“Spill it.”
“I should have told you right away,” he said. “I tried to talk to Taylor, a couple months ago. She works at a bar in a sketchy area of town, kind of a biker bar, I guess. She wouldn’t talk to me, and a bouncer type kicked me out.”
“Why is this relevant now? Other than it would have saved me a couple hours looking for her.”
“Because I don’t think she’ll want to see me. Maybe this is something you should do on your own.”
“If you’re cool with that, I will. I have her address. And you? What are your plans?” She’d been thinking about being followed yesterday, and she didn’t want Lucas to go off on his own where he might be vulnerable.
“I’m going to look through my files for Alexa Castillo. I have a list of everyone in the sorority who overlapped with Candace. She’s someone we should talk to, especially since she also volunteered at Sunrise.”
Regan’s phone rang. She motioned to Lucas to wait while she answered.
“Regan Merritt,” she said.
“Hi, Regan. My name is Rachel Wagner. I’m the faculty advisor for Sigma Rho sorority.”
She quickly put Rachel on speaker and motioned for Lucas to be silent. “Yes, Ms. Wagner. How can I help you?”
“Call me Rachel, please. I hope you don’t mind that I tracked you down. Henry Clarkson kindly gave me your contact information.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I was hoping we could meet?”
“About?”
“Lucas Vega’s podcast, of course. I listened last night and was surprised that you agreed to talk to that student. I want to share with you how his project is affecting the girls here at Sigma Rho and my growing frustration with Lucas. I won’t take much of your time.”
“I’m happy to meet.” She wanted to talk to Taylor first. “Later this afternoon?”
“I’m an associate professor in the Department of Biological Sciences and am done with class at four this afternoon. Can you do four thirty, my office? I’ll text you the location. Or I can meet you somewhere else if you like.”
“Your office is fine,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”
That was fortuitous. She wanted to talk to the sorority advisor, and now she had an appointment. Rachel Wagner’s assessment of these girls would be helpful. According to the notes that Regan had reviewed last night at Lucas’s place, Rachel had taken over as faculty advisor the fall before Candace’s murder.
Regan hoped she could convince Rachel to encourage the girls to call in to the podcast, especially those who had known Candace, but she would approach the subject carefully. She understood the need to protect the sorority, but she would not tolerate protecting it over bringing Candace’s killer to justice.
Fifteen
Taylor James lived in a run-down neighborhood not far off Highway 17 south of Flagstaff, distinguished by winding streets and tall pines. Some of the small, mostly prefab homes were caged in by sagging chain-link fencing, but most were separated from their neighbors by trees rather than fences. Several of these dilapidated houses sat right on the road, others were far back, hidden behind overgrown brush and trees—a fire hazard waiting to happen. RVs and campers proliferated, unused and sagging alongside rusted cars in front yards as well as backyards. A few homeowners kept their houses up, bright spots in a depressed neighborhood.
Taylor’s rented house was tiny with a sloping roof and peeling paint. Clearly, the landlord hadn’t put any money into the place recently. Tall pines grew out front, almost obscuring the door. No sidewalk and no lawn, just packed earth littered with pine needles. An older sedan was parked behind the house in a detached carport. Taylor’s closest neighbor had a truck up on jacks in the driveway, but based on the weeds growing underneath, it looked like it had been out of commission for a while.
Regan parked kitty-corner to Taylor’s house and crossed the quiet street. While the neighborhood might be struggling, she inhaled fresh, crisp air, reminding Regan of everything she loved about northern Arizona.
As she approached the door, she heard a television, low, indistinct. Then came the sound of a baby crying from the house to the east. From the house behind Taylor’s, a place she could barely see through the trees, a power tool squealed.
There was no doorbell. Regan rapped on the door frame. The two windows facing the street had closed blinds.
She heard footsteps. A woman swore, as if she’d kicked something. Regan was dressed comfortably: jeans, black T-shirt, her favorite boots. She’d left her wavy, shoulder-length hair down, figuring it would soften her look. She didn’t want to look like a cop, but after her long career it was a hard image to break.