“Ah. Well, sometimes that at least puts a temporary roof over their head. But it can open up a whole new can of worms.”

“She’s very good at figuring out how to get what she wants out of people,” said Ava. “She’s a manipulative and skilled liar.”

Cindy nodded. “I hate to say it, but those are the ones that survive on the streets. They develop thick skins and often have no remorse. But they survive. The hard part is easing them back into normal society.”

Ava abruptly had a craving for vodka with a sugary mixer. A fruity drink to relax her brain and make her believe she was on an island. A mental vacation in a large, colored glass. Or in a coconut. She needed a break from worrying about her sister.

“There’s also Dignity Village. They have a waiting list, too, but she might have met someone who has a place there. They can only take sixty people, but I don’t know how closely they keep an eye on visitors.”

Ava shook her head, praying Jayne hadn’t been in a position where she’d made that choice. Dignity Village was a tent city on the city’s property. It’d started as an illegal campsite, but had somehow managed to gain the favor of some of the city council as a place for the homeless to go. It’d been in place over a decade and some viewed it as a success in improving the homeless situation. The police saw it as a frequent source of calls.

Cindy handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of other shelters in the city. But I’ll warn you that most of them have policies similar to ours. You may not find the information you want.”

Ava reluctantly took the sheet. She’d made her own printout of shelters. Cindy’s had been her first stop and now she didn’t want to visit any others.

Should she bury her head in the sand and wait for Jayne to contact her? Or keep looking?

What I need to do is get back to the bridge murders.

“Good luck to you,” Cindy said.

Ava thanked her and stepped out of the woman’s office. In the hallway four other women sat on folding chairs, waiting for a chance to speak with the director. Three stared at the floor, but one met Ava’s gaze, shooting belligerence at the FBI agent. The anger from the woman caught Ava off guard, and she did a double take, wondering if she knew her.

She saw it wasn’t anger; the woman simply had all her defenses on full alert. She sat straight in the chair, her worn clothes and ripped shoes screaming her status, but there was pride in her stiff posture and raised chin. Ava lowered her gaze and walked away.

Ava could see Jayne in that chair. Jayne wouldn’t roll over and be beaten by her circumstances. She’d stand up and fight.

Or was that wishful thinking? Jayne didn’t think for herself anymore. Her reasoning was controlled by drugs or possibly through someone’s manipulation.

Ava needed to keep searching for her sister. But her murder cases had to come first.

13

Mason stood at the back of the room with Ava as Zander Wells and Ben Duncan led the press conference. He felt bad for Zander, who’d been elected from their group to read a statement to the media, because the Portland FBI office’s usual spokesperson was home with the flu. Mason hated public speaking and avoided it at all costs, but Zander had stepped up to the microphone like it was his best friend.

Zander was currently taking questions from the small audience and most of the journalists seemed focused on Carson Scott.

“Is there any evidence that Scott’s death was politically motivated?” asked a male reporter. Mason recognized him from one of the local news stations.

Zander kept a calm facial expression but indicated with a shallow quirk of an eyebrow that he found the question rather sensational. “No.” He didn’t expand.

The reporter’s hand shot up for another question, but Zander pointed at a woman.

“Obviously this is the work of a serial killer,” the reporter started. “Is the Bridge Killer only preying on male victims? Do women not need to be concerned?”

“You’re asking questions we don’t know the answers to,” Zander replied. “We don’t know why he’s picked men . . . so far. Both women and men should always be conscious of their safety whether Portland has a serial killer or not. Take this as a warning to be aware of your surroundings. There’s a lot of nutty people out there, folks.”

The audience nodded.

“Do the police believe there was a sexual element to the crimes?” the reporter continued, clearly not satisfied with Zander’s non-answer. “After all, the three men were all found nude, correct?”

Mason tried not to sigh. Part of him understood. These people had papers to sell and advertising space to fill, but did they need to focus solely on the scandalous aspects of the crimes? Thank God the presence of the ball gags hadn’t made it to the media. They would never have stopped speculating.

“Evening, Detective,” said a familiar voice to his left.

Mason turned to see the slightly mocking eyes of investigative reporter Michael Brody from The Oregonian. The reporter was a straight shooter, but he was also a rebellious pain in the ass who’d earned Mason’s reluctant respect. The reporter held out a hand and Mason shook it. Brody looked past Mason to Ava and waited expectantly for an introduction.

“This is Special Agent Ava McLane,” he reluctantly told Brody. “Be nice to her,” he ordered.

Brody grinned at him. “Why?” he asked bluntly. “I don’t think you’ve ever asked me to be nice to anyone since I’ve known you. Why her?” Brody winked at Ava, taking the sting out of his question.