Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

8

      Rampart, New York

      Kate used the aerial news photo and the Chevy’s GPS to get her bearings for the burial grounds at the edge of town.

      She needed to see the crime scene.

      She’d deserved that much from Brennan and Dickson.

      But she should never have expected it.

      From her years of reporting Kate knew that detectives were fiercely protective of their investigations. They had to be so that cases didn’t fall apart when they got to court.

       But this is my life.

      Brennan could’ve taken her to the scene. She’d helped him and he could’ve done the same for her. She’d paid for the right to know what had happened to her sister—she’d paid for it the moment her hand had slipped from hers in that cold mountain river.

       Screw Brennan.

      Kate had endured too much and come too far not to find the truth, especially now when she was this close to it. She’d keep digging on her own, just like she’d done most of her life. She owed it to Vanessa and she owed it to herself. All Brennan and Dickson had wanted was for Kate to give them the necklace and her DNA, then go home.

      She glanced at aerial crime scene photos on her tablet on the passenger seat.

       We’d prefer you didn’t go there.

      Just try and stop me. She guided her rental along an empty stretch of highway that curved through dark, wooded countryside. After a few miles she came upon a New York State patrol car blocking the overgrown entrance to the burial grounds. A strip of yellow crime scene tape was extended across the gate.

      Kate had an idea.

      She parked nearby, got out and approached the lone trooper sitting at the wheel. He gave her a cool appraisal, watching her hands as she reached into her bag.

      “Hi,” she said. “Kate Page, I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She showed him her plastic ID. “How’re you doing?”

      “Just fine. Can I help you?”

      “Can you show me where the press can access the crime scene?”

      “This is as far as you go,” he said.

      “Really?”

      “Yeah, the others were here this morning. You can get updates from Rampart PD. I can give you a number.”

      “I need to take pictures of the scene—can I get closer?”

      “This is as far as I can let you go. They’re still working on it. The scene hasn’t been released yet.”

      Kate tapped her notebook against her leg. So much for that idea. There wasn’t much more she could do here. She was already on thin ice for using her job with Newslead the way she did and against Chuck’s caution.

      “Okay, thanks.” Kate returned to her car.

      She drove away feeling defeated.

      How could she just leave? It was like she was losing Vanessa again. She had to do something.

       What? What can I do?

      As she struggled to find a solution, the answer came around the next curve in the shape of a roadside rest area. Kate pulled in and parked at the extreme edge, nearly out of sight. She checked her phone. There was still service here; the signal was good. She consulted her map, the aerial photo, then coordinated things with the compass app on her phone. The crime scene was less than a quarter of mile northeast through dense forest.

      Kate locked her car, adjusted her bag so it rested on her back, found a straight branch to use as a hiking stick and set off into the woods. The terrain was treacherous. She was glad she was wearing flat shoes today. Thick underbrush concealed the uneven ground. Leafy low-lying branches tugged and pulled at her. She sought deadfall to cross a creek. Several times she was convinced she was going the wrong way but stayed true to the northeast direction of her compass.

      Some thirty minutes after she’d set out, Kate heard distant voices carrying into the forest and spotted flashes of yellow and white through the woods. Then she reached the clearing and the blackened ruins of the barn. The scene was ringed with yellow tape. Technicians in white coveralls were probing it, sifting the debris.

      A number of vehicles from Rampart PD, Rampart Fire and county and state police were parked at the far side. Keeping to the edge of the woods, Kate moved toward them, where she was able to get closer without anyone noticing her.

      The air carried the smell of charcoal and the memory of death.

      As the forensic people worked with funereal care the reality hit Kate full force.

       Did Vanessa die here?

      Anguish swelled in Kate’s throat as an image came to her:

       Vanessa is young and they’re crossing the street. Kate’s taking her hand; the earth shakes as a huge rig thunders by. Fear rises on Vanessa’s little face, but she trusts her big sister, loves her, worships her, as her little fingers tighten around Kate’s.

      Needing to be closer to the ruins, Kate reached into her bag for her compact digital camera. It had a high-quality lens and she zoomed in on the jagged black tangles of planks and trestles. With each picture Kate stepped closer, and with each photo her heart broke a little more. Moving in, she scoured the burned rubble, her camera offering more detail the nearer she got. She focused on a series of charred beams jutting from the aftermath. They were tagged, indicating they’d been processed. On patches of the wood that were not burned, Kate saw crude markings scratched into the surface. To see them better she needed to get closer—she needed to do the unthinkable.

      Kate lifted the tape to step into the scene but hesitated.

      She’d be breaking the law.

       But this could be the last thing my sister touched.

      Her heart raced.

      She might never be this close again.

      Kate stepped into the scene, taking more photos. Moving in deeper, she looked beyond the beams, noticing pockets within the devastation that appeared to be gridded, cleared and tagged. She concentrated on those areas, zooming in, taking—

      “Hey!” Keys jingled as a uniformed officer trotted from one of the vehicles. “Step out of there now! You’re under arrest!”

9

      Rampart, New York

      Kate could hear her pulse thudding in her ears.

      Over that, she heard the police radio dispatches.

      She was in the backseat of Rampart Officer Len Reddick’s patrol car. He was in the front verifying her Newslead ID, which he held in his hand. She could smell his cologne and peppermint gum. His jaw muscles pumped away, letting her know that he was still pissed.

      “That’s right, Kate Page,” Reddick chawed into his microphone. “Page. Poppa Alpha Golf Echo. Employee number seven-two-six-six.”

      Kate’s wrists throbbed against the metal handcuffs. The cuffs were an overreaction because Reddick was angry that he’d failed to spot her. She’d seen the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition splayed on the front seat when he put her in his car.

      He’d seized her camera, her phone and her bag, then read Kate her rights.

      As his radio crackled, she looked out the window.

      This morning she’d kissed Grace goodbye; now she was handcuffed and facing charges. She knew that it was wrong to step into a crime scene, but she was compelled