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  Look The Other Way

  Galveston Crime Scene Book One

  Leigh Jones

  Galveston Crime Scene Press

  Copyright © 2021 by Leigh Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Galveston Crime Scene Press

  3209 Autumn Court

  Pearland, TX 77584

  www.galvestoncrimescene.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover art by Elizabeth Mackey

  Look The Other Way/ Leigh Jones -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-7334900-3-0

  For Galveston, with love.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  WANT TO READ MORE?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  Her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her ribs, pulsing terror through her chest and down her arms and legs until her whole body trembled. Every instinct told her to run. But a small voice in her head screamed, “Wait!” She had come so far. Freedom beckoned.

  Her body ached with the effort to lie still. Her captors thought she’d taken the pills. They told the girls they were for the motion sickness that roiled their stomachs and spun their heads in dizzying circles. But suspicion prompted her to tuck the small white capsules under her tongue and only pretend to swallow. Her two companions slipped into a heavy slumber about 30 minutes later. When the men stepped out of the room, she spit the pills into her hand and tossed them under the bed.

  As the hours ticked by, she almost wished she’d swallowed them. Fear about what was coming next crept across the floor of the tiny, cramped room, snaked up the side of the bed and wrapped itself around her throat. With every thought about the end of the journey, it tightened its grip. She tried to shake it off by picturing herself walking into a new life, a limitless life. But once fear had taken hold, it refused to let go.

  She wrestled with it until exhaustion won out and she slept. When she woke, the gentle rolling propelling her forward had stopped, and the grinding engine had quieted to a menacing rumble. Her captors’ muffled voices undulated outside the room, whipping her fear into a frenzy again.

  The door opened and two men strode in, pushing a luggage cart. Through barely cracked lids, she watched as they put her two sleeping companions into the cart first. She willed her arms and legs to hang limp as the men hooked their hands under her shoulders and knees and lifted her in next to them. With the curtains on either side of the cart pulled closed, the girls were completely hidden from view. Her pulse surged, roaring in her ears. An involuntary whimper pried its way past her tightly clenched teeth.

  “What was that?” one of the men barked.

  “I don’t know. They may be waking up. Let’s get them out of here. Then they’ll be someone else’s problem.”

  Her breath came in short gasps as the cart started to roll. To keep herself calm, she began counting backwards from 100. It took all her concentration. She made it all the way to one and was about to start again when the cart stopped.

  “Hurry up! We’re running late. They’re going to wonder what’s going on.”

  The other man grunted. A metal door scraped open and a wave of warm, wet air washed over her. Through a gap in the vinyl curtain hiding them from view, she could see lights puncturing the darkness. Her heart skittered, sending a dizzying surge of blood to her head. Freedom was one lunge away. Did she dare risk it?

  “Hold up a minute,” the first man said. “I don’t see them.”

  The cart stopped rolling. She heard seagulls crying and the chugging of big machinery in the distance. She took a deep breath and a salty tang filled her nose.

  “Where are they? We can’t just stand out here forever. Someone’s going to wonder what we’re doing and start asking questions.”

  “Relax. They’ll be here any minute. Just roll the cart over there, out of the way. Let’s have a smoke. If anyone sees us, they’ll just think we’re taking a quick break.”

  Disbelief tingled up her spine and ignited determination in her heart. Through one curtain, she could see her captors about 10 yards away. On the other side of the cart, a dumpster offered the perfect hiding place. She pushed the curtain open just enough to slip through and scampered around to the other side.

  One. Two. Three.

  She held her breath and counted to ten. The men hadn’t noticed she was gone. The dock stretched out in front of her. A darkened building beckoned on the other side. She said a quick prayer and dashed across the open space, flattening herself against the wall, set deep in shadow. Her heart hammered so hard her pulse pounded in her fingertips. She glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of the orange glow of her captors’ cigarettes. They still hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. But she didn’t have long.

  “Here they come,” she heard one of the men say. “Let’s get the cart over to the curb.”

  Adrenaline coursed through her chest. She didn’t bother looking back as she pushed herself off the wall and sprinted down the sidewalk. They would know something was wrong as soon as they got back to the cart. She willed her legs to pump faster.

  To her left, the outline of cranes tattooed the sky. In front of her, rows and rows of shiny new cars, their hoods and tops covered with white plastic, stretched into the distance in the other direction. She ran toward the cars, weaving between the rows, hoping they would hide her from view.

  In the distance, several buildings towered over a few sparse palm trees. At the first sight of anyone who might help her, she would scream. Her breath came in ragged gasps, cutting the back of her throat with a fiery stab each time she inhaled. Her side ached.

  It was dark when she snuck out of the cart. But now the horizon glowed a soft grey. Ahead, a chain-link fence forced her to veer, skirting around an open parking lot dotted with semi trucks. When she reached the corner, she saw water ahead and boats rocking gently back and forth in their moorings. But no people. She turned right and continued along the fence line. Ahead, trees and beneath them, houses. She would bang on the first door she came to and beg for help. She couldn’t keep running much longer.

  The dull roar of an engine sent terror crashing over her. She glanced back. A van was bearing down fast. She veered to the right, cutting across another parking lot. Tires screeched and she heard the van door slide open. If she could only get to the houses, she would scream and someone might hear. Surely her pursuer
s wouldn’t drag her into the van where someone might see.

  She tried to sprint ahead, but she had used up any burst of speed blocks ago. She heard footsteps behind her now, gaining quickly. With each ragged exhale, a keening whine escaped her lips. The first house was just across the street. To her right, the sunrise spread across the sky. Streaks of wispy pink clouds stretched along a pale blue horizon.

  A small light glowed from a window in the house dead ahead. Someone was awake! But just as she filled her lungs to scream, a thump in the middle of her back knocked her off balance. She fell forward, hands outstretched, onto the thick lawn. She tried to scramble back up. But he was on top of her, one arm around her waist. He clamped his other hand over her mouth.

  Strong arms lifted her up as she kicked and flailed. When he spun around, she saw the van driving fast toward them. She only had seconds to escape. Wrenching her body around, she jammed her knee up between his legs. It was a glancing blow but hard enough to make him loosen his grip. She broke free and stumbled backwards. He grabbed at her arm. In his other hand, he held a dull black gun. He had a firm grip on her left wrist, but she struck out with the other hand. She wanted to scream. But all she could think about was the gun and the frantic need to get away. While she tried to pull her left hand free, she swung at his face with the other.

  Then he waved the gun, his mouth twisted in an angry snarl. He tried to block her blows. When the gun went off, she saw the flash of flame and heard the exploding pop before she understood what had happened. His snarl vanished. His eyes opened wide in surprise as she stumbled back and fell. She bounced on the spongy grass just slightly before a searing pain in her stomach stole her breath. A second man came running up and started pulling the shooter toward the van.

  She sensed another light come on in the house just a few feet away. She told herself to get up, but she no longer had control over her arms and legs. She struggled to breathe. The sensation of falling overwhelmed her, the weight of the last few nightmarish days pushing her into a deep, dark hole. She remembered how it all started, how she never imagined it would end like this—her mama’s hard, clasping hug goodbye. She hadn’t liked the plan. Didn’t want her to go. Would her family ever know what had happened? Would they have a chance to mourn?

  She sensed someone on the ground beside her, looking into her face and touching her arm. But all she could see was her mama’s face.

  “Mama, lo siento,” she whispered.

  Chapter 1

  Detective Peter Johnson exhaled a long, slow breath as he scanned the scene in front of him. A middle-aged man in a bathrobe, hairy white legs protruding below the hem, stood by his front door. Four uniformed officers dotted the lawn. One talked into the radio handset pinned to his shoulder. Another scribbled into a small, spiral notebook. Yellow caution tape wound around the mailbox and two conveniently spaced oak trees, cordoning off the lush lawn from the small crowd of curious onlookers that had already started to gather. The first gentle rays of dawn had given way to persistent beams of sun punching steamy holes through the thick morning air. It promised to be another scorching June day.

  In the middle of the yard, a white sheet barely concealed the body.

  Johnson arrived at the scene with foreboding and anticipation. He looked forward to the end of every investigation, when justice would be served. But he hated the way they began. Unlike some of his colleagues, he never learned to think of the victim as just another piece of the puzzle. Each body meant someone had a loss to mourn. Every grieving spouse, parent, sibling, friend tore at his heart. It always took several days before the tightness in his chest started to ease.

  When Johnson ducked under the crime scene tape and stepped into the yard, the note-taking officer ambled over. His smug smile radiated barely restrained satisfaction. Most young officers relished being the first on scene, especially a murder scene.

  “Nothing like a gunshot victim to start the week off right, huh boss?” Officer Dylan Conner said.

  Johnson reminded himself Conner was only 23, and as one of the department’s youngest officers, he hadn’t had a chance to build up cynicism or sensitivity. Even so, his cavalier attitude grated.

  “What do we know?” he asked, nodding toward the sheet.

  “It’s a young woman, with what looks like a single gunshot to the stomach. No purse or anything, unless she fell on top of it. The homeowner was making coffee when he heard the shot. He looked out his kitchen window but didn’t see anything because it’s on the side of the house, facing toward the marina. When he opened the front door, he saw the girl laying there.” Conner pointed toward the sheet.

  Bracing himself for the inevitable unveiling, Johnson headed toward the body as Conner flipped a page in his notebook.

  “She was still moving, so he went over to see how badly she was hurt. He said she was gasping for air and trying to speak. Right before she died, she said, ‘Lo siento.’ Then he came in and called 911.”

  Johnson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Conner flashed another grin.

  “I asked Gutierrez what it meant, he said—”

  “I’m sorry,” Johnson finished, not needing the translation. He didn’t speak Spanish fluently, but he’d been on enough domestic violence calls to know that one. Someone was always saying sorry by the time the police arrived.

  “Yeah,” Conner said, his grin flattened as Johnson stole the crowning glory of his report. “Why would the victim be the one apologizing?”

  Johnson lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. Knowing he couldn’t justify putting it off any longer, he motioned for Conner to lift up the sheet.

  The girl couldn’t have been more than 18. Her jeans, white polo shirt and well-worn tennis shoes looked like they’d been new several years ago. Her dark caramel skin and wide flat face made Johnson think of the indigenous people of central Mexico. Wavy black hair reached past her shoulders. She didn’t appear to be wearing any makeup and looked rumpled, like she had slept in her clothes, maybe for a few days. Blood soaked the front of her shirt and saturated the thick St. Augustine lawn where she lay, turning the normally vibrant green carpet a rusty brown. The strong metallic smell mixed with the fishy brine wafting from the nearby marina created a nauseating bouquet of decay. Johnson wrinkled his nose and winced as he thought about how long that dark stain would mark the spot where the girl died. It would testify to her pain long after neighborhood residents had stopped talking about the shooting.

  Johnson finished his inspection with the girl’s eyes—deep brown and staring straight up into the trees. He swallowed convulsively to keep bile from filling his mouth. His stomach ached to empty its contents. No matter how many times he saw that vacant death look, he never got used to it.

  Coughing several times to cover his discomfort, Johnson stood up and took a deep breath. He couldn’t move the body until the coroner arrived, but he could at least check her front pockets for anything that might tell them who she was. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his shirt pocket and snapped them on. He gently patted the outside of each front pocket. He couldn’t feel anything, but just to make sure, he carefully slid his fingers into each one. They were both empty. The back pockets would have to wait. It didn’t look like she had fallen on anything like a purse, as Conner had suggested. If he was right, and she didn’t have an ID tucked into her back pocket, Johnson would probably spend the rest of the morning combing through missing persons reports.

  As Johnson stood up, he heard another car pull up behind the police cruisers. Every cop in town knew Galveston Gazette photographer Doug Cowel’s 1985 Volvo. It had to be the only one in the city, and it eventually made an appearance at just about every crime scene. Judging by the smokey black trail in its wake, it had another oil leak. Johnson didn’t mind Cowel. He was a professional, and he knew how to do his job without getting in the way. But Cowel hadn’t come on this call alone, and Johnson groaned when he saw the passenger climb out of the car.

  Kate Bennett looked like she’d just gott
en out of the shower. Her light brown hair hung in damp clumps. Clutching her reporter’s notebook in her teeth, she hopped a few times as she tugged a shoe onto a sockless foot. While Cowel collected his camera from the trunk, Kate swept her hair back into a knot and secured it with a band pulled off her wrist. Despite her half-closed eyes and grumpy frown—sure signs she hadn’t been awake when the call went out over the police scanner—Johnson knew from experience she had already absorbed much of the details around her.

  Kate Bennett rarely missed anything. In the six months she’d been at the Galveston Gazette, she’d built a reputation for pinpoint accuracy with a flare for dramatic details. She knew how to tell a story and make a point, and Johnson could think of more than a few city officials who pined for her predecessor. The former city reporter never asked for detailed budget documents or noticed the sideways glances between city council members that gave away alliances and foretold voting patterns. Kate Bennett had an uncanny ability to sniff out hidden motives and see through pretense. And she was good at getting people to talk. Johnson didn’t dislike Kate, he just knew he had to weigh every word when she was listening. She could tease the smallest details out of a mere hello.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Kate glanced back at Cowel to see if he had gathered his equipment. When she turned back toward the crime scene, she caught Johnson watching her and headed straight for him. By the time she reached the yellow crime tape barrier, she’d managed to force what she hoped would be a disarming smile, even though Johnson didn’t look particularly happy to see her.

  “This is an odd place to dump a body,” she said, pulling a pen out of the rings of her notebook. “I guess they weren’t concerned about getting caught.”

  “No comment,” Johnson said, shrugging.

  “Don’t mess with me Johnson, I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning,” Kate grumbled.