Page 13 of Chasing Creed

Pakula was usually the one pulling her off to the side until she let off some steam.

“What you’re saying is that having a woman alongside you in a small rural town might make a difference. It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not offended.”

“I mean it as a good thing. And I have to disagree. I think you may have lost a bit of your I’m a tough FBI agent edge. Could be that dog handler’s influence. How is Ryder Creed, by the way?”

“He’s good.” She allowed herself to break out in a smile, because she knew Pakula’s question wasn’t just about Ryder’s well-being, but rather how they were. Pakula had been a witness to their developing relationship, up close and personal. Especially last October, when Ryder disappeared into a Nebraska blizzard. That search had transformed all of them.

This stage of the relationship felt too new. Not fragile, just new. She and Ryder had been friends, then friends with benefits. It ended up being much more complicated than it should’ve been. But Maggie had screwed up too many relationships in the past, including a marriage. She wanted this—whatever it was—with Ryder. She didn’t have to define it. She just had to realize that she wanted it.

Before she could give him more of an answer, Pakula’s phone vibrated. He dug it out of his jacket pocket then glanced up at her, and she gestured for him to take the call. He checked the caller’s ID and immediately tapped the button.

“Hey, John Boy, missed you last week at the game.”

Maggie opened her phone and started scrolling through her messages. She stole a look up at Pakula when he didn’t say anything for a long stretch. His eyes found hers and narrowed, concern creasing the lines on his forehead.

She hoped everything was okay. The nickname, John Boy, insinuated a personal call, but Pakula had a way of taking even the invisible—a waitress, a valet, a homeless guy on the street—and making them feel not just seen, but important. The fact that he had someone on the inside of Iris Malone’s prison willing to feed him information about the woman was a testament to his genuine appeal.

“You think they’ll be able to pull prints or is there too much slippage? Wow! That is something. Okay. Sure. Send it over. I’ll take a look.” He listened again then nodded as if John Boy sat across the table. “That works. Thanks. Beers on me next time.” He laughed. A genuine, full-throated laugh that swept away the lines from his forehead. “You got that right.” He ended the call and slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.

Maggie waited. Emptied her Diet Pepsi.

“Buddy of mine in homicide,” Pakula took a sip of coffee. “They pulled a floater out of the lake at Chalco Hills. That’s a recreation area in southwest Omaha. An eyewitness reported seeing a car early this morning parked on the dam road. Access is only for park employees, and the vehicle didn’t look like it belonged. Then she saw a guy get out. Dragged what looked like a large black garbage bag out of the trunk. Eyewitness said it looked heavy. Took a lot of effort. He tossed it over the edge of the dam and into the water. Then drove away.”

“How reliable is the eyewitness?”

“Early-morning jogger. She was pretty shaken up about it. Came in and gave her account. Didn’t get a close enough look to see a license plate but gave a good description of the vehicle. The lake’s not that big, but it didn’t matter. The bag got snagged on some debris. It hadn’t traveled more than twenty feet.”

“Seems a little sloppy.”

Pakula shrugged. “Seems a lot sloppy. Like maybe he didn’t care. Maybe getting found would send a message all its own.”

“Are you thinking a gang or cartel hit. Is that why you got a call?”

“The victim has a familiar mark. It’s—” he sat back, looking off toward the side as if to find the right word, but when his eyes scanned the now almost empty coffee shop, she realized he was looking to see if anyone was in earshot.

Satisfied, he propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “One of the human-trafficking gangs brands its merchandise.”

“Brand? You mean like a tattoo?”

“No, that takes too much time. Branding is the trend.”

“And this woman…I’m presuming it’s a woman?”

He nodded. She realized she felt a slight bit of relief that it wasn’t a young girl. Or a child. Not that this was much better.

“She has their what? Special mark?”

“He’s sending over a few photos. I’ll see. Maybe there’s no connection.” He shrugged then added, “Messy business we’re in.”

She sat back, still holding his eyes. As an FBI profiler, she’d worked with Pakula from the time he was in homicide to when he took over the helm of the state’s human-trafficking task force. They had seen things. She thought nothing could shock or surprise either of them, but somehow, she was always proven wrong.

She shook her head and said, “No matter what we do, they never stop, do they?”

“It’s like a hydra monster. We keep cutting off the head and it grows two frickin’ more.”

8

Mississippi