“No,” Shooter said. “We asked.”
“On top of that,” Richie said, “the sister said the nose hooked to the left, but the cut was on the right.”
“A relative could’ve gotten that part wrong,” Cassie said. “Did the family recognize the sketch?”
“Said they’d just be wild-ass guessing,” Richie said. “What about yours?”
“No,” Cassie said, her voice frustrated. “This ID… is not IDing.”
This was Cassie speak. Sometimes the math was not mathing. When she looked good, her makeup was makeuping. Point was—we’d struck out twice getting an ID on our mystery man.
Cassie told Shooter we were going to meet the motel manager’s ex, and Richie asked what their next move should be.
“Head back to Shilo,” I said. “And split up. Jo, examine those skeletons again and find something. Richie, help Patsy Davitt get to an ID, and fast. Let me think on the nose.”
Cassie and I pulled down a logging road and parked outside a small cabin. The home was no more than eight hundred square feet, with all wood on one side where the bedroom was—and all glass looking in at a combined kitchen and living room.
We banged on the door, but no one came to answer. Putting my face to the windows, I peered around. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
“Fucknuts,” Cassie said.
It was 11 a.m. already, and so far, we had nothing to show for our work. This was not abnormal in our line of business, but Cassie and I only had one day in Shilo before Richie and Shooter had to handle everything on their own.
“Is this the only relative?” Cassie asked.
“No.” I walked back to the rental car where the file was. “There’s a sister. Mila. And a mom.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Detective Quinones.
Found a current address on the sketch artist.
This was the man who’d drawn the sketches that were our primary piece of evidence on our suspect. I wanted to have an in-person conversation with him. “Let’s find this guy,” I said. “At least we’ll get something accomplished this morning.”
By noon, we’d reached the address where the sketch artist lived. It was an older neighborhood in a town called Dennis, twenty minutes north of Shilo.
The garage door was slung open, and a man in his thirties was inside, bench-pressing weights. He wore black shorts and a gray tank top.
“W. C. Walker?” Cassie asked, walking closer.
“Depends on who’s asking.”
The man said this with a serious voice, but when he sat up, I saw the grin on his face. His biceps were covered in tattoos, and his chest bulged against his tank top.Yokedwas the word Cassie would use if we were by ourselves. Orswole.Swolewas big with her lately.
“Gardner Camden,” I said, introducing myself and telling him we were with the FBI. “This is my partner, Cassie Pardo.”
I studied the Ford Bronco and motorcycle parked in the garage on either side of the workout bench. California plates on both. The dates on the Bronco’s stickers were expired.
“You’re from out west, Mr. Walker?” Cassie asked.
“William,” the man corrected her.
He followed my gaze to the front of the Bronco, then back to Cassie’s badge. “Tell me the federal government ain’t busting folks for expired tags these days.”
“Not our line of business,” Cassie said, explaining that we were here about a case where Walker had been a sketch artist.
“Those women who went missing?” he asked.
I blinked. “What makes you say that?”
