Page 117 of What She Saw
Several hours later, Grant sat behind the wheel of his truck, parked in front of the Dance Studio.
I dug in my purse and pulled out the tracker. “Thought your tracker could come in handy.”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
I slid out of the truck and jogged across the street. The group inside was breaking up, giving me a few minutes. I dashed down an alley to the small parking lot. There were three cars. A small four-door Toyota, a Kia, and a white van. The van had plates that read “TD Studio.” I took that as my hint and hurried toward it. I attached the tracker to the back rear tire well.
I walked back to the front of the studio as the last mom-daughter combo was leaving. Susan was closing the door when I pushed back on the glass. “Susan?”
She hesitated. Her gaze grew wary. “Yes.”
“I’m Sloane Grayson.” This time I didn’t bother with a lie. “Do you have a moment?”
“It’s been a long day. Call my front desk for an appointment.”
I didn’t relax my grip on the door. There’d be no easing into this conversation. “Do you know Tristan Fletcher?”
Susan’s face paled. “No. Should I?”
“I think you do.”
She stiffened. “Go away.”
“I can’t. Not until we talk.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I have nothing for you.”
“You look scared.”
She shoved me back, then closed and locked the door.
Chapter Thirty-Five
CJ Taggart
Tuesday, May 31, 1994, 10:00 a.m.
11 Days After
The phones had not stopped ringing since Sunday’s press conference. Three more women had been reported missing, but all had been found. One caller insisted she’d seen the bodies north of town at the Nelson farm. Another insisted he’d seen Colton with one of the girls, but his tip was discarded when he couldn’t prove he’d been at the festival. One woman said she was a psychic and the spirits of the dead were crying out to her.
Through it all, Taggart continued to watch Colton’s house. During this time, he lobbied the judge for a search warrant. He kept insisting if he could search Colton’s property, he’d find evidence related to the missing women.
Press from around the region had caught wind of the story, and reporters were swooping into Dawson. Taggart had taken a few interviews, reinforcing that the police had no suspects. Despite his efforts to assure everyone they were safe, few believed him. Kids were no longer riding their bikes alone. Girls went out in pairs or trios. The gun store sold out of Mace and handguns.
Taggart’s taciturn answers to the media weren’t selling enough papers, so a few reporters began interviewing family and friends of the missing women. As profiles of aggrieved families hit the papers, the pressure on the mayor grew.
“What the hell.” Mayor Briggs clutchedThe Washington Postas he closed the door to Taggart’s office. “That damn story is gaining traction.”
Taggart rose, straightening to attention. “I know.”
Briggs shook the paper as if it were a club. “What are you doing about it?”
“I’ve been asking for a search warrant for Rafe Colton’s house. So far, the judge won’t give it to me.”
The direct response caught the mayor’s attention. “Why are you so sure Colton is behind this?”
“That music festival was designed to fail,” Taggart said. “It was oversold, its borders weren’t controlled, and the promised security was MIA.”
