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  “Area’s closed, ma’am.”

  She turned around to see a bulky young cop striding toward her. He had ruddy cheeks and acne, and Bailey didn’t recognize him.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Trail’s closed off.” He stopped beside her and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. His dark uniform was soaked from what looked like a combination of rain and sweat.

  “I’m with the Herald.” She unzipped her jacket and held up the press pass on a lanyard around her neck. “We got word about a possible shooting here?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  He gestured toward the sign. “This is a restricted area. You’re going to have to step back.”

  “But—”

  “Step back, ma’am.”

  “Okay, but do you know what this is about?” She took her time moving toward the barricade.

  “No, ma’am.”

  What a liar. “Can you confirm it was a shooting?” she asked.

  “You’ll need to talk to our public information officer.”

  He corralled her toward the barrier. She sidestepped it and turned around, and the cop was watching her suspiciously, as though she might sprint right past him if he turned his back.

  At last, he did. He proceeded up the trail, tapping the radio attached to his shoulder and murmuring something as he went. Probably giving people a heads-up that the media had arrived on the scene—whatever the scene was.

  The cop reached the yellow swag of tape blocking the path. He walked around a tree and darted a look of warning at her before disappearing into the woods.

  Bailey dialed her editor. Max picked up on the first ring.

  “I’m here at the hike-and-bike trail,” she told him. “Something’s definitely up.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “I’ve only seen one cop, but they’ve got the trail barricaded, and there’s a scene taped off.”

  “One cop?” Max sounded skeptical.

  “So far, yeah.” Bailey walked away from the barrier, looking for any other sign of law enforcement. The nearest parking lot on this side of the lake would be behind the juice bar. Maybe the cops had parked there.

  “What about a crime scene unit?” Max asked. “Or the ME’s van?”

  “Haven’t seen either,” she said, scanning the area as she walked. She spied several cars parked along the street, but no police vehicles.

  “Keep asking around,” Max said. “The scanner’s been quiet, so maybe this isn’t out yet.”

  Bailey would definitely ask around, but she didn’t see anyone to ask.

  “Where are you exactly?”

  “The trailhead near the nature center,” she said, “but it’s pretty deserted.”

  The rain started again. It streamed down her neck and into her shirt, and Bailey moved faster. Up the street that paralleled the lake was Jay’s Juice Bar. She spotted a patrol car in the parking lot. Bingo.

  As she hurried closer, she saw not just one but four police cars in the lot behind the place, along with an unmarked unit with a spotlight mounted on the windshield—probably a detective’s car. How had this stayed off the scanner? Someone must be trying to keep a lid on the story.

  Bailey surveyed the juice bar. Typically, Jay’s had a line of sweaty customers at the window waiting to order smoothies. But today the window was closed. A guy in a green apron stood beside the door, talking to a tall man with a badge clipped to his belt.

  “Rhoads? You there?”

  “I see a detective,” she told Max. “Let me go talk to him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”

  “Do it soon. I need to know if this is going to blow up the front page.”

  Bailey tucked her phone into her pocket and watched the detective interview the juice bar guy, who clearly was agitated. He kept wiping his brow with his hand and gesturing toward the trail. Was the man a witness? Had he heard the gunshot? The detective towered over him, watching intently as the man talked and shook his head.

  Bailey started to pull out her notebook, but then thought better of it. The detective dug a business card from his pocket and handed it to the man. Perfect timing. They were wrapping up the interview.

  Bailey crossed the street, and the detective glanced at her. His gaze narrowed when he spotted the press pass around her neck. Bailey felt his guard go up as she strode toward him. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  She was about to get stonewalled.

  * * *

  * * *

  JACOB WATCHED HER coming up the sidewalk. Bailey Rhoads. Austin Herald, metro desk. The reporter wore faded jeans and a soaked blue rain jacket that swallowed her. She stepped under the overhang to get out of the drizzle.

  “I’m Bailey Rhoads with the Herald.” She swiped a dark curl out of her eyes. “And you’re Detective . . . ?”

  He didn’t answer, and she pretended not to notice as she pulled a notebook from her pocket. Jacob glanced at her feet. The cuffs of her jeans were wet, and she wore purple flip-flops.

  “We understand there was a possible shooting at this location,” she said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “No?”

  “We have no official comment at this time.”

  “What about unofficial?”

  “No.”

  She huffed out a breath and glanced behind him, and Jacob was relieved to see that the witness he’d been interviewing had disappeared into his shop. He’d cautioned the man about talking to the media, but Jacob didn’t want to take any chances, so he moved away from the door and led the reporter around the side of the building, where he stepped under another overhang.

  The woman looked up at him, clearly annoyed. Her skin was wet, and her makeup was smudged. She had dark corkscrew curls, and her eyes were the same pale gray color as the T-shirt under her jacket.

  “Detective . . . ?”

  “Merritt.”

  “Could you brief me on what happened, Detective Merritt?”

  “You can talk to our public information officer.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Can’t you give me a break here? We’ll find out anyway. If you could just sketch out the basics.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jacob wasn’t ready to tell a reporter what was going on. He didn’t even know himself. It was an odd crime scene, which made him antsy. And more guarded than usual.

  The reporter blew out a sigh. “Look, Detective . . .” She trailed off and checked her watch. “I’m on deadline here, and I’ve got to get something to my editor in the next half hour.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “You’re right, it’s not. But could you help me, anyway? Please?”

  It was the please that did it. And the pleading look in those cool gray eyes. He got the feeling she didn’t usually plead for things. He glanced at her feet again, noting her blue nail polish and silver toe ring.

  Jacob shifted his attention across the parking lot to the line of trees. The scene had already been cordoned off, and now they were just waiting for the ME’s team. And she was right. News would get out. He wasn’t sure how she’d gotten wind of this, but it was only a matter of time before the rest of the media picked up the scent.

  “Was it a shooting?” she persisted.

  “No.”

  She looked surprised by his answer and took out a pen.

  “About five fifty, one of our units responded to a call about an unresponsive female near the hike-and-bike trail,” Jacob said. “The officers—”

 
“Wait, ‘unresponsive’?” She glanced up from her pad.

  “The officers confirmed that the woman was dead.”

  “Does it look like she was shot, or—”

  “That’s all I have at this time.”

  “Okay.” She kept scribbling. “And when did you get the call?”

  “About six twenty.” Thunder rumbled overhead, and Jacob looked up. “You know, we’re losing daylight and the sky’s about to unleash again.”

  “Just one more question. Does it appear to be a homicide?”

  “You need to direct your queries to our public information officer.”

  Jacob sounded like a prick, and he knew it, but he really didn’t want to get into it with a reporter right now—especially one with a reputation for being sneaky and pushy as hell.

  A white van pulled into the parking lot and slid into a space beside Jacob’s unmarked unit. A pair of ME’s assistants got out, and Bailey glanced over her shoulder to watch.

  “I need to get to work,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Contact our press office.”

  “Wait. Here.” She flipped over her notebook and tugged a business card from a stack she had clipped there. “Call me if there’s anything else you can share tonight.”

  Jacob took the card, even though he knew he wouldn’t use it.

  “I’ll be up,” she said. “Even if it’s late.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  BAILEY RAN THE yellow light and slowed down as she neared the police station.

  “Did you get it?” she asked Max.

  “Yeah, and it reads thin.”

  A man on a scooter sailed into the intersection, and Bailey slammed on the brakes.

  “There’s a lot missing here,” Max complained.

  “They barely released anything. The whole press conference lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Including questions.”

  Bailey waited as another scooter buzzed through the intersection, probably on the way to Sixth Street, Austin’s hub for nightlife. A hatchback pulled out of a metered parking space ahead, and Bailey put on her blinker to claim the spot.

  “Max?” she asked, passing the space and then zipping backward into it.

  “Yeah, I’m still reading. I mean, I get that it’s early in the investigation, et cetera, et cetera, but they hardly told us anything. What about her ID?”

  “Caucasian female, that’s it.”

  Bailey flipped down the mirror. Her makeup was practically gone now, and her hair was all over the place. She twisted it into a bun and tucked her curls behind her ears.

  “What about age? We’ve got sixty thousand college kids in this town, half of them female, and half of those probably use the lake trail. Was this a sexual assault?”

  “They wouldn’t say.”

  “Is it related to the string of muggings last month? Maybe a robbery that got out of hand?”

  “I asked that, but they said it’s too soon to tell. I put the quote there in the second-to-last paragraph.”

  “And she was recovered from the water, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Bailey grabbed her purse and got out of the car. The rain had let up, and people who had been holed up inside all day looked to be out in full force now.

  “Well, was she drowned? Dumped? Thrown off a bridge?” Max sounded frustrated. “Is it a suicide?”

  “I don’t know, but I plan to find out.”

  She waited for a break in traffic and jogged across the street. A block ahead was the police station. All the metered spaces in front were taken. She passed several cars and spotted a black Chevy Silverado just up the street. According to Bailey’s source in dispatch, Detective Merritt drove a black Chevy pickup.

  “We need a follow-up,” Max said, “and it needs to have a lot more in it than what you’ve got here.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I’ve got you budgeted for A-1, but we need some meat on the bone. And get some better quotes. This PR flack is terrible.”

  “I will.”

  “Check in tomorrow and let me know how it’s going.”

  Bailey tucked her phone away as she neared the entrance to the station. A pair of cops emerged and headed to a patrol unit parked along the curb. Bailey watched the double doors as people streamed in and out—civilians, uniforms, plainclothes detectives. By the volume of people, it looked like they were having a shift change. Bailey found a concrete bench near the black pickup and sat down to wait.

  Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t been home since Max had sent her out on the gas station story, and she hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. She dug through her purse and came up with a pack of cherry Life Savers. She popped two into her mouth and swished them around.

  Jacob Merritt stepped through the door, and Bailey’s senses went on alert. She didn’t move—just watched him from afar. He was tall, with broad shoulders and excellent posture. He moved with the smooth confidence of an athlete, and she wondered what sport he might have played once upon a time. She could see him on a pitcher’s mound, staring down a batter. Or maybe reaching up to pluck a football from the air before sprinting to the end zone.

  She stood and walked toward him, catching his notice as he reached the truck. She saw a flicker of surprise in his expression, but then it turned wary.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile. “You headed out?”

  He tipped his head to the side and regarded her with curiosity. Maybe he wasn’t used to being accosted by disheveled reporters after work.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m guessing you’ve had a long day. Thought I’d see if I could buy you a beer?”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  Ouch.

  She tried not to react as he gazed down at her.

  “I wouldn’t mind something to eat, though.” He looked over her shoulder. “Ever been to Paco’s?” He nodded at the food truck parked down the street.

  “Sounds good.”

  He opened his locks with a chirp and tossed a backpack into the back seat of the pickup, watching her as he did it. He had deep brown eyes. Trustworthy eyes. He shut the door and turned to face her, and she felt a flutter of nerves.

  “How did you know my car?” he asked.

  “I’ve got sources.”

  His gaze narrowed, and she thought he might make an issue of it. But instead he locked up and slid the keys into the pocket of his leather jacket. He started walking toward the taco truck, and she fell into step beside him, noticing the bulge under his jacket. She couldn’t imagine carrying a gun all the time.

  “You always work this late?” he asked.

  “I’m on weekends this month.”

  “They do it by month?”

  “Sort of. Also has to do with seniority. I’m low in the pecking order, so I work a lot of Saturdays and holidays.”

  They neared Paco’s, which occupied the corner of a parking lot. The air smelled of grilling onions, and beside the truck was a picnic area festooned with Christmas lights. It looked like Paco’s business was based on the steady flow of people coming and going from the bar district. A cluster of college-age guys in T-shirts and baseball caps read the menu board and placed a semicoherent order.

  When Bailey and Jacob reached the window, he gestured for her to go first.

  “Chips and salsa and a Coke,” she told the attendant.

  Jacob frowned. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  He ordered a beef-and-cheese taco basket and a water. He took out his wallet, and Bailey held out some cash, but he waved her off.

  She claimed an empty picnic table beneath a swag of rainbow lights, and Jacob scanned the area with a sharp look before sitting down across from her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “
Nothing.”

  Jacob’s gaze settled on her as she sipped her soda. It was cold and syrupy, and she didn’t realize how thirsty she’d been.

  He was watching her with a look she couldn’t read. He had strong cheekbones and thick stubble along his jaw, which was exactly her thing, and she wished they were on their way to a bar together tonight instead of working.

  He took a sip of water, then set the bottle on the table and looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” she asked, picking up a chip.

  “I’m waiting for the questions.”

  “Relax. I already filed my story.”

  He lifted an eyebrow skeptically and unwrapped his food.

  “I will say your PR guy was pretty tight-lipped.”

  “Yep.” He chomped into his taco, and she watched the muscles of his jaw as he chewed.

  “So . . . does it look like a homicide?”

  “The autopsy’s tomorrow. We’ll have something official then.”

  “What about unofficial?”

  He just looked at her, and Bailey tamped down her frustration.

  “How about ID?” she asked.

  “None.”

  “You mean she didn’t have one with her? Or you didn’t find her prints in the system?”

  “Both.”

  Bailey tipped her head to the side. He’d just told her a lot, and she wondered if he realized it. The fact that they could even get prints from the victim meant she couldn’t have been in the water that long.

  “So . . . it’s possible her ID was stolen during the incident?”

  He sighed and looked at her. “Anyone ever tell you you’re very stubborn?”

  She smiled. “Yes. But not usually in those words.”

  He crumpled his foil wrapper and dropped it into the carboard tray. “She had no ID on her,” he said. “No phone, no money, no keys.”

  Finally, she was getting somewhere. “And does it look like she was jogging on the trail when it happened?”

  “Possibly.”