Chapter One
“That ends the second, with the Astros up with a three-run homer. Coming up in the next inning…”
Detective Holcombe leaned back in his seat, letting the radio announcer’s enthusiasm wash over him. He had been listening to the game on his drive from downtown to Clear Lake. Holcombe hadn’t even parked at the stadium when he received the call out for a homicide. He had scored last-minute tickets, offering one to his friend Mike, who was probably already three beers into the game.
The parking lot stretched out before him—a vast, lifeless expanse of cracked asphalt that seemed to go on forever. At one time, it had been the site of a bustling big-box store, its aisles teeming with shoppers. A large sign, long since illuminated, had shattered, keeping the store's original name a mystery.
A sharp rap on the window snapped him out of his thoughts. Kevin Nguyen stood outside, his face illuminated by the glow of the flashing police lights. Holcombe sighed, turned off the radio, silencing an overly enthusiastic commercial for brake pads, and stepped out into the humid night.
The rain had swept through earlier, leaving everything slick and damp. Puddles dotted the asphalt, reflecting the patrol cars' winking red and blue lights flanking the scene. Holcombe adjusted his jacket against the mist in the air. It was wet enough to annoy the investigators, but it was a problem at the crime scene.
The expansive parking lot was theirs to own. Though the lot was dark, the low clouds reflected the city's lights, giving the area a soft, amber glow. They were right up against the Gulf Freeway, whose drivers were already slowing down to see the cluster of police vehicles next to them. The parking lot suddenly lit up, courtesy of the light tower on top of a police command vehicle.
“You live practically next door to this place,” Nguyen said, smirking. Holcombe’s homicide partner dressed in canvas pants and a tightly tucked navy blue polo shirt. The embroidered logo simply said Major Case Task Force, and on the next line, Nguyen was identified as a detective. The star on his belt identified him as a Harris County Sheriffs Department member. “How are you the last one here?”
“Not next door,” Holcombe replied, his tone clipped. He gestured vaguely toward a cluster of dim lights about half a mile down the road and on the other side of a stretch of overgrown brush and trees. “I wasn’t home when the call came in. And there’s a field and a neighborhood between us.”
Nguyen shrugged, unconvinced. “Anyway, the M.E.’s running late as usual, and forensics is still going over the truck. One body. Female. No ID.”
Holcombe nodded, stepping carefully around a particularly deep puddle. The rain had made the whole place feel even more desolate, softening the edges of the broken asphalt and filling the air with the damp, earthy scent of wet concrete and grass. The treeline was fully lit, a green backdrop to their crime scene. The trees weren’t particularly tall or old-growth, just a collection of overgrown weeds and saplings that marked them as unwanted property in a constantly growing city.
“Walk me through it,” Holcombe said, opening the back of his SUV and pulling on a pair of gloves. His murder kit sat open in the trunk, the tools of his trade lined up lined up in order. Each detective had their own personality built into their kit. Holcombe wanted to get into the scene, absorb it, and become part of it. Gloves, facemasks, large tweezers, flashlights, and assorted bags classified him as a hands-on detective. He strapped a headlamp over his head and clicked it on.
Nguyen opened a screen on his tablet. His murder kit included a camera and an iPad. He observed a crime scene, recording everything and reviewing it later. More than once, Kevin found something critical in reviewing his personally made photos and videos of crime scenes. Often, they were used alongside whatever the Crime Scene Investigators produced during a murder trial, much to their annoyance.
“Constable patrol was cutting through here—he said he likes to come to spots like this to write up reports. Quiet, out of the way. He saw the truck parked at the edge of the lot and thought it looked suspicious. Went to check it out, looked in the bed, and found the body.”
“Why’d it get bumped to Major Case? We are like third deep on the call sheet this weekend.” Holcombe asked, pulling on his gloves.
Holcombe and Nguyen were assigned to the Houston Region Major Case Task Force, an interagency unit that worked with more than 50 law enforcement agencies over the seven counties surrounding Houston.
The Bayou City averaged close to 500 homicides any given year. With more than 8 million people spread across an area the size of Denmark, Houston was a country unto itself. Murderers didn’t have the courtesy of staying within the jurisdiction where they committed their murder. It wasn’t uncommon for a body to be dumped on a beach, the murder to have happened in the suburbs, and the murderer to be hiding out downtown.
Member departments would loan their best detective and officers to the Task Force to create a streamlined unit to work past jurisdictional red tape and turf wars. Nguyen had been on loan from the sheriff for the past 3 years. Holcombe came from the Houston Police Department and had just marked his second year with the Task Force.
“Jurisdiction,” Nguyen said, gesturing around them. “This lot’s unincorporated Harris County. Does the feeder road there belong to Houston, and is the field on the other side? That’s Clear Lake. Instead of wasting time arguing over whose problem it is, the patrol captain kicked it to us.” Water always follows the path of least resistance, and even police bureaucracy succumbed to making decisions out of convenience.
“Where is everyone else?” Holcombe asked, annoyed that his weekend was disappearing.
“First and second teams were called out to a shooting at a club up near Spring. Two gangs got into it in a parking lot. Last I heard, it was seven people shot, but no one died. Patrol units said there were about 300 people there, and when people were getting away from the shooting, it caused two wrecks. It’s a cluster, so I am actually glad we are down here at this nice and quiet murder scene.”
They walked toward the truck, a white Ford F-150 that looked like it had seen better days. Its cab windows were rolled down, and its tires were half-sunken on the muddy edge where asphalt met the overgrown brush. A blue tarp covered the bed, one corner flapping faintly in the breeze.
The floodlights set up by the crime scene unit cast stark, uneven shadows across the ground, making the whole scene feel surreal. Holcombe scanned the area. About 200 feet from him, against the building's wall, was the typical cluster of dumpsters, an abandoned car, and signs of a homeless camp. The camp looked abandoned, its last tenant having long given up on the location, like everyone else.
“Adjust that light,” Holcombe called to a nearby tech. “I’m getting weird shadows.”
The tech nodded, shifting the angle of the light with a remote he held in his hand.
“Who’s on photos?” Holcombe asked.
“Me,” came a voice from behind him. Hannah Fenton stepped forward, camera in hand. Petite but sure-footed, she carried herself with the kind of quiet authority that came from experience. Fenton was assigned to Major Case as a dedicated crime scene photographer.
One of the few right decisions that was made when creating the Task Force was to give them dedicated crime scene investigators, even though they still had to rely on other police departments for support and equipment. Even though the Task Force was designed to create interagency cooperation, it quickly became the assignment that every detective and investigator gunned for. Consequently, leadership in membership departments would become bitter when their best officers were poached for the Task Force. For some, the Task Force was a path to a better career. For others, it became a series of burned bridges.
Holcombe nodded. “Let’s get started.”
Fenton unfolded the stepladder she was carrying, climbed up it, and began snapping shots of the truck. A single white sneaker peeked out from beneath the tarp, its laces undone and frayed. The rain had soaked through it, darkening the material.
“Got it,” she said, stepping down and motioning for Holcombe to proceed.
He peeled back the tarp, revealing the body of a Latina woman lying face down. Holcombe stepped back again to give Fenton a chance to take more pictures. Nguyen hovered opposite of her, holding up a small digital camera on a telescoping stick and watching the feed on his phone.
The victim wore a floral blouse, which was clinging to her skin, the bright pattern muted by water and blood. Her head was turned to the side, and her dark hair, littered with specks of gravel and leaves, was covering her face. Dead bodies always looked smaller to Holcombe. It was as if the soul itself was measurable, and its absence had taken its weight with it.
“Can you give me a look at the face?” Fenton asked out loud. Holcombe leaned back into the bed of the truck and carefully moved her hair back while making sure not to obstruct Nguyen’s recording. Her face was locked into a grimace, her eyes closed.
Holcombe tried to imagine her with a more serene face. She would’ve been average-looking. Smaller in height than the normal, he estimated her to be 5 feet even. She had thick black hair that framed her face. Small sparkles on her ears were identified as stud earrings. Diamond or diamond adjacent.
“No visible signs of blood on the head,” Nguyen pointed out as he shifted his camera to zoom in on the temple. “Looks to be about 35 or 40 years old. Her clothing doesn’t look disturbed, so probably not a sexual assault.”
“Ready to roll her?” Holcombe asked Nguyen and Fenton. Taking the victim by the shoulders, Holcombe rolled her onto her left side, leaning her up against the inside bed of the truck. A pool of blood started to move around in the grooves of the bed.
“One gunshot wound to the chest,” Holcombe murmured, his gloved hands moving methodically. “Close range, no exit wounds.”
Holcombe looked down at her body, scanning it carefully. The floral blouse was buttoned up to her mid-chest, still tucked into her blue jeans.
“I don’t think she wasn’t shot here,” Holcombe said, his tone matter-of-fact.
“No blood splatter in the truck and no reason to turn her over after you shot her.” Nguyen agreed. “Body was moved to the truck, and the tarp was added after.”
Holcombe searched the woman’s pockets, finding nothing until his fingers brushed against something solid. He pulled out a phone, its screen shattered into spiderwebs.
“Got a phone,” he said, holding it up for Nguyen to bag. He tried the power button, but the device was dead.
Looking through the open windows of the truck yielded little more—a few empty beer cans, a crumpled fast-food wrapper, and a scattering of roofing nails. Trash, nothing useful. Holcombe straightened, stretching to ease the ache in his back.
“Truck’s registered to an Anthony Torres,” Nguyen said. “Clear Lake address. No priors, not reported stolen.”
“Called in the warrant?”
“Not yet.”
Holcombe stepped back from the truck, removed his gloves, and took his phone out of his pocket. He thumbed through a number on his list.
“Hey Holcombe, what do we get?” a woman answered. Tanya Robinson was another homicide detective on the Task Force, her home department from Katy, Texas.
“I need a warrant to search the truck we found the body in. I have a Latina, mid-30s, shot in the chest. Pretty sure she was driven and left here.”
“Got it. I am about five minutes from the office, so I’ll start running warrants. Do you want Madison to meet you there? I think she is coming in from Lake Jackson.”
Oof. Holcombe was glad he lived in the metro area. If the highway was clear, Lake Jackson was about an 90 minutes drive away.
“Nah, have her start heading to the address of the truck owner. We need to find him.”
“Got it. I’ll let her know. Call me if you need anything.”
The hum of an approaching engine drew their attention. The Medical Examiner’s van pulled into the lot, its headlights cutting through the gloom. Dr. Stephanie Delgado stepped out, her windbreaker flapping in the breeze as she strode toward them.
“This rain is going to ruin my scene,” she said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the truck. “Do we know if it’s coming back?”
Holcombe glanced at the sky and then pulled out his phone. “Weather says we’ve got a couple of hours.”
“Fantastic,” Delgado muttered. “Might as well have hosed it down ourselves. Okay, let me do my thing.”
Unlike Fenton and Holcombe, Medical Examiners were not assigned exclusively to the Task Force. They came from the Harris County Institute of Forensic Sciences, a world-class forensics lab located in the heart of the Texas Medical Center. The institute, which started in the 1950s, was the first forensic lab in Texas, giving it not just clout but an unspoken seniority in homicide investigations.
She motioned for her techs to follow as she approached the truck. Holcombe stepped back, giving her space. He leaned against the open hatch of his SUV, flipping open his notebook to jot down what little they had so far:
Truck not stolen
No sexual assault is evident
Body moved postmortem
Victim unidentified
1 GSW close range
The list was short, but that wasn’t unusual in the early stages of a homicide investigation. Holcombe looked at the group of patrol officers standing around, trying to look useful. With no bystanders, witnesses, or traffic to control, Holcombe was sure they would take every opportunity not to return to service.
“Howdy,” Holcombe greeted the three officers. One Percent 8 Constable and two Clear Lake police officers. “Who found the truck?”
A muscular Latino deputy raised his hand and then extended it to Holcombe. “Garcia, Precinct 8. I pulled off here to catch up on reports and eat a quick dinner. Saw the truck. Most of the time, they are stolen, stripped, and abandoned here. I looked in the cab, windows down, saw a shoe sticking out from under the tarp, pulled it back, and saw the body and the blood. Then I called it in.”
“Do you come through often?” Holcombe asked.
“Yeah,” Garcia replied. “I come here to eat and catch up on reports. This place hasn’t been open since COVID-19. I hadn’t been here tonight yet; I saw the truck as soon as I pulled in and came right over.”
“How long do you think it’s been here?”
Garcia shrugged. “Wasn’t here yesterday, and no one on earlier shifts called it in. This place probably doesn’t have an active towing contract, so the tow truck drivers were probably ignoring it.”
Holcombe thanked him, removing his gloves and dropping them into an evidence bag. Delgado’s voice cut through the quiet as she walked over to Holcombe.
“The rain’s really messing with everything. Luckily, she wasn’t killed here, so if you find the crime scene and it’s indoors, we have something to work with,” she said, shaking her head. “And with the windows down, there’s no telling how much is contaminated in the cab. But, back to the body. I say she was killed about two hours ago, moved to the truck; there are dirt, gravel pieces, and some leaves that make me think she was dragged across a parking lot.”
“Could it be this parking lot?”
“Maybe, but not anywhere around the truck. All the blood is in the bed, and nothing is on the ground next to it. Looks like her body was dragged there. Unless we find something else, I am going to say the truck was driven here with the body in the back and then left.”
Holcombe frowned. He still had a crime scene to find.