Cold Case Murder. Shirlee McCoy

The only headquarters she knew of was back in New Orleans, and she’d be perfectly happy to meet him there.

      “We’re renting a building on Main Street. It used to be a five-and-dime.”

      “I know it.”

      “You can go ahead and get settled in wherever you’re going to stay before you head over there. I may be here awhile.” He walked back to the house, and Jodie had no choice but to get in her car and drive away. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She’d already called Loomis Hotel, but all the rooms were booked.

      Vera Peel’s boardinghouse was creepy and old, the proprietress stingy and mean, but it might work. Then there was Dad’s. The family home. The place she should have been able to return to no questions asked. She couldn’t. Even if she could have, she wouldn’t. There was nothing for her in the colonial house she’d grown up in but unhappy memories and disappointments.

      Which brought her right back to square one. Where would she stay while she was in Loomis?

      Rain fell in steady rivulets as Jodie pulled down the long driveway. Twilight painted the landscape in shades of green and gold, making beauty of the bayou’s murky water. In the distance, lights beckoned Jodie toward Loomis. If she hadn’t known the truth about the town, she might have felt a tug of nostalgia as she passed old plantation homes covered with deep green ivy.

      She sighed and ran a hand over her flyaway hair. Thick and straight, it was as blond now as it had been when she’d been a kid. She knew a lot of women with similar color hair. Not many of them had been born with it.

      Had the woman in the underground room been?

      Jodie’s mind flashed back to the tunnel—the long blond hair lying on the floor, the strands as thick and straight as hers. As thick and straight as her mother’s had been.

      She shuddered, refusing to let her mind wander further down that path.

      She was tired, drained and on edge. Of course she was seeing connections where none existed. A good night’s sleep, a little food, and she’d be more rational. At least she’d better be. She had a job to do, a woman to find. She couldn’t let anything stand in the way of doing that. Not fatigue. Not hunger. Not the memories that haunted her dreams.

      Ten years away. She could have gone a hundred more and been happy about it.

      She sighed. If she didn’t know better, she’d think being back in Loomis was her punishment for all the Sundays she’d skipped church. Of course, she did know better. God had more important people to work on than Jodie. People who loved Him, sought Him, wanted to know His will.

      As for Jodie, she’d spent most of her childhood Sundays sitting in church services that had been filled with sanctimonious people. She didn’t plan to spend any more of them doing the same.

      Then again, she was back in Loomis. Who was she to say church wasn’t in her future?

      She almost smiled at the thought, imagining her father’s shocked expression if she walked into Loomis Christian Church on Sunday morning. She doubted he’d be happy. As far as Jodie could remember, nothing she’d done had ever met with his approval.

      She pulled up in front of the old five-and-dime, parking her car on the street and eyeing the building. A 1940s brick facade with store windows covered by shades, the place had closed when Jodie was a kid and seemed a little worse for wear, the years showing in the faded sign that still hung over the door.

      She got out of her car and hurried into the building, not wanting to run into anyone. She needed a cup of coffee and a few minutes alone. Then maybe she’d be ready to face Loomis.

      The large space had been set up with several cubicles, each containing a desk and a computer. Jodie bypassed the work area and stepped into a back room that had once been used for storage. Now it contained a long table and a locked file cabinet. A coffee machine sat on a small desk near the wall and Jodie plugged it in, grabbing a foam cup from a stack beside it and waiting impatiently for the coffee to brew.

      She sipped the bitter liquid that finally resulted and walked into one of the cubicles, dropping her purse onto the desk and slipping out of her suit jacket. She might as well get to work while she was waiting. Accessing the local PD’s computer system was dicey, but she finally managed to get the password from a woman she’d known in high school and who had heard she worked for the FBI.

      A search of the open missing persons’ cases gave her several possibilities for the identities of the deceased. She printed out a list, excitement thrumming through her as she imagined closing the file on cases that had been in the system for decades. Names for the victims. Faces. Closure for their families.

      The thought spurred Jodie on, and she created a spreadsheet listing name, race, age and date missing of each victim.

      The door opened, and she turned, smiling, expecting Sam. Instead, she met Harrison Cahill’s cool green gaze.

      “Are you done at the scene already?”

      “Already? It’s been almost three hours.” His gaze dropped from her face to the sheaf of papers she was holding in her hand, his lips quirking in a sardonic half smile that made her stiffen.

      “I guess I lost track of time.”

      “Hard at work, huh?”

      “Isn’t that why we’re here?” She kept her voice even and refused to look away from his steady gaze. She’d met men like him before. Men who assumed that because she was young she couldn’t handle the job and that because she was new she was overly anxious to prove she could. They were wrong on both counts.

      “Yeah, I guess it is, but in my experience, the younger the agent, the more anxious she is to show off what she can do.”

      “Your bluntness is charming, Cahill. But, for the record, I’m not that new and I’m not that young. If my hard work makes you feel inadequate, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to dumb down for anyone.”

      He blinked, then shook his head and chuckled, the sound as warm and rich as honey from a honeycomb. “Touché, Gilmore. And for the record, you’re not making me feel inadequate. You’re making me nervous.”

      “Nervous?”

      “Rookies do that to me. Lots of questions. Lots of energy. Lots of impatience. I want to focus on the job, not on walking someone through the process.”

      “You won’t have to walk me through anything. I think I made that clear before.”

      “I guess you did. So, now that we’ve both had our say, maybe we can start working together to find out who our victims are. What have you got?”

      “Possibilities. I accessed the local PD’s missing persons’ files. Then I expanded it out to adjoining towns. This is the spreadsheet of open cases.” She handed him the printed pages.

      “We can rule out more than half of them.” He scanned the list, his brow furrowed.

      “You know that already?”

      “Both victims were Caucasian. Late twenties to early thirties. Hand me a pen, will you?”

      Jodie opened the desk drawer, found a pen and handed it to Harrison, her fingers brushing his, warmth shooting up her arm at the contact.

      Surprised, she pulled back, watching as he crossed out name after name. “Those two were the correct race and age.”

      “But not the correct time frame. Our victims were murdered more than two decades ago.” He glanced up as he spoke, his eyes the deep green of the bayou and as filled with secrets. “You’ve got a color printer here, right?”

      “I—”

      “Yep, you do. Good. You shared with me. Now I’ll share with you.” He set the marked pages on the desk and slipped a flash drive from his jacket pocket. “These are from my digital camera, downloaded to my laptop. Take a look.”