The Dollmaker (Forgotten Files Book 2) Read online

  “Damn, Sharp,” Riley whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Martin’s expression darkened as he shook his head.

  Sharp shifted and locked his focus on Riley. “Now’s not the time for a blow-by-blow, but I’ll soon be receiving case files that need reviewing. Like I said, I’m not the man to do the job since I have no objectivity.”

  “I’ll call Clay today and give him a heads-up.” Riley’s low and steady voice was tight with emotion.

  He wouldn’t allow her sympathy to penetrate his guard. “Thanks.”

  Back at his car, Sharp slid behind the wheel and turned on the engine. He clicked the heater to high, anxious to drive the bone-deep chill from his body. He sat in the silence, watching as the body-removal team arrived and worked their stretcher through the tall grass toward the creek.

  He reached for his phone to check messages. The first two were on existing cases. A witness had called the station and wanted to talk. Another was from the commonwealth’s attorney regarding another case. And the third—for a moment he sat still, staring at the name. Tessa McGowan. His wife, or more accurately, his estranged wife, had called a half hour ago. No doubt she was finally ready to file papers.

  He fished out a cigarette and a silver lighter from his pocket. He lit the tip. Scents of tobacco mingled with trepidation. He inhaled twice before he played back the message.

  “Dakota, this is Tessa. Hey, I’m back in Richmond, and I’d like to see you. Maybe we could meet for coffee. You’ve got my number. Thanks.”

  Her tone held a tentative edge, betraying a nervousness that told him she was uncomfortable making the call. Shit, in the early days of their relationship, they’d been totally at ease with each other. Back then, if either was restless, it was because they wanted to get the other naked and into bed.

  But the detachment that enabled him to deal with death had made him a shitty husband. When he withdrew, Tessa had tried to talk to him, but he never could bring himself to open up. Toward the end, she was all but begging him to communicate.

  He stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette, suddenly irritated by the strain and distance in her voice. He listened to the message again as he opened his car door and stubbed the cigarette into the dirt.

  At least she had called rather than texted. Anyone who texted tough conversations was a chickenshit.

  Drawing in a breath, he called her. On the third ring, his call landed in her voice mail. “This is Tessa. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  Bubbly, upbeat, and no signs of stress in the recording. That tone fit the memories of the woman he’d once loved. Hell, still loved. He missed that voice. That Tessa.

  At the beep he spoke succinctly. “Tessa. It’s Dakota. I can meet you today at the coffeehouse next to the station. Two o’clock.”

  He ended the call giving her no room to negotiate. If she really wanted to talk to him about filing divorce papers—the only reason he attributed to the call—she would do it at his convenience. He’d made it easy for her to leave him, but right now he didn’t feel like making this easy.

  He started the car and was backing out onto the road when his phone pinged with a text. It was from Tessa. See you then.

  The typed response must underscore her dread. She’d known that this time when she called, the probability of him answering was high. She needed to communicate, but she wasn’t eager to talk.

  As much as Sharp wanted to bust Tessa for the text, he couldn’t, because he didn’t want to discuss the final stages of their marriage either.

  He put the car in drive and texted: Understood.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tuesday, October 4, 9:00 a.m.

  Dr. Tessa McGowan sat in her car, staring at the one-word text from Dakota. Establishing their first meeting in eight months, a task she’d been avoiding since her return to Richmond days ago, was done. What little relief she’d hoped to feel was fleeting and quickly knuckled under to anxiety.

  “I will fix this mess,” she whispered.

  She glanced up at the tall building located in Richmond’s city center. The building housed the state medical examiner’s office, where in a half hour, she had a job interview for a yearlong fellowship as a forensic pathologist with Dr. Addison Kincaid.

  For the last eight months Tessa had worked with the United States military’s Project Identify in Vietnam to identify the remains of lost American soldiers. She’d been navigating the jungle paths and partly paved roads of the northern rural province, growing adept at slicing through jungle or dodging cows and widow-maker potholes.

  The months away had left her out of practice with maneuvering rush-hour traffic and scouting parking spots. She’d allowed nearly an hour for the five-mile drive from her cousin’s Manchester apartment just south of the James River. Thanks to green lights and a prime parking spot opening up, she still had thirty minutes to kill.

  Doing her best to shove Dakota from her thoughts and unknot a tangled stomach, she got out of her car and steadied herself on low heels. Straightening her pencil skirt, she squared her shoulders as she tucked her purse under her arm. Her plan was to walk around the block a couple of times, burning through the remaining minutes and calming her mind. She’d hiked hundreds of miles in the jungle and loved the steady rhythmic pace of walking. But the new heels negated whatever relief she’d expected when they quickly pinched and promised blisters.

  With Plan A looking less viable with each step, she switched to Plan B, which was to sit in the medical examiner’s lobby and wait for her appointment. She walked toward the gray building and opened the front door. A rush of cool air greeted her as she approached a thick plate-glass window shielding the lobby receptionist.

  Tessa leaned toward the circular opening and said, “Good morning.”

  An African American woman in her fifties wearing a blue security guard uniform looked up over pink half glasses. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Dr. Tessa McGowan. I have a job interview with Dr. Addison Kincaid. But I’m a half hour early.”

  The woman studied her, as if reconciling Tessa’s words with the image of a too-petite, too-young woman with long black hair who did not fit the image of a pathologist. “Have a seat. I’ll call down.”

  “Thank you.” Tessa turned and crossed the lobby, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. She sat on the edge of her seat, tightening her hand on the leather strap of her purse.

  She’d applied for this job online two weeks ago on impulse, making the filing deadline by hours. When she’d received a call for an interview last week, second-guessing had kicked into high gear as it always did when she rushed without thinking. It wasn’t that she thought she couldn’t do the job. She could. What nagged her was the idea of establishing yearlong roots in a city filled with complications.

  The elevator chimed open, and a tall, slim woman in her midthirties stepped into the lobby. She wore long dark pants, a white silk blouse, and thick brown hair coiled into a twist. Small hoops dangled from her ears, and around her neck a chain was threaded through a gold band. Green eyes scanned and settled on Tessa. The woman smiled. “Dr. Tessa McGowan?”

  Hand extended, Tessa crossed to Dr. Kincaid. “Yes. I’m Dr. McGowan.”

  Dr. Kincaid’s handshake was firm, her gaze direct. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’ve heard great things about your department.”

  Perceptive eyes sparked with curiosity. “Really?”

  “I asked around about you.” She drew in a breath and reminded herself her rash candor had gotten her into trouble before. “When I was in Southeast Asia, we had several Virginia doctors attached to our group. They knew you by reputation. All spoke highly of your department.”

  “Good to know.” A subtle smile tipped the edge of her lips. “Come on down. I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing this last year.”

  “Great.”

  The elevator doors opened, and they both stepped inside. Dr. Kincaid pushed the basement floor button.
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  “Tell me about the work you did in Vietnam.”

  “The directive of Project Identify is to find the remains of US servicemen. We spent most of our time working with our guide and the village elders, who were trying to remember back fifty years ago when an air force F-111 crashed. Once we narrowed our search, we confirmed the actual site with ground-penetrating radar. From there it became a struggle to clear the jungle and excavate twelve feet of earth to find the remains of the two crewmen.”

  Dr. Kincaid arched a brow. “Twelve feet?”

  “The jungle grows fast and doesn’t like people reclaiming what it’s taken.”

  “I understand you were able to make an identification.”

  She was proud they’d reunited the lost soldiers’ remains with their families. “You’re well informed.”

  “It’s a project I also feel strongly about. And of course, I’ve asked around about you as well.” The doors opened, and they walked the tiled hallway to her corner office.

  Dr. Kincaid’s space was small, but the walls were covered with a dozen degrees and awards. Along a credenza behind her desk hung pictures of the doctor with several governors, a couple of senators, and a tall man dressed in fatigues. Neatly stacked papers were piled on her desk beside a University of Texas mug filled with sharpened pencils.

  “Tell me about Johns Hopkins,” Dr. Kincaid said.

  Tessa detailed her rotations and her interests being pulled away from surgery toward pathology. She also spoke about her residency at Virginia Commonwealth University here in the city and her familiarity with the state system.

  “I realized the dead have a story to tell,” Tessa said finally. “And I want to be their translator.”

  Dr. Kincaid absently tapped her finger on the still-blank notepad. “Not everyone is comfortable with death.”

  “It’s the end stage of life.” She briefly considered a joke about having issues with the living but caught herself. This was a job interview, not a social call.

  “Many of our autopsies confirm natural causes of death, but we do get our share of violent deaths. Not always easy to see, especially when dealing with the young.”

  “I worked part-time in the Baltimore area hospitals’ emergency rooms while at Hopkins. I’ve seen my share of traumatic death. And when I did my residency here in Richmond, I was exposed to quite a bit in the emergency room.”

  Nodding, Dr. Kincaid sat back, regarding Tessa. “I understand the hospital here offered you a full-time job in the pathology department last year, but at the last minute you withdrew your name and opted to work abroad.”

  Tessa smiled. “It was an incredible opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

  And it had been. But she’d put her name into the hat for the overseas assignment as a rash wake-up call to Dakota. Commit to the marriage, or I leave. When he’d called her bluff, she’d taken the job.

  However, rethinking her answer now made it sound as if she thought the job with the state had not been a great opportunity, which it had been. She could explain about her marriage, but that was a rabbit hole she did not want to explore.

  “After working in the jungle,” she hurried to say, “I think I can tackle anything you throw at me.”

  Dr. Kincaid waited a beat, and then, “Let’s have a look around the place.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Excellent.” Dr. Kincaid moved into the hallway at a fast pace and pushed open the swinging door to an autopsy suite.

  The room was outfitted with a long stainless-steel sink and counter, instrument carts, and several empty gurneys. To the right was a bank of refrigerators. Dr. Kincaid gave her what she described as the ten-cent tour, stopping to show her the afternoon logbook of what they would be doing. “We have a stabbing case coming in as we speak. Eighteen-year-old. I’d ask you to stick around, but I can’t have anyone here who’s not on the payroll during official business.” She then said with a wry smile, “The investigating officer can scare the best of people away.”

  “I don’t scare easily.”

  “Then you haven’t met Agent Dakota Sharp.”

  Her smile froze. “Dakota Sharp.”

  Dr. Kincaid stood by an instrument table equipped with a tray of wrapped sterile instruments. “You know of him?”

  What had she expected? Of course their paths would cross. “I know Dakota Sharp.”

  A dark brow rose. “Really?”

  She did her best to look calm, marveling how worlds always grew smaller at the worst times. “We’re married. Separated.”

  Dr. Kincaid studied her a long moment. “Really?”

  “I can assure you,” Tessa rushed to say, “that our relationship will not be an issue. We’re both professionals and dedicated to our jobs. I’m sure he’s still one of the best agents in the state.”

  “He is that. And as long as you think you can work with him, I won’t worry about it. Do you have any other questions for me?”

  Tessa rattled off several practiced questions based on her research of the facility, hoping they made her look well prepared. Finally after another twenty minutes, Dr. Kincaid extended her hand. “Dr. McGowan, thank you for coming today. I’ll be in touch.”

  Dr. Kincaid’s expression was impossible to read, and Tessa’s hopes deflated as the doctor shook her hand and wished her a good day. She suspected her relationship with Dakota had complicated her chances of landing the job.

  It was early afternoon when Sharp pulled off the interstate into a small town just a few miles from the cemetery where they’d buried Roger yesterday. The town, north of Richmond, had roots dating back 150 years and links to the RF&P Railroad. Its center featured pre–Civil War architecture, historic Victorian homes, and a main street boasting dozens of shops and restaurants.

  His mother had brought him to this area when he was eight and then she married RB, and for almost a decade he’d lived here, attending high school, raising hell with his friend Jacob McLean, and generally champing at the bit until he left for Quantico. Since the day Kara died, he’d never looked back at this place with any fondness.

  Winding through town, he found the small side street canopied with orange and yellow trees anxious to drop their leaves. At the end of the block, he parked in front of the one-story white brick house listed as Terrance Dillon’s address. Leaves had been raked into piles at the curb, and the thick green lawn was cut. Mums filled twin planters flanking the front entrance.

  He dreaded death notifications, and this one weighed especially heavily on him as he got out of the car and strode along the sidewalk to the front door. Cool air blew across his shoulders, burrowing deep into his bones. He knocked hard on the front door.

  Seconds later the thud of footsteps sounded inside the house before the door snapped open. Standing on the other side of the screen was a young man in his midthirties. Dark hair, gray eyes, and a square jaw mirrored Terrance’s motionless pale face.

  “I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police.” He pulled his badge from his breast pocket and held it up for the man to see. “I’m here to see Terrance’s grandmother. She filed a missing persons report on her grandson.”

  The man hesitated, his frown intensifying into a scowl. “Have you found him?”

  He tucked the badge back in his pocket. “I need to speak with Terrance’s grandmother before I can comment.”

  The man pushed open the screened door. “My grandmother is in the kitchen. I’m Henry Jones. I’m Terrance’s older cousin. All the grandchildren have been taking turns with my grandmother since Sunday, trying to keep her spirits up while we waited on news about Terrance.”

  Sharp noted the white walls decked with framed pictures featuring dozens of different children over the last few decades. Several looked like school pictures taken of a younger Terrance.

  “Grandma’s been raising Terrance since his mother died eight years ago. His father is in prison mostly. Terrance is a good kid. Grandma expects the sports scholarship to come through and for him to go t
o college next fall.”

  “It’s a nice collection of pictures.”

  They entered the small kitchen outfitted with a narrow Formica countertop, a vintage 1950s stove and refrigerator, and an oval-shaped table rimmed with a dull stainless-steel ribbon and encircled by four matching chairs.

  An older woman sat at the table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her. Graying hair, which hung loose around her round face, drained her of color and aged her by another decade. She looked up from the stoneware cup, and when she saw Sharp’s face, tears filled her eyes. She rose and faced him. “Where is Terrance?”

  “This is my grandmother,” Henry said. “Edith Jones. Grandma, this is Agent Sharp.”

  “Mrs. Jones,” he said, softening his voice. “We found Terrance dead about five miles from here.” He never delayed this kind of information. Better to get it out and end the agony of not knowing. “I am very sorry.”

  Her chin trembled as she dropped back into her seat. She pressed wrinkled hands to her mouth and for a moment closed her eyes. “Are you sure it’s my Terry? Are you sure? He only went to the Quick Mart to get candy and an energy drink. He called me and told me he was coming right home.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we’re sure. He was carrying his driver’s license.” Moments like this, Sharp wished he had the words to ease the gut punch he understood too well.

  Mrs. Jones shook her head. “You must have made a mistake. He came to church with me on Sunday. It was his birthday.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we’re sure.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. There’s no mistake.”

  Tears spilled, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak as Henry stood beside her, his arm draped over her shoulders as she sobbed. Finally, she raised red-rimmed eyes. “Did my boy die quick? Did he suffer?” Mrs. Jones asked.