“I thought you wanted me to examine a crime scene?”
Jeremy still hugged the wall. Reggie still stared at him as if he were a side of beef, or at least smelled like one. It would probably be a good idea to get Jeremy out of here.
“That’s at Owen’s place. I can—”
“You can go with Ross.” Deb made an impatient “come here” gesture. Ross Quinleven, who had either just arrived, or been hovering out of sight around the corner, bolted forward.
Ross was of an age with my father. His own family farm had gone under while his dad owned it, leaving Ross to find other employment. He’d become a cop, and he seemed to enjoy it, though I’d never heard him speak more than a few words in my entire life.
Ross had always reminded me of a flamingo. He was tall, skinny, his hair a more unfortunate shade than my own—a faded deep pink rather than fire red. If he’d drawn himself up on one leg and stood quiet and still, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“I’ll have someone take Dr. Reitman to Owen’s,” Deb continued.
“I can do it,” Owen said.
I lifted my eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”
He’d already tried to kill Jeremy once. Sending the two of them into the woods, toward a place where Owen had already started digging a grave, was not the best idea.
Owen lifted one hand, palm out. “I promise not to bury him in the forest.”
Jeremy rubbed his throat again.
“This shouldn’t take long, right?” I asked and glanced at Deb, who shook her head. “I can drive him myself in a few minutes.”
“You aren’t going out there without a cop along,” Deb said. “That’s a crime scene.”
Jeremy stiffened. “I know what to do with a crime scene. I don’t need an escort.”
“Fine,” Deb agreed. “Becca and I will be along directly.”
“He isn’t going to my house without me,” Owen insisted.
“Sheesh.” They were acting like three-year-olds. I held out my plastic-covered hands. My palms were starting to sweat. “Just get this over with.”
“Scrape her fingernails,” Deb ordered. “Then get started on the rest of the room.”
Ross led me away from the others, setting his box full of CSI tools on the hood of my Bronco. It resembled a tackle box, and maybe it was, but when he opened the lid I saw no evidence of lines, lures, or jigs. He removed a hooked chrome device that reminded me of something they used at the dentist’s office. I hated the dentist’s office. I swallowed and averted my gaze.
There were still people gathered behind the tape Billy had strung. Several waved, but my hands were occupied, so I nodded in return.
One woman sat on the bumper of a parked car and stared at me as if she knew me, though I didn’t know her. Long dark hair, flowing black skirt that brushed the ground, tie-dyed T-shirt. She had her arm in a sling. She seemed a little hippie, which is something we didn’t see a lot in Three Harbors.
I smiled. She didn’t smile back. She seemed pissed off. Maybe her arm really hurt. Or maybe the commotion had ruined her café breakfast. She’d probably come here to get away from crime in the big city, and yet, here it was.
“What is he scraping her fingernails for?” Owen asked.
I glanced at him then back toward the crowd, still disturbed by that woman. But she was gone.
“Billy said you were searching for a guy in a ski mask. What did he do?”
“None of your—” I began, but Deb answered. “Tried to smother her with a pillow.”
Reggie woofed, low and concerned. Owen smoothed his palm over the dog’s head. But Reggie wasn’t having it.
Scared.
He spun counterclockwise.
Angry.
He spun clockwise. Was the dog talking about himself or Owen?
“Since when do people get attacked in their own homes in Three Harbors?” Owen’s face was serene, his voice completely reasonable. I wasn’t buying it.
“You need to calm down,” I said.
His gaze flicked to me. “Who says I’m not calm?”
“Who says I was talking to you?” I lifted my chin to indicate Reggie. The dog was still spinning—right, left, right.
Ross was still scraping my fingernails. It didn’t hurt, but I certainly hoped I never had to do this again. I remembered the pillow smashing my nose, my mouth.
For more reasons than one.
“Sitz,” Owen ordered.
Reggie sat, but he cast Owen a concerned glance, which Owen ignored. He was too busy glaring at me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Not a scratch on me.” Although my nose felt a little bruised.
“The scratches were all on him,” Deb said. “Hence the nail scrapings.”
Owen grabbed Jeremy’s hand and yanked on his shirt. Unfortunately the shirt was buttoned at the cuff and stuck tight about an inch above his wrist.
“Hey!” Jeremy tried to pull away.
Owen yanked the shirt so hard the button flew through the air. Reggie started barking at it.
Owen stared at Jeremy’s arm for a second, then he grabbed him by the throat and smacked him into the wall again.