Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Premature?” Zoe interrupted. “A young woman seems to have been buried alive. Do you really have the expertise to handle such a case on your own?”

“Well . . . obviously we’re looking into all aspects. The video is quite disturbing. But we suspect it doesn’t necessarily represent the whole facts.”

The video is a fake, just like you two.

“What kind of facts? What are you talking about?” Zoe asked in a tense voice. Tatum struggled with the dilemma, unsure if he should intervene. On one hand, if Zoe exploded, they might be kicked off the case and out of the station. On the other hand, it would be amusing. Decisions, decisions.

“Nicole Medina’s father, Oscar Medina, is incarcerated on possession with intent to sell. He has clear connections to the Mexican Mafia. We have an informant claiming a local gang is trying to exert leverage on a large supply chain, and it’s very possible the video is a threat aimed at Oscar Medina.”

“You think a local gang buried Nicole alive while filming it to . . . threaten her father?” Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “And then what? They dug her back up?”

“We need to examine all possibilities. And we really want to hear the FBI’s take on it, of course.”

Tatum’s bullshit-interpretation skill overloaded and crashed. Zoe took a deep breath, preparing for assault. Tatum decided that as funny as it would be to see her verbally disintegrate the lieutenant, they could at least justify the trip to Texas. “Who is the detective handling the case?” he asked hurriedly.

“He’s our most experienced investigator, so I assure you we’re taking this case very seriously.”

Tatum resisted the impulse to point out that it hadn’t gone on the very-serious whiteboard. “Of course. Can you point us to his cubicle? We’ll just talk to him, see we’re on the same page, and be on our way.”

Jensen’s face relaxed, and a small smile twisted his thick lips. Clearly the words “be on our way” were what he’d wanted to hear all along.

Detective Samuel Foster had rich black skin, his face sporting a full dark beard with spotty touches of gray. Zoe estimated he was about forty, perhaps slightly older, the lines of age starting to materialize on his forehead. Someone had once told her cops aged faster, and though it was a ridiculous generalization, she often saw instances in which it really was true. He chewed a pencil, half gazing at his monitor when they showed up in his cubicle, led by Lieutenant Jensen. The screen displayed the video page of the live burial of Nicole Medina, the frame frozen halfway through the video.

“Detective, these are Agents Gray and Bentley from the FBI.” Jensen’s voice was businesslike, but Zoe could sense a vague snappishness in it, as if this whole situation had offended him in some obscure manner. She didn’t bother correcting him about her actual title.

Foster swiveled his chair to look at them. His face was impassive and calculating. He took the pencil from his mouth. Teeth marks marred the pencil’s entire surface.

“FBI agents?” Foster said. “Why are they here?”

“They came after we informed them about the Nicole Medina case.”

“We did?” Foster’s eyes widened. “I’m glad you changed your mind, Lieutenant.”

“They’re just here to offer some advice.” Jensen’s jaw was clenched so tightly that it was a wonder he managed to form syllables. “I would appreciate it if you give them a rundown of what we have so far.”

“Absolutely, Lieutenant.”

Jensen nodded curtly and left without saying another word.

The detective’s face broke into a wide, warm smile. A second before he had been a jaded, angry cop. Now he metamorphosed into a pleasant, friendly, welcoming man. “Thanks for coming. I’m frankly relieved the FBI is showing such an interest in our case.”

“Are you the one who notified the FBI about it?” Tatum asked.

“Me?” Foster put his hand on his chest theatrically. “That’s not my decision to make. I suggested we call the feds, but ultimately, only the lieutenant decides if the case warrants outside intervention.”

“Well, it’s good that someone notified us,” Zoe said, impatient to start. “I hope we’ll be able to help narrow the suspect list.”

Foster motioned at an extra chair beside him. “Sit down. You can grab a third chair from the cubicle over there. O’Sullivan is on vacation—he won’t mind.”

Zoe sat down while Tatum went to the adjacent cubicle to get the extra chair. It was crowded in the cubicle, which hardly had enough room for two people, not to mention three.

“I assume you saw the video?” Foster placed the pencil he’d chewed in a small cup already containing half a dozen mangled pencils.

“Yes.” Zoe said. “Lieutenant Jensen told us that you think Nicole Medina was being used to threaten her father in some capacity—”

“I’m sure the lieutenant has some wild theories, but I assure you he didn’t get them from me,” Foster said.

Zoe exchanged looks with Tatum. “The lieutenant said he has an informant who told him that.”

“Rufus ‘Blacky’ Anderson. Blacky always has a tip for us, especially since we started paying forty dollars per tip. Some of his tips pan out, and some make great bedtime stories.” Foster shook his head. “I don’t believe for a second this is drug or gang related. There’s a sick bastard behind all this.”

“What can you tell us about Nicole Medina’s disappearance?” Tatum asked.

“Her mother reported her missing on the morning of September second,” Foster answered. “Nicole had gone to a party the night before, told her mother she’d be home by midnight. In the morning, when her mother saw she never came back home, she called us. We talked to her friends, and they claimed she rode with them and that they dropped her at her home. Their accounts match, and we have red light camera footage of the four of them in the car. Nicole’s face is visible in the back seat.”

“How does she seem in the footage?” Zoe asked. “Drunk? Sleepy?”

“You tell me.” Foster leaned forward and grabbed the mouse. He double-clicked an image file on an open folder. The image opened on-screen, displaying an image of a Toyota driving down the road. The image’s resolution was poor, but Zoe could spot the hazy face of a girl staring out the passenger window. It was impossible to see her features clearly.

“She’s conscious—that much we can tell,” Foster said. “Nothing much beyond that. I can show you the actual footage from the red light cam later.”

“What then?” Tatum asked.

“According to her friends, they dropped her off at her home and drove away. I went to her home with the driver, and he showed me exactly where he stopped the car. We went door to door in the vicinity. No one saw them dropping her off, but like I said, their accounts match, and they look like nice kids. The street is dark, and there’s a gravel path to the door.”

Zoe frowned. “You think someone grabbed her there?”

“There are some scuff marks on the path that could indicate a struggle.” Foster shrugged. “Not conclusive. No blood found on scene. In fact, the mother couldn’t tell us for sure that Nicole didn’t return home. It’s possible Nicole came home, went to sleep, and left in the morning before her mother woke up. But it isn’t likely. We couldn’t find anything that would indicate Nicole came home after the party.”

Zoe tried to imagine it. Nicole being dragged off a few steps from the entrance to her home. It sounded remarkably risky, but she could see the advantages. The girl would be less alert, already feeling safe. Zoe resolved to see the house for herself.