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Detective Jones

July

The only sound that could be heard in the car was the flicker of Jones’s lighter as he lit his cigarette. His eyes were zeroed in on Dante Williams, watching his every move. It had been a while since Jones felt so invested in a case. The murders of Patrice Baker and Trina Roe haunted him. Willow Frank was still missing, and Jones couldn’t rest until he found her. There was no doubt in his mind that Sade was responsible for all three—he just had to find a way to prove it.

So far, they had hair from the scene of Patrice’s murder and a few drops of blood from Trina’s. Neither the hair nor the blood had a DNA match in their system. Unfortunately, Patrice’s murder was ruled a robbery gone bad, and the case was closed because they didn’t have any more evidence. Jones’s gut was telling him it was no robbery at all. That the murder was intentional and the reason the intruder, Sade, was there to begin with. His captain may have wanted him to drop the case, but Jones wouldn’t—not until there was justice for all three women.

Jones had been keeping a close eye on Sade and Dante. The more he learned about them, the more convinced he was that Sade had committed these murders because she was trying to keep Dante’s identity hidden. It wasn’t a coincidence that multiple murders happened in the small town of Vanzette when Dante arrived. Even with Sade trying to keep him hidden, Dante had become a link attached to Patrice, Trina, and Willow just like she was. If Dante wasn’t involved with their murders, he had to have knowledge of them. Jones refused to believe Sade had carried out two murders and a possible kidnapping by herself.

While he had no proof Willow was alive, Jones assumed she was since her body hadn’t popped up. And until her body was found, he was convinced he still had time to save her.

A part of Jones was at peace to learn Sade and Dante were leaving town. That meant the murders would stop if Sade were actually behind them. He would have preferred they stopped because she was in prison, though. Even with her leaving, Jones would still work the cases until he got the answers he sought.

Dante looked around casually before tossing three black bags into the small body of water behind the house.

“Hmm.” Sitting up in his seat, Jones set his cigarette in the ashtray. “What are you getting rid of?”

Jones watched as Dante jogged back toward the shed. Something important was in those bags. Something worth hiding. But what? Jones itched to fish them out, but anything he found would be inadmissible in court without a warrant.

Cursing under his breath, Jones waited until Dante left the house for what appeared to be the last time. He alternated between wanting to check the house and the shed or letting it go. Technically, he would be trespassing. The law made it hard to break the rules at times.

“Fuck it,” he grumbled, unlocking his car. “I’m going in.”

Casually, Jones made his way down and across the street. He wasted no time picking the lock and entering the home. It was empty and immaculately clean. As he headed into the backyard toward the shed, a medium-sized moving truck pulled into the front of the house. Cursing under his breath, he looked around for a place to hide. As spaced out as the homes were, the open space between the homes was blocked by a few trees.

Deciding not to hide, Jones walked toward the two men who had hopped out of the truck.

“Hey, do either of you know where I can find the owners of this house?” Jones asked, looking from one to the other. “I want to look inside. Thinkin’ about moving into this neighborhood.”

The movers looked at each other.

The taller, leaner one of the two shook his head and was the first to speak up. “No, we haven’t seen them since yesterday. We just have to clear out the shed, and then we’ll be done.”

“I think the realtor’s number is on the sign in the yard,” the other mover spoke. “You might need to just speak directly to them.”

With one bob of his head and a forced smile, Jones thanked them both before heading down the street toward the car. Instead of driving off, he watched as they cleared the shed of typical things one would find there—tools, a lawn mower, chairs.

Suddenly, his phone rang, pulling his attention away from the men doing their job.

“Jones,” he answered, not bothering to look and see who it was.

“Uh, hi. This is Amanda Baker...Patrice’s mom. You called and left me a voicemail.”

“Oh yes. Yes, Mrs. Baker. Thanks for returning my call. I was wondering if I could stop by and talk to you for a moment.”

“You’re the detective who was over her case, you said?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. The case was closed, right? Has it been reopened?”

“It hasn’t, not officially.”

“Detective Jones, we’re still grieving the loss of our daughter. It’s traumatizing going over the details repeatedly without it leading to anything. We’ve told you and other detectives everything we know about what was going on with our daughter around the time of the robbery. We have nothing else to offer.”

“I’m not looking for answers from you; I actually have information to give.”

“Do you have a suspect in the robbery?”