, the drink would look like a Seagram’s and Seven. This was done so with purpose. Just as the intentional wobble she added to her walk. The unevenness of her steps added to her projected image. A girl out on the town who’d had far too much to drink.

  Hatch walked by Randy and stumbled. Bumping into him, she clutched her free hand on his thick shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Her words slurred for added effect.

  Randy Bosley turned and eyed her. At first, there was anger at the jostled interruption, but as he took a closer look at Hatch’s tall, slender physique, he softened. “No problem at all, sweet thing.”

  Hatch smiled coyly and gave an extra squeeze to the man’s shoulder. “You’re a big guy.”

  “You got no idea.” A cocky smile stretched across his face. “You wanna find out?”

  Under any normal context, Hatch would’ve laid the man out right then and there. But she needed a few minutes alone with the overly-confident woman abuser and decided to lower the bait instead. “Maybe I do.”

  “I got a place not too far from here.”

  Hatch knew this. Monica had told her where he lived when she was going through the details of her encounter. It’s how Hatch knew what bar to find him at. She’d been camped out near the man’s apartment this evening and had followed him there.

  “How about you drive. I’m a little too drunk.”

  The big man’s eyes lit up at the comment, and he shoved back from the bar, emptying the last of his Crown and coke as he stood. He gave a knowing smile and wink to the bartender, who returned the gesture with a thumbs up. Hatch stifled her indignation and followed Bosley as he strode toward the door.

  Hatch knew the man lived within walking distance of the bar but didn’t divulge that information. If he made a move in the car, she’d react, but deep down she hoped for the privacy the vehicle would offer.

  Bosley walked to a faded blue Nissan and pressed the unlock button on his key fob. “Your chariot awaits.”

  Hatch sat in the passenger seat. The car smelled of stale beer and corn chips. Whatever someone would consider an aromatic aphrodisiac, this was its opposite. Bosley looked over at her longingly, in the way a lion looks at its next meal. She prepared herself as he moved. But he didn’t touch her, only slipped the keys in the ignition and started the car. Dropping it in drive, he accelerated away from the bar.

  He pulled out a small bag of white powder from his pocket and dangled it in front of her. “Hope you like to party.”

  “I think you’re in for a real treat.”

  The distance from the bar to the apartment complex was less than a mile and it only took a few minutes to arrive at their destination. Bosley pulled into a spot covered by a beige canopy. He exited the vehicle without saying anything. Hatch got out and followed him.

  They walked up a zigzagged staircase to his second-floor apartment. The keys jingled in his hand as he finagled the lock. Opening the door, Hatch caught a whiff of an indiscernible sour odor, making the car’s stench seem fragrant in comparison. Hadn’t this guy figured out how to use soap and water?

  Bosley waited with the door held open and ushered Hatch in with a push that was less gentle than it should’ve been.

  Stepping inside, Hatch scanned the one-bedroom accommodation. Old food containers were left on top of a circular table in the small kitchen area. The two-burner stove was stacked with discarded pizza boxes, indicating its lack of use. The living room area looked as though burglars had raided it and the television had been left on, blaring some mindless action flick.

  Neighbors must absolutely love this guy, Hatch thought.

  She turned to face the man as he closed the door, locking it behind him. Hatch was caught off guard to see Bosley was already working the zipper on his pants.

  “You don’t waste any time.” Hatch dropped the fake slur, but the man didn’t seem to notice. He was now interested in only one thing.

  “I’m gonna rock your world.” With that, the man’s pants dropped to his ankles.

  Hatch smiled at Bosley’s state of undress. Not because she was remotely interested, but because the big man had removed two potential weapons from his defense by shackling his ankles with his jeans. “Funny you should say that because I was just thinking the same thing.”

  She moved a step closer, bringing the man’s boxy chin into range. Bosley lowered his hands to the elastic band of his maroon boxer-briefs.

  Hatch struck out with her left fist, striking hard against his lower lip. She felt his tooth sink into the skin of her knuckle. The force of the blow rocked Bosley’s head backward and his body followed. Tripping over his pants, he lost his balance. Hatch was already moving in, wasting no time on the follow-up. She swung her right elbow in a downward arc, crunching the bridge of his nose and driving the big man flat onto his back.

  Shocked and devastated by her vicious attack, Bosley screamed and wriggled backwards, bringing himself into a partially-seated position against his front door.

  He spit a bloody tooth into his hand and looked up at her with a crazed look. “What the hell is wrong with you—you crazy bitch?”

  Hatch stood over him. “You like to hurt girls, Randy. And I’ve got a real problem with that.”

  Bosley cowered. “The hell are you talking about? Thought you said you like to party?”

  “Party? Is that what you call it? Beating and raping is partying to you?”

  And with that he put two and two together. “That little bitch put you up to this?”

  “Sounds like your mother never taught you how to treat a lady. Please let this be a crash course on the subject matter.”

  Bosley’s face reddened to a point of explosion. He pushed down on the floor, trying desperately to rise and face his adversary. The effort was pointless. His pants continued to hinder his legs and the dizzying blows coupled with his intoxication left the man off balance. Seizing his weakness as opportunity, Hatch stepped forward, slamming her knee into his forehead. The bone on bone contact sent his head back, and the base of his skull struck the stainless-steel doorknob with a loud thud.

  The man’s body went limp, and he slid down the door, flattening himself back onto the floor. He lay unmoving on the dirty linoleum as blood continued to ooze from his nose and mouth. Hatch evaluated her work. The physical damage was comparable to what he’d done to Monica.

  He remained still, and, for a brief moment, she wasn’t sure if the doorknob to the back of his head had killed him. The thought was cast aside as she registered the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Although she firmly believed he deserved to meet his end, a dead body created a series of complications Hatch pre
ferred to avoid.

  Grabbing the man by his ankles, she pulled him into the living room area and away from the doorway. She strained her taut muscles moving the dead weight. He had to be on the upper side of two-hundred-fifty pounds. Not sure how long the man’s impact-induced slumber would last, Hatch unplugged a lamp on a nearby end table and tightly wrapped the cord around his wrists. The knot was simple but would hold.

  Hatch pulled a wallet free from his pants. In it she found four hundred dollars in cash. Twice the amount he’d offered Monica. Pocketing it, she stood and headed toward the door.

  As she turned the knob to leave, the man coughed and groaned loudly. “I’ll have your ass arrested.”

  Hatch turned. “Good luck getting anyone to believe you.”

  His eyes went wide as she shut the door.

  Hatch tapped the door with her knuckles. She heard the soft shuffle of footsteps and saw a shadow momentarily block the light. The girl had listened to her when she told her to never open the door without checking who it was first. The chain lock unlatched, rattling against the door as it opened.

  Monica stood there, offering a weak smile, her lip still sensitive from the recent tear along the bottom. Swelling had set in, and the girl’s face bulged and was discolored in several places. Ice and rest had helped reduce some of the fallout, but it would take a week or two before the evidence of violence would totally dissipate. “Where’ve you been? I was worried you’d gone.”

  “Not yet. Needed to take care of a few things first.”

  Hatch reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. The girl gave her a confused look. “I—I can’t take your money.”

  She pressed the money into the Monica’s. “It’s not my money. It’s yours. Plus, a little interest.”

  Now the girl looked even more confused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Let’s just say, Randy had a change of heart.”

  The girl looked at her. Hatch had blood spatter from the big man covering her knee and the sleeve of her shirt. Her left hand was red along the two big knuckles with a small cut where Bosley’s tooth stuck before being knocked out of his mouth.

  “You did that to him? For me? I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say. You’re a good person and you needed help. I was in a position to do it, and so I did. Simple logic really.”

  “Not so simple. Nobody’s ever stuck their neck out for me like that before.”

  “There’s five hundred there.” Hatch didn’t feel it necessary to tell the girl she’d thrown in an extra hundred of her own. “Should be enough to get you where you need to go.”

  Monica’s eyes welled with tears as she gave Hatch a big hug.

  Hatch’s phone vibrated. She separated from the embrace and pulled it out of her pocket. Flipping it open, she looked down at the message. Hatch was shocked to see who it was from, and more so at the message itself.

  Closing it, she turned to leave. “You take care of yourself, Monica. I hope you find what you’re looking for in Baton Rouge.”

  “You can come with me if you want. I’m sure my brother wouldn’t mind.”

  Hatch shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got somewhere else I need to be.”

  “Where?”

  She stuck the phone back in her pocket. “Looks like I’m going home.”

  3

  “How long do we need to wait?”

  Sheriff Dalton Savage’s eyes widened at the rookie deputy’s question. “What are you talking about? Wait? Please don’t tell me you’re asking me how long we have to wait to list someone as a missing person?”

  “Well, I remember something about it at the academy, but it’s a little foggy.” Deputy Kevin Littleton retreated behind his desk.

  Savage sighed and refrained from berating the eager new addition to his small department. Littleton had arrived at the Hawk’s Landing County Sheriff’s Office at the same time as Savage. The difference was Littleton had come with six months of basic recruit academy training under his belt while Savage had fifteen years of experience with the City of Denver, the last ten spent with Homicide.

  The smaller department appealed to him for a multitude of reasons. He made his bid for Sheriff, winning the election by a narrow margin. The incumbent’s history of misappropriation of funds and allegations of embezzlement proved to be the tipping point in the electoral decision. Even with the negative exposure, the vote in favor of Savage was narrow. To say he wasn’t welcomed with open arms would’ve been an understatement.

  The new job took some adjusting. Being a department of only three plus Savage, it was smaller than his Cold Case unit in Denver.

  He quickly found he would be wearing a variety of hats in the understaffed and minimally trained agency. Savage had to be trainer, investigator, and leader all rolled into one.

  As Hawk’s Landing’s only experienced investigator, Savage took the initial reins of most of the investigative cases and used them as teachable moments for the other deputies. He took it upon himself to provide guidance anywhere he could. And the most recent case that had fallen into his lap came in early this morning and would require his entire unit to rise to the next level. At the moment, and with Littleton’s question, it appeared this would be an uphill battle.

  Savage addressed Littleton with the same fervor of a dad teaching his son to catch a baseball for the first time. “There is no time limit before we can label a person as missing. If someone is late for dinner, then we can enter them into the system. In this case, we’ve already lost a piece of the timeline because it wasn’t reported right away.”

  Littleton nodded his understanding.

  “She probably had gone off with some friends to get high at the basin, slipped and fell in,” Donald Cramer chimed in, exiting the hallway bathroom. “Wouldn’t be the first drunk or stoner to drown out there. Won’t be the last.” Cramer swung the local paper back and forth behind him, fanning off the odorous trail that followed. His pistol belt was slung over his shoulder, as if he’d just won a title fight.

  Savage eyed Cramer hard. “Number one, how many times have I told you not to use this bathroom for your post coffee regimen? There is a perfectly good bathroom in the back by the interview rooms that doesn’t fill the main lobby with your all too familiar scent. Number two, don’t apply a half-assed theory to a case before you’ve looked at the facts.”

  “As you command, my liege.” Cramer gave an exaggerated salute followed by a curtsy.

  Cramer had been a deputy with the sheriff’s office for just over ten years. Based on what Savage had initially observed of his ability, his time had done little to amount for anything in the way of experience. Ten times zero was still zero. Cramer also carried an allegiance to Savage’s predecessor, resenting the change of command at a personal level. Savage hadn’t fully fleshed out the reasons why, but presumed it was because the former sheriff turned a blind eye to the deputy’s lazy efforts. In a department consisting of four sworn personnel and a few civilians, it was critical everyone pulled their weight, otherwise the workload, albeit limited in this small town, would quickly become burdensome.

  “You and I need to sit down soon to get some things straightened out,” Savage said quietly enough for only Cramer to hear. There was an intensity to his words, but Cramer seemed oblivious or flat out just didn’t care. The portly deputy continued walking toward the small break room without saying a word.

  Cramer stood in front of the vending machine, obviously looking to refill the void created by his recent bathroom exploits. Savage watched the man ponder the choices of junk food and was convinced this would be the most difficult decision he’d make in the course of his eight-hour shift.

  Savage rubbed the short salt and pepper hair along his temples, trying to alleviate the budding roots of a tension headache. In the three weeks since he’d assumed the role as Sheriff of Hawk’s Landing, Donald Cramer had already managed to make his shit list. A hard thing to do by Savage’s own account
.

  “So, where do we start?” Littleton asked, interrupting Savage’s thoughts.

  “Well, we’ve got the body of a woman in the morgue and a grieving parent in the lobby. Let’s deal with the human element and talk to the mother first. Remember, approach each investigation with an open mind.” He shot a glance at Cramer, who was still pondering the conundrum of honey bun or cupcakes. “And listen to what she has to say. Things that seem innocuous at first may be the detail that later breaks a case wide open.”

  “You’re going to let me interview her?” Littleton’s eagerness was contagious and contrasted Cramer’s demonstrated laziness. Like a cosmic yin and yang.

  “How are you ever going to learn if you never do it? And no better way than drinking straight from the firehose.”

  In the bigger departments, Littleton would be assigned a Field Training Officer, typically several if manpower allowed, who would spend the better part of the four months following the completion of basic academy training teaching him the ropes.

  These programs were structured around the crawl, walk, and run approach in which a boot rookie, like Littleton, would be given more of the day-to-day patrol responsibilities until he reached a base level of competence prior to being set free to save the world all on his own. Everybody’s experience was different. Some saw more, did more, depending on the criminal element of a respective city or town. Savage’s first day on the job as a new probationary police officer had skipped the crawl and walk phase, plunging him into the front row of police work like few experienced during a career of law enforcement, let alone the first eight hours.

  While he and his field training officer, Clinton Briggs, were finishing their pre-shift vehicle inspection, a Code 10 call had come across the radio. Savage knew this was a request for an immediate lights and sirens response for all dispatched units, and in this case, it was for an active shooter situation. A beer bottling company reported that a recently fired employee had returned and was shooting up the management office. Savage remembered the look on Briggs’ face. He hadn’t understood it at the time, having never seen a person channel the energy it took to head toward a life and death situation. Steely-eyed focus. Savage knew he didn’t have it then but did his best to hide the panic.