“I am,” he told her.
She shot him a quick glance and his sober expression didn’t reveal his thoughts. But his dark blue eyes held her captive, stealing her breath with silent promises of more than discussing a case. Men didn’t just saunter into her life with hints of sexual rendezvous and erotic experiences she’d never have otherwise. Her life was full, her job keeping her so damn busy that eight hours of sleep was a rare commodity. And she loved it like that. No man around simply meant no drama.
Ash opened her mouth to tell him she wouldn’t be there. But Chase accelerated, raising his hand in good-bye, leaving her standing there watching him drive off.
“Son of a bitch,” she complained, glancing down at his card.
There wasn’t time to dwell on him. Stuffing his card into her pocket, she entered the dimly lit nightclub, which at this time of the day was empty, and headed over to the bar. An hour later, having heard answers from the people working at Club Toro similar to those she got at the other two establishments she’d visited today, she headed back to her car feeling frustrated. No one remembered anyone in particular, and none of the people working could ID anyone who sat next to her victims.
Learning who might have gained access to ISIS would be an even harder task. Ash got out of her car back at the station, and slid her hand in her pocket, fingering Chase’s card without pulling it out. He said he didn’t work in Wichita, which meant he wouldn’t have any connections here. Damn shame. She needed a really good street source. Someone who would know the drug deals, how they went down, and where. Maybe one of the narcotic cops could help.
“The last big bust we had was Phillips,” Dan Hartman, one of the detectives who’d been on the force about as long as she had, explained. He slouched in his chair, his th
ick long legs stretched out in front of him, with one cowboy boot crossed over the other. Hartman did a lot of undercover work, and as a result, he got away with the shaggy, unshaven look. Possibly he was a good-looking man if he weren’t so loyal to the lazy-bum look he’d been affecting for years now. “That was almost a year ago, though.”
“All three of my victims died from an overdose of ISIS,” she explained, fiddling with her ballpoint as she sat across from him in one of the upright wooden chairs that faced his desk. “My perp got his hands on the shit somehow.”
“Bad stuff, too.” Hartman shook his head. “I’ll keep my ears to the ground for you, Ash,” he promised.
“Where did Phillips do most of his trafficking?”
“Inner city mainly. It’s possible one of his runners could have tried picking up where he left off. But Phillips dealt heroine and coke, some pot and pills, but nothing like what you’re looking for. Believe it or not, most drug dealers have some level of ethics. ISIS is a lowlife’s drug. I couldn’t see Phillips messing with it.”
“Well, someone is,” she said, grunting and feeling a hot shower was in order. Just thinking about the kind of person who would purchase such a piss-poor drug premeditatively made her skin crawl. “And I need to know where he’s getting it.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
She nodded, pushing herself to her feet and forcing herself not to look at the clock on the wall to see what time it was. Ash prayed it was after seven, that way she wouldn’t feel antsy waiting for that hour to arrive.
Maybe talking to Chase would help. He was FBI, after all. Even if he didn’t work this town, he might still have some connections. And right now, any lead at all would help. The more time that passed, the colder these cases would get and she’d never find her perp.
“Ash,” Hartman called after her when she reached the door.
She turned around, certain her exhaustion and stress showed on her face.
“I’ll put out some feelers for you,” he offered.
“Thanks.”
“Phillips did some of his business at the downtown bowling alley,” Hartman suggested, shrugging. “He’s out of the action now, but if there was someone picking up where he left off, they might be trying to slip into his shoes. I can sniff around if you like.”
“Anything would help,” she admitted.
Ash remembered Danny telling her Mindy Simpson bowled on a league, which was how they’d met. From what she’d gathered on the other two victims, though, they never bowled. It was a weak connection but more than anything else she had right now.
She reached her car and flipped through her notebook where she’d jotted down notes from her interviews with bartenders and waitresses who worked at the three clubs. Ash pulled the reports filed by the officers who worked the first crime scene and compared notes from what the employees had said then to what she’d been told today.
Daphne Sullivan was killed at Aaron’s Bar and Grill, a sports bar in a nice part of town. It was the only murder not anywhere near the college scene, although Daphne was a third-year student, working on her bachelor’s degree in fine arts. She was majoring in dance, and according to her parents, she had a scholarship lined up for the following year. Her parents paid her room and board. A free ride with a bright future. Now all of it was gone.
Mary Harcourt and Mindy Simpson were about the same age as Daphne, all of them in their early twenties. Mary and Mindy weren’t in college, though. Mary worked in a factory as a secretary, made decent money, and her coworkers said she’d been saving to buy a home. Mindy worked in a grocery store and lived with two roommates in an apartment.
“Young, single, paid their bills,” Ash mused, heading out of the parking lot. Mindy’s roommates had little to offer and neither knew about a bracelet. She barely remembered her drive home as she pulled into her garage, hitting the button to raise her garage door. “Nothing unique about them other than the rope bracelets they wore. That’s got to be a clue, but what does it mean?”
It was six-thirty when she stood in her bedroom, naked and ready for a shower. She wouldn’t make it anywhere by seven, which was a damned shame. The case occupied her thoughts and she needed to keep brainstorming until some other connection became clear. Standing in front of her dresser, she stared at her jewelry box, thinking about the bracelets the girls wore.
Her jewelry was a hodgepodge collection at best. Ash fingered a locket Danny gave her years ago, before they’d married. It hung on a hook next to her jewelry box along with the few other necklaces she owned. Flipping open her jewelry box, she stared at the earrings she owned. There was the small velvet box that held the diamond earrings her grandmother gave her and that reminded her of the earrings Mary Harcourt wore.
“What?” she whispered, as she flipped the box open and her jaw dropped. The earrings were gone.