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  Bailey’s ears perked up. “When did she work there?”

  “Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Come to think of it, they’d be a good source for you. She was friends with some of the other teachers there.”

  “She taught art lessons?”

  “That’s right. They have an after-school program for underprivileged kids. And they do camps in the summer, too. She was over there a lot.”

  A heavy gong sounded, and Celeste looked over her shoulder at the clock tower.

  “My class starts soon. I wish I had more time.” She dug a business card from her tote bag and handed it over. “Feel free to email me, if you have any more questions. Oh, and you said you needed a picture. I found this.” She handed over a small snapshot of Dana on a grassy lawn with a white cat in her lap. She had thick, wavy brown hair and a wide smile. Her arm was draped around someone outside the shot.

  “That was taken in our backyard. Jill was in it, too, but I cropped her out, obviously.”

  “Thank you. I can get this back to you.”

  “Keep it. It’s a copy.”

  She stood up and shouldered her leather bag. “Like I said, I almost didn’t come today. But then I read your piece about trail safety, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Women need to be aware.” She shook her head. “I told Dana over and over that she should jog later in the day when there’re more people around, but she didn’t listen.” She gazed out at the grassy lawn. “When I moved here ten years ago, it felt like such a small town. Now it’s like Houston or Dallas.” She looked at Bailey. “But I guess that’s everywhere, isn’t it? No place is safe.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  JACOB SLID INTO a no-parking zone and hooked his APD hang tag on the mirror.

  I’d kill for one of these things.

  He thought of Bailey in his truck last night. He’d been thinking about her all day—which was nothing new, really. He’d been thinking about her since he first met her. But today was worse, and memories of her soft mouth kept running through his mind.

  Jacob couldn’t get involved with her. Full stop.

  It would be beyond stupid to get involved with a reporter covering one of his cases. He’d never be able to trust that she was with him for him, and not for the information he could give her.

  The thing was, she didn’t seem like a user. She seemed genuine. Yes, she was persistent about her job, but who could fault her for that? If she weren’t, she wouldn’t have the job in the first place. Jacob was good at judging people, and Bailey seemed trustworthy.

  Still, there was no getting around the fact that she was a reporter. And if he couldn’t get things back on a professional footing, he was going to have to stop seeing her altogether.

  The thought depressed him way more than it should have.

  Jacob slid from his truck and walked half a block to Red Pagoda, which occupied a narrow storefront between a dry cleaner’s and a day spa. Parked in front of the restaurant was a motorcycle with a small red cooler mounted on the back.

  Jacob opened the door and was hit with the smell of egg rolls. All six tables in the restaurant were empty. A row of brown take-out bags lined the top of the counter. Jacob approached the smiling man behind the register. Short black hair. Fifties. Jacob introduced himself, and the man’s smile disappeared. Jacob took out a photo of Dana Smith that her employer had given Kendra before the FBI swooped in and took over the investigation.

  “This woman placed an order here last week,” Jacob said. “Do you happen to remember her?”

  “No.”

  “Probably Thursday or Friday? Take a look.”

  He glanced down at the photo for maybe a nanosecond. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” He held out the picture, hoping he’d look again, but the man shook his head.

  “We get lots of orders. Hundred a day.”

  The man’s clipped tone told Jacob he had zero interest in talking to a cop. Jacob glanced around the restaurant for a security camera, but he didn’t see one, so he thanked the clerk for his time and left.

  Jacob waited in front of the dry cleaner’s, and it didn’t take long for a teenager in a helmet to exit the restaurant with a paper bag in each hand. He loaded the bags into the cooler on the back of the motorcycle.

  Jacob approached him and flashed his creds. The kid looked wary but curious.

  “This woman placed an order here sometime last week.” He held out Dana’s picture. “Maybe a delivery?”

  The kid cast a look over his shoulder at the restaurant before taking the picture. “The apartment on the corner. Lakeview Court.” He handed back the photo.

  “You remember the delivery?”

  “Yeah, it was Thursday night. It was raining, and she gave me a good tip.”

  Jacob studied the kid’s face, gauging his credibility.

  “Did you deliver to her door, or did she meet you in the lobby?” Jacob asked.

  “She buzzed me up.”

  “Do you remember if she was alone or if there was anyone else in the apartment?”

  “No idea, man.”

  “How did she pay?”

  “Cash.”

  “Was she a regular customer, do you know?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe once every few weeks?”

  “And did you ever see anyone in her apartment?”

  He cast another glance at the restaurant before moving for the bike. “I don’t think so.” He threw his leg over the seat. “She was nice, though. Good tipper.”

  The kid fired up the bike, and Jacob stepped back to let him leave. Surveying the block again, he noted the day spa.

  REJUVENATIVE TREATMENTS. FACIALS, BOTOX, TATTOO REMOVAL.

  Jacob walked over and opened the door. Cold air wafted out as he stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The air smelled like tropical flowers. He approached the counter, where a white candle burned beside a bowl of smooth gray stones with words etched on them. RELAX. LOVE. POSITIVITY.

  A woman stepped through a gray curtain. “May I help you?” she asked with a smile.

  “I hope so.”

  She wore a purple sports top and black yoga pants. Her face was perfectly smooth, but Jacob put her age at fifty.

  “You guys do tattoo removal?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  He flashed his creds, and her smile faded.

  “I’m investigating a case, and I wanted to see if this woman might have been a customer.” He held out the picture of Dana.

  The woman took it. She had a pair of reading glasses hooked into her cleavage and she put them on. “I remember her.” She handed the picture back. “What about her?”

  “Was she here getting a tattoo removed or—”

  “Our client records are confidential.”

  “I understand. But this is a homicide investigation.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “She—”

  “She’s the victim.”

  The woman glanced at the picture again and stepped over to the computer on the counter. “What’s her name?”

  “Dana Smith.”

  She tapped at her keyboard, and Jacob looked around the waiting room. Two black leather chairs sat in the far corner beside a small table where another perfumed candle burned. Working in this place would give him a headache.

  “Looks like she came in back in February,” the woman said.

  “Just one time?”

  “No, then again in April and June. She bought a package. Four sessions, and we schedule them seven to eight weeks apart to allow for healing. She has one left. Had one left.” The woman shuddered and glanced up.

  “And can you tell me what she was getting removed?” Jacob asked.

  “What, you mean her tattoo?”

  “That’s correct.” He was hoping
for Greek letters, or a name, or a maybe a significant date that would give him a lead on Dana Smith’s previous identity.

  The woman watched Jacob silently. Her forehead was smooth, but her eyes seemed to frown. “Well, we take before and after photos.” She glanced over her shoulder at the curtain before pivoting the screen to face him.

  “Mind?” Jacob walked around the counter to get a better look at the computer, and the woman stepped aside.

  “That was taken February ninth before her first session.”

  The other photo Jacob had seen of Dana’s ankle had been taken on an autopsy table, and her skin looked gray and lifeless. This picture showed Dana’s ankle against a lavender sheet on what looked like a massage table. Her skin tone was warm and healthy, and she had her toes pointed as someone snapped the shot.

  The tattoo depicted was a small bird on a branch. Beneath it were three characters in black calligraphy that appeared to be Chinese.

  “Does that help, Detective?”

  He glanced up. “I’m going to need a screen shot.”

  * * *

  * * *

  BAILEY KEPT HER eyes peeled for Jacob as she made the rounds at the police station. But she didn’t see him. She didn’t see his partner, either, so maybe they were out on a case together. Bailey tried to convince herself that she felt relieved as she crossed the busy lobby. If she had bumped into him, she wasn’t sure what she would have said.

  I really don’t make a habit of jumping my sources, but the way you were looking at me . . .

  “Bailey.”

  She turned around. Jacob strode across the lobby toward her. He had his sleeves rolled up and a file in his hand, and the intent look on his face put a flutter in her stomach.

  He stopped and gazed down at her.

  “Hi,” she said, trying for cheerful.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just, you know, making the rounds.”

  He frowned slightly, and she realized he didn’t know her routines.

  “I swing by here every afternoon,” she said. “Check with sources, see what’s come in.”

  He glanced down at the notepad in her hand. “Get anything interesting?”

  “Nothing much. Just a purse snatching and another car theft near campus.” She watched him, searching his eyes. “How’s the Dana Smith case going?”

  Something flickered across his face. Then it was gone.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “So . . . is that a yes or a no?”

  “Neither. Are you headed out now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  He stepped over to push open the door and politely held it for her, as if that would distract her from the way he’d dodged her question.

  She stepped into the heat and immediately began to sweat. He spotted her car parked along the street and started walking toward it, and she tucked her notebook into her purse.

  She’d ask him again later. Maybe if she found him after hours or away from the station, she could get him to open up.

  Bailey caught some curious looks from several cops she knew as she and Jacob walked to her car, which was in a reserved space.

  “You’re going to get a ticket,” he said.

  “I know.” She popped the locks and pulled the door open, then turned to look at him.

  He was much taller than she was, and she felt the inexplicable urge to go up on tiptoes and kiss him again, just to see if he’d look as shocked as he had last night. But she resisted this time. Probably the last thing he needed was to be seen kissing a reporter in front of the police station. Just being seen talking to her could raise a few eyebrows.

  He rested his hand on the top of her door and looked down at her. A worry line appeared between his brows, and she got the feeling he wanted to tell her something.

  “What?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “There’s something new with the Dana Smith case, isn’t there? What happened?”

  “Who says something happened?”

  “Did you make an arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “No.”

  Her phone chimed and she pulled it from her pocket.

  “I have to grab this.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, looking relieved as he stepped away.

  “When later?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  VILLA PALOMA PERCHED on a bluff overlooking Lake Austin. The mansion had once been the home of a wealthy philanthropist but now housed an extensive art collection and a library that included rare books. Several outbuildings around the property had been renovated and turned into an art school.

  Bailey passed through the wrought-iron gate and parked in a lot beside a van with rainbow-colored handprints painted on the side. She got out of her car and looked around. After tucking a fresh notebook into the back pocket of her jeans, she walked into a wide courtyard filled with sculptures on concrete pedestals. A line of kids in matching yellow T-shirts tromped through the space, led by a pair of counselors with lanyards around their necks.

  Bailey stepped out of the traffic flow and watched the counselors load the kids into the van. Then she turned to check out the courtyard. At the center was a large concrete fountain with a statue of a toga-clad woman holding a dove in her upstretched hand. At the far end of the courtyard was a white stucco mansion with a red-tile roof. Bailey followed signs to a row of low stucco buildings that housed the art school.

  The first door was propped open with a green ceramic frog. Inside were four long tables, each with a chunky ceramic mug filled with paintbrushes in the center. A rotating fan circulated the air in the room, making art paper flutter on one of the easels.

  “May I help you?”

  Bailey turned to see a smiling young woman in a black apron. She had long blond braids and looked to be in her twenties.

  “I’m Bailey Rhoads with the Herald.” She smiled and held up her press pass. “Do you work here at the art school?”

  Her smile disappeared. “You’re here about Dana.”

  “That’s right. I’m writing a profile on her.”

  The woman bit her lip. She had a lanyard with an ID badge around her neck, and Bailey stepped closer.

  “I’m Tish Brown.” She reached out a hand but seemed to change her mind because her fingers were smeared with paint. She tucked her hand in her pocket. “I teach advanced painting and life drawing.”

  “And did you work with Dana?”

  “Not a lot.” She blew out a sigh. “She mostly worked with our Rainbow Kids.”

  Bailey took out her notepad, and Tish immediately looked uneasy.

  “Rainbow Kids?”

  “Our after-school program for underprivileged youth. In the summer, it’s a day camp.”

  “I see.” Bailey jotted it down. “And you didn’t teach the program?”

  “My classes are all adults, so Dana and I didn’t overlap. I actually didn’t know her very well at all. Still, it’s . . .” She seemed to search for a word. “Tragic. Beyond tragic, really. I can’t quite believe what happened to her. You’re not quoting me, are you?”

  “This is just background. Do you know who might have known Dana better? Or do you happen to know who hired her?”

  “Oh, she was a volunteer.”

  “She was?”

  “Yeah, there are only three of us on faculty. You could try the volunteer coordinator. Or maybe talk to Alex, our librarian. They were friends. Dana spent a lot of time in there. It’s through the courtyard in the main house. Go under the curved staircase and hang a left.”

  Bailey followed her directions, but
the front door was locked. She found a cobblestone path shaded by vibrant pink crepe myrtle trees and followed it around to a side courtyard. Branches rustled, and a giant blue bird swooshed down onto a patio table.

  Bailey jumped back. The peacock was huge. It turned, sweeping its tail feathers over the table. It stared at Bailey for a long moment and then slowly fanned its shimmery plumage. Bailey held her breath, awestruck. Suddenly, the bird hopped down onto the ground.

  “Vile creatures.”

  She turned to see a bald man with an armload of books. She looked back at the peacock as he flounced away, dragging his feathers over the cobblestones.

  “I was just thinking how beautiful they are,” Bailey said.

  “Looks can be deceiving. They defecate all over everything and scream loud enough to wake the dead.” The man’s gaze dropped to the notebook in her hand. “Are you a reporter?”

  “I’m with the Herald and I’m—”

  “I know why you’re here. Come in.”

  She followed him to a French door, where he balanced the books in one arm as he entered a passcode. The temperature in the building was a good thirty degrees cooler than it was outside. He led her down a hallway with arched windows and into a spacious library with bookshelves that had to be twelve feet tall.

  “Wow,” Bailey said, looking around.

  She followed him past a row of computers, where several people were spread out with backpacks and papers. Stopping at a large mahogany desk, the man set down his armload of books.

  “I’m Alex Mendoza.” He offered her a handshake.

  “Bailey Rhoads.”

  The man was younger than she’d first thought, now that she saw him up close. He had a shaved head and thick dark eyebrows. Like Tish, he wore a lanyard around his neck with a photo ID on it. Bailey read the title beneath his name.

  “You’re a research librarian?”

  “I don’t know about the ‘research’ part. But I’m in charge of the books.” He glanced around the room. “More than ten thousand volumes, many of them first editions.” He nodded at the row of workstations. “We get grad students in here who use our collection.”