Michael looked like he didn’t want to get out of the SUV, like he didn’t want to break the connection they’d created. Jamie hadn’t wanted it to stop, but she needed a breather. This reckless, impulsive man was pulling her close and opening her up in a way she’d never experienced. She’d never discussed Chris with anyone outside of her parents and Chris’s psychiatrist. But she hadn’t been talking about Chris; she’d been talking about herself.
Michael’s emerald eyes had made her mouth keep moving and her breathing grow deeper. His face was all planes and angles, no softness. She’d felt the need to touch with her hand to add some softness to those hard surfaces. And the heat that’d erupted from his eyes at her touch had nearly unraveled her. She wasn’t the only one feeling something. In those brief seconds, she’d known every thought in his mind. And they weren’t about her brother.
She stepped up to the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office and watched Michael emerge from the SUV. He moved with confidence, like every muscle had a supreme purpose, exuding a tightly coiled energy. He was the kind of man who drew a woman’s eye, who made a woman wonder what it’d be like to be in ownership of that kind of male. But he was also the type of man who made a woman step back. He didn’t expel the commitment pheromone most women sought. His pheromones screamed temporary…but what a temporary ride it would be.
Jamie didn’t need temporary. Jamie didn’t need excitement. Long ago, she’d decided she needed a man who offered security, stability, and solidity. She didn’t see that in Michael.
But a tiny voice in her head kept telling her to consider the ride he was offering. And she was weakening. Once they’d figured out what was going on with Chris, she was going to take a hard look at the man Michael Brody was.
He stopped beside her on the sidewalk and tilted his head toward the door. She nodded and started to reach for the doorknob, only to see his hand grab it first and hold it open. She paused and then passed through, acutely aware of the warm hand he’d placed on the small of her back. The dim coolness of the office helped her relax.
“Can I help you?” A small, fluttery bird of a woman smiled brightly at them from behind a large desk. She was in civilian clothes, a floral shirt and faded blue jeans that Jamie immediately labeled as “mom jeans.” She wore way too much black mascara, but her smile was warm and open. Her name tag read “Sara.”
“We’re looking for Sheriff Spencer,” Michael answered.
Sara’s gaze took a quick measure of Michael, and Jamie could tell she liked what she saw. Too bad she was older than him by at least twenty-five years.
“He went down the street. He’s grabbing some dinner at the diner. Might be stopping at the grocery, too. We’re out of coffee.” Sara focused more intently and tilted her head in a rapid way that reminded Jamie of a bird again. “You the reporter from Portland?”
“Yep. You think he’d mind if we wandered down to find him? We need to check in at the hotel, too.”
Jamie stiffened. She hadn’t thought about the sleeping situation. Until now. Too many images peppered her brain. Some very hot.
Separate rooms. No exceptions.
Sara abruptly pinned her focus on Jamie, blinking rapidly, and Jamie knew she’d picked up every nuance of her body language.
“Not at all. He’d probably like to have someone to gab with over dinner. You eat yet?”
Jamie couldn’t remember eating at all.
“No,” answered Michael. “Food good?”
“The best,” Sara proclaimed proudly. “Try the enchiladas. And keep hitting the bell at the hotel desk if no one is right there. Chuck’s a little hard of hearing.”
Michael thanked her and steered Jamie out the door with his hand on her back again. She blinked at the sun that was starting to set.
“I’m freaking starved,” Michael muttered. “Let’s eat and find the sheriff, then find your brother.”
Jamie silently agreed, feeling her stomach rumble at the thought of enchiladas drowning in melted cheese. A sign a block away indicated it was the town diner. She locked her gaze on it and walked faster.
Michael moved his hand from her back to firmly hold her hand. She gave him a smile, but his gaze was focused ahead on three men lounging in front of the tiny grocery store. One man wore an apron with the grocery store logo, and the other two men each held a soda can—Coke and Diet Coke. Jamie’s mouth was instantly dry.
“Simon, your break is up.” A heavyset woman with black hair piled on top of her head stepped out of the grocery door. Spotting Jamie and Michael, she grinned and offered a greeting. Her name tag read “Janet.”
“You two look parched,” Janet said. “The air’s real dry here. Not too hot today, but it’ll still drain your fluids. Better pick up some waters.”
Obviously, this was a town where everyone knew everyone else. She and Michael probably stuck out like pigs in an opera.
“We’re headed to eat but probably should put some in the car,” said Michael. Janet followed them in the store. Behind her came Simon in his apron and the two men with sodas. They watched Michael select two bottled waters like they hadn’t seen outsiders in months.
“Sheriff Spencer been by?” Michael asked. He plopped the bottles on the counter, ignoring the scrutiny. Jamie lifted her chin. What was their problem?
Janet lifted a brow at Simon, who spoke as he scanned their bottles. “About twenty minutes ago. Bought coffee.”
“What you needing the sheriff for?” Janet asked. “Everything okay? You just got to town, right? Surely you haven’t run into a problem already.”
Jamie swallowed her laughter. Small towns.
“We’re just looking for someone,” Michael replied.
“Well, you’re standing in the right place.” Janet gestured at herself and the other men. “Between the four of us, we know everyone around here. Who’re you looking for?”
Questioningly, Michael met Jamie’s gaze. She shrugged. Why not?
“Chris Jacobs.”
The four stared at Michael and Jamie and then exchanged glances.
“What? What’s the deal?” Michael folded his arms over his chest. He studied each townie intently, almost hawk-like. Jamie swore she saw his nostrils flare like he was scenting prey.
Janet wrinkled her nose. “What do you want with him? I’ve never seen him even speak to another person. Well, he talks some to old Juan. But that’s it. That boy of his doesn’t seem to ever speak either. Doesn’t even go to school. Delores went out to his house, told him the boy needed to be in school. He said he was homeschooling the boy and meeting the state standards and told her to keep her nose to herself.” Janet let out a huff. “Boy should be in school. Needs socializing, otherwise he’s gonna be a hermit just like his father. There’s more to schooling than books.”
Jamie’s heart cracked. Her nephew. Janet was talking about her nephew. How on earth was Chris raising him?
“What happened to the boy’s mother?” Michael asked.
The question surprised Jamie. Michael had already read what’d happened, but as a reporter, she figured he always wanted to hear what others had to say.
The four townsfolk exchanged looks again.
“Car accident,” Diet Coke man stated.
Michael and Jamie waited in silence for someone to continue. Jamie saw Janet start to open her mouth and then close it.
“Sad business that,” Simon expanded. All four nodded.
Janet fidgeted with her apron, frowning. “She was driving. Alone. Went off the road into a tree. Not a mile from their house. Sheriff said she probably died instantly. Old car didn’t have an airbag.”
Michael’s hawk brows shot together. “What ran her off the road? An animal? She drunk?” The man wasn’t nearly satisfied with Janet’s story.
Janet shrugged. “Who knows? She wasn’t drunk. No alcohol at all in her.”
Jamie grabbed her water. “Let’s go. I’m starved.” She didn’t want to hear gossip. These people obviously weren’t fond of her brother. Any words out of their mouths would be biased. She had a hunch they were about to blame her brother for the car accident.
“Nice to meet you,” Michael said over his shoulder as they headed out the door.
“You too. Sheriff’s probably down at the diner. He usually eats dinner about this time,” Janet called after them.
Jamie power-walked down the sidewalk, and Michael grabbed at her hand. “Slow down,” he said, pulling back on her. “What’s wrong?”
Jamie shook her head. “Those people. They don’t know Chris, but they judge him anyway. That’s how it’s been his entire life. People just look at the outside.”
“Well, sounds like he’s not letting anyone see inside.”
“And that poor little boy. I don’t even know my nephew’s name! No mother. And it sounds like Chris is raising him to be as introverted as he is.”
“Well, at least his dad is spending time with him.”
Jamie stopped and turned to look at Michael. He had a shuttered look on his face. “That’s true. It’s important to have that connection. But the boy needs more in his life. I’m going to talk to Chris about moving back home. Janet has a point. The boy needs to be around other children.”
“Think he’ll be open to that?” Michael’s tone wasn’t optimistic.
“I hope so.” Jamie felt a heavy weight on her heart as they started walking toward the diner. It’d been so hard for Chris to adjust when he came home from the hospital. School became the enemy. No, the children and many of the adults in school had become the enemy. People in general were the enemy because they stared at him and talked about him like he wasn’t right in front of them, hearing every word.
She’d been confused as a child, unable to figure out her big brother’s thoughts. Her big brother was home…but he wasn’t. For two years, she’d prayed for God to send her brother home. He finally did, but Chris was seriously damaged inside and out, and Jamie didn’t understand.
She could see the outside damage. The marks on his face, the scars on his arms, the bony protrusions at all his joints, the lopsidedness to his jaw where it’d been broken and never healed right. She remembered the first time she’d seen him in the hospital. He’d been so still, his eyes closed and his face swathed in bandages. She’d gently held his fingers, the only part of him that looked like it didn’t hurt, and they’d softly squeezed back. Jamie had studied his hospital bed, so many tubes and machines.
Her mother hadn’t left his bedside since he’d been found. Her father had driven back and forth between the hospital and his job, seeing Jamie at dinnertime where he’d promise Chris would be coming home soon.
Looking at him in that hospital bed, Jamie knew it was going to be a long time before her brother truly came home.
Over those next few weeks, she lost count of the number of times she said, “Chris is doing good, and he’ll be home soon.” This was in reply to neighbors, teachers, and even strangers who somehow knew about her brother. That was probably from the TV. Chris’s story was frequently on the TV, even though the reporters never talked to him or her parents.
Her parents whispered to each other all the time. Outside his hospital room, in the car, in their bedroom. Sometimes it sounded like they were arguing in whispers. Jamie heard them mention brain damage and burns and therapy. Her mother cried a lot, not nearly as much as when Chris first went missing, but more than a mother should when her lost boy has finally come home. Jamie played silently with her Barbies, read books, watched TV, and waited for someone to tell her when her family would be back to normal.
Chris missed another year of school. Three years total. His parents had pushed for him to return when he could walk without needing to rest every ten feet, but Chris said he wasn’t ready. He was nearly fourteen and should have been starting high school with his friends. Instead, he’d avoided his friends, telling them he was too tired and telling his parents he didn’t like the way his friends stared at his scars. Eventually, they stopped coming around. When he could look at a book without getting headaches, he’d started studying. And studying. His parents had bought their first computer, and Chris took it over. After a lot of discussion, his mother had designed a path for him to get his GED. That decision seemed to alleviate some of his stress.
He’d helped Jamie with her homework, tugged on her black braids, and called her “Licorice,” like he had before he’d vanished. His own light-brown hair grew back uneven and patchy from where he’d had the surgery on his skull. He kept it buzzed short, making him look like he was from Auschwitz, not Oregon. He never gained enough weight to resemble the healthy, heavy athletic boy he’d been before. Until the day he moved out, he’d looked anorexic and pale.
Looking back, Jamie understood why her parents didn’t force Chris to go to school, but was it the wisest decision? Would he be the hermit that he is today if he’d been forced to socialize? Or would he simply have more internal scars?
She knew absolutely nothing about her brother.
Everyone had tiptoed around him. Were they simply enablers of his condition? Jamie had spent years learning about educating children and their behaviors, but suddenly it all went out the window when it came down to the emotions stirred up by her brother. Had they done right by Chris? First her parents and then her. Had she done the right thing by letting him dictate the limits of their relationship? Should she have pushed for him to give her more?
“Ouch!” Michael said, jerking them to a stop and dropping her hand.
“What?”
“You’re about to break my hand. You’ve got a grip like a nun who likes to whip with a ruler.” He cradled it like it was broken.
Jamie glanced at his hand. Sure enough, she’d caused the blood to blanch out of his palm.
“I was enjoying holding your hand, but you seemed to not be focusing on the romance of the moment.”
“Romance?”
“Yes. You and me in this quaint little town. Walking to dinner, holding hands.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. “I was thinking about Chris’s recovery and the situation with his son. Sorry, I wasn’t seeing the romance of the moment.”
Green eyes gazed deep into hers. “I liked holding your hand. I can hold your hand and still look for your brother, right?”
Jamie caught her breath and felt her heart do the tiniest flutter. That shade of green…
Who the heck was Michael Brody? Jedi knight and hand-holder?
“I like you, Jamie Jacobs. I like you a lot. And I have no problem letting you know.”
She blinked. He was so direct. It was…refreshing.
Michael was figuring out how to push her happy buttons in a fast way. Charmer or not, she was buying what he was selling. Something told her he was much deeper than the casual image he presented. She’d learned to look to the heart of people; it was part of her job. She could spot a bullshitter at ten yards. Michael was sending out true, clear signals of honesty.
“When you called me after your attack, I was ready to rip someone’s head off. The thought of you being hurt didn’t sit well with me. At all.” Sparks lit inside his eyes.
Oh my. Her heart did the flutter again. Bigger this time.
He leaned closer, running a warm hand up and down her arm. “Hungry?” His tone said nothing about food.
“Starved,” she said. “For dinner,” she clarified.
A slow smile stretched across Michael’s face, and he took a firm hold of her hand, leading her toward the diner.
Michael looked around the diner. The sheriff was easy to spot by the beige uniform and cowboy hat on the table. Half the tables had patrons, and at the counter, nearly every stool was full. The diner had a tired aura, like it was working on autopilot. Taking in the dated decor, Michael figured that nothing had changed since the midseventies.
Several people glanced over as he and Jamie stepped inside, their looks lingering a little longer than was polite, but eventually turned back to their food. Sheriff Spencer made eye contact, held it for two seconds, and then waved them over. Michael let Jamie walk ahead of him. Watching the customers, he realized Jamie in her snug shorts drew every man’s gaze, not just his own. He met the gaze of one younger man who’d discreetly watched Jamie walk by.
Yep, she’s with me.
Let them stare. He was the one who’d be walking out with the woman.
Michael inwardly frowned. Well…Jamie was with him. But not in the way he wanted. Not yet. Once he set his mind to something, he succeeded. And his mind was set on Jamie. She just needed a little convincing. He was good at that.
Sheriff Spencer was shaking Jamie’s hand, introducing himself. He reached out to Michael, and they shook. “I knew the minute you walked in the door you were the folks from Portland. We don’t get a lot of visitors through here.”
“So we’ve found out,” Jamie commented.
The sheriff gestured for them to sit at his table and waved the waitress over. “You hungry? The enchiladas here are incredible. The owner’s married to my receptionist and really knows his food.”
That explained Sara’s restaurant recommendation.
The sheriff didn’t look at all like he’d sounded on the phone. His voice was low and raspy like an older, bigger man, but he couldn’t be a day over forty or a pound over one-sixty. Thin and wiry, he looked like a runner who’d been jogging in the sun. A lot.
Michael and Jamie both ordered cheese enchiladas and dug into the bowl of tortilla chips the waitress plopped down on the table. Michael took a bite and felt it melt in his mouth. Damn, they were good. Hot, fresh, crisp.
“Watch the salsa,” warned the sheriff. “It’s got some kick.”
Jamie dipped a tentative corner into the salsa, took a bite, and sighed in appreciation.
They made polite small talk as Michael tried not to make a pig of himself with the chips. Their drive, the weather, the food. The salsa rocked. The sheriff was right; it had kick, but an awesome kick.
The sheriff rubbed his hands together. “I know you’re not here for the food. Let’s talk about this guy you’re looking for. Chris Jacobs. Now, the reason I asked you to check in with me before heading out there wasn’t just for the directions. You’ll need to watch your odometer, keeping track of the tenths of miles to know where to turn; there’s no signage out that way. You could drive around for hours and not find it. What I really wanted to do was warn you to be careful. That boy’s a crack shot with a rifle, and the rifle usually greets any visitors before he does.”
Michael noticed Jamie stop with a chip halfway to her mouth and slowly lay it back on her plate. “He shoots at people?” Her voice cracked.
“No. I’d say he’s just well prepared. I haven’t been out there for a while, but around the time of Elena’s death, I made several trips. I always saw the rifle before I saw the owner. That’s okay. There’s a lotta people around here like that. You just need to make your presence known. He doesn’t have a landline. If he has a cell phone, I don’t know what it is, and I doubt he gets much coverage if he does.”
“Back to the rifle,” interjected Michael. “He hurt anybody?”
“Nope.”
“But you know he’s a crack shot?”
“Yep, my deputies have watched him out at the firing range. Said they’ve never seen anything like his accuracy. Rifle and handgun. Seems to have quite the arsenal. They’ve seen him with half a dozen different weapons.”
Michael glanced at Jamie. She shook her head. “That’s news to me. I didn’t know he could shoot.”
Shrewd eyes studied Jamie. “How do you know him? He doesn’t speak to anyone except old Juan, his closest neighbor. Even he lives half a mile away. Jacobs has lived out there as long as I’ve been sheriff, and that’s been over ten years.”
“He’s my brother,” Jamie said simply. “He moved out when he was eighteen.”
The sheriff nodded slowly, his eyes sympathetic. “He keep in contact?”
Jamie shook her head. “Not really.”
Sheriff Spencer looked away for a few seconds, pressing his lips together as he thought. Michael watched the man wrestle with a decision. There was something he didn’t want to share, and it didn’t speak highly of Chris Jacobs.
“Spill it,” Michael ordered. He took Jamie’s hand under the table and gently squeezed. Her hands were cold.
“Well, I’m not one to gossip—”
“Then don’t. If you don’t know it to be true, then I don’t want to hear about it,” stated Jamie. Her grip tightened on Michael’s hand.
The sheriff rubbed a hand across his mouth. “The woman. Elena. They never married. That’s no big deal, and having a kid while not wed wasn’t a big deal to most around here. They looked happy whenever I saw them. Can’t say I’ve ever seen him smile since she died—”
“What’s his name? The boy?” Jamie interrupted again.
The sheriff’s eyes widened. “You don’t know his name? Jesus H. Christ. That’s a hell of a brother you’ve got there. The boy is Brian.”
Michael watched Jamie’s lips move as she silently spoke the name. Her eyes grew wet.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell you,” Sheriff Spencer snorted. “Why in the world would he refuse to tell you Brian’s name?”
“I didn’t know about him. Brian. I didn’t even know he existed.” Jamie’s voice drifted off.
“That’s even worse.” The sheriff shook his head, wonder in his eyes.
“What were you about to say about Jacobs?” Michael brought the sheriff’s focus back to the matter at hand.
A blank look crossed his face for a split second. “Crap. Lost my train of thought. I was about to say people think Chris was in the car with Elena when it crashed. Maybe somehow caused the crash. He had a big bruise on his face that day, but claims he’d accidentally whacked himself with something…I don’t remember what. It was enough to make people talk, wonder why he’d not admit to being at the scene of the accident. Made him look guilty in some way.”
“He said he wasn’t there?” Michael asked.
“He said he was home.”
“Why would he want to cause an accident? You said they seemed happy.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Elena was a Mexican gal. Probably illegal. I figure that’s why they never married. She just appeared around town one day, no family, looking for work. I’m not certain how she hooked up with your brother. Anyway, some stuff didn’t make sense at the accident. The passenger door was open. Elena’s blood was on the outside of her door, but her door and window were shut. Someone had been there after the accident. Jacobs seemed the most likely. The accident happened close enough to their home. He could have easily walked home.”
“Who found her?” whispered Jamie.
“Dean Schmidt. Driving by. Swears he didn’t touch the driver’s door. He’d noticed it was bloody when he got there. He checked Elena from the passenger side and said that door was open. He had to drive a few miles to get a cell signal to call it in.”
“He could have messed up the scene,” stated Michael.
“He could have,” the sheriff agreed. “Dean is eighty-eight years old and sharp as a whip. I guess he watches CSI all the time, said he knew not to touch anything. He checked for a pulse and that was it. A lot of the blood had already dried, and she was nearly cold by the time he found her.”
“So anyone passing by could have tampered with the scene.”
“I’d usually agree with that statement, but that road only goes to the Schmidt place or your brother’s place. The chances of anyone else driving by are slim to none.”
“Chris was never arrested for anything, right?” Jamie asked.
“Nope. I was the one to deliver the news. I saw the look on his face. That was the look of a man who’d just lost the love of his life.” The sheriff blinked hard. “I asked some questions and was satisfied he knew nothing of the accident. I’m not sure who first spread the story of him causing the accident—I’d like to kick their ass. Damn town loves gossip.”
“And telling us? That’s not spreading gossip?” Michael raised a brow.
“I’ve never repeated the story to another person, and I’ve told plenty of people to shut up about it. I’m just giving you some background on what your brother’s experienced here because you’re related. I’d say he’s rather bitter. Now you know why.”
A waitress set two huge platters of food on the table. Michael inhaled. Christ. It was heaven. He didn’t even look at Jamie as he dug in. “Holy shit. That’s good.”
Jamie nodded, her mouth full.
Sheriff Spencer grinned and pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s your directions. Like I said, watch the odometer, otherwise you’ll never know which road to turn on.” He stood, picked up his hat, and glanced at his watch. “Kinda late to drive out there tonight. You’re gonna want better light. I’d wait till morning. It’s up to you. Hotel’s just down the street.”
Michael stood to shake his hand. “Thanks for your help.”
The sheriff touched the brim of his hat at Jamie. “Good luck.”
Michael sat back down with a sigh and picked up his fork. Tomorrow morning was fine with him. He wanted to eat and then sleep. Nothing else.
“All this cheese,” Jamie said, focusing on her plate. “I’m gonna have a ton of calories to work off.”
Michael suddenly lost his need for sleep.
Mason Callahan did not like autopsies. He sat in his car outside the medical examiner’s office, air conditioner blasting, and wished for a cigarette. His partner, Ray, was home with a nasty flu bug, so Mason was on his own today. It was easier when Ray came along. It gave him someone to man up to. By himself, it was too easy to wimp out, stalling by sitting in his car, no peer pressure to get his ass inside and listen to what the ME had to say.
He tried to attend the autopsies related to his cases, but usually it was a single victim. Today, it was the adults found in the pit by the bunker. Was this even called an autopsy? What do you call it when there are just bones left? It’s more like a puzzle to put back together instead of a body to take apart. That should be the opposite of an autopsy.
Christ.
Can you say stalling?
It was just bones. But he still didn’t like stepping foot in the building. It had that smell.
He forced himself out of his car, felt the heat slam him in the face, and put on his hat. People always asked how he could wear a hat in this heat. He liked his hat. The brim shaded his eyes and his neck, and the light straw color reflected back the sun. Without his hat the top of his head got hot.
He’d taken two steps when his phone rang. An unfamiliar number showed on the screen. Any other day he’d let it go to voice mail, but maybe this was something important. Something that needed him to get his butt there right away. Away from the ME’s building.
“Callahan,” he answered.
“Detective. This is Maxwell Brody.”
Mason instinctively stood straighter. “Yes, Senator. What can I do for you?”
“After our talk the other day, I’ve been thinking hard, trying to remember if there was anything else odd going on when Daniel disappeared.”
Here it comes again. Mason closed his eyes. There was always something the family held back, feeling it was none of the police’s business or had an aspect too embarrassing to reveal. What in the hell had the senator waited twenty years to talk about?
“I had to go back to my calendar. In my type of position, there’s always a permanent calendar, a permanent record of what I’d done that day.”
Mason heard another male voice speaking in the background.
“Hang on, Detective.” The senator’s voice was muffled as he answered the other male. He came back on the line. “I’m sorry. My brother, Phillip, is here. He’s been helping me review my calendar and diaries from that time.”
Mason stood straighter, fighting the need to remove his hat. The governor was there, too? This was what you’d call a power phone call.
“A few months before Daniel vanished, I started having problems with…well, I guess you’d call it a stalker.”
Mason’s ears perked up.
“I always associate the word stalker with a woman being followed, but I don’t know how else to describe what I had to deal with. It started simple. The usual crap in the mail. Bullshit letters. The kind of stuff we roll our eyes at but always date-stamp and file away. Just in case.”
“What type of letter would you call a bullshit letter?” Mason asked.
“Oh, stuff like he hated my policies, I don’t remember which in particular. Someone always hated everything. The eye of God is upon me. I’m not doing God’s will, or I’m leading the people away from the path of righteousness.”
“A religious fanatic,” Mason stated.
“Believe me, I’ve heard them all. You can’t survive in this position without a very thick skin. I don’t engage the odd ones. You get a feel for it after a while. You instinctively know who isn’t playing with a full deck, and you don’t engage.”
“This was a half-decker?” Mason heard the senator snort and then turn to repeat the question to his brother. Low laughter rumbled in the background.
He’d made the governor laugh. A proud moment.
“Definitely a half-decker. Anyway, the letters came more frequently, and then the phone calls to the office started. His message was always the same. ‘God will punish you.’ Like I said, I don’t remember which issue he believed God had it in for me. I ignored it until the calls started going to the house.”
“Do you know how he got your phone number?”
“No, I never figured that out. But then he started showing up outside the building at work, then at the house. He must have followed me home one night.”
“Shit. No kidding? You called the police, right?”
“Of course. He left by the time they showed up. He never came up to the front door, but I saw him pacing outside the gate. You’ve been to the house; you know the iron gate at the walkway entry to the yard.”
Mason remembered the gate. He’d had to hit a buzzer to get a maid’s attention and then show his badge and ID to the camera before she’d unlock the gate.
“He didn’t ring the buzzer?”
“No. We didn’t have the buzzer and cameras at that time. He could have easily pushed the gate open and walked up to the house, but he didn’t. We added them soon after Daniel vanished.”
“So why do you associate this guy with your son’s disappearance?”
The senator was quiet for a moment. “I guess it’s the timing more than anything. And his phrasing that God will punish me. I don’t know what punishment is stronger than the death of a child.”
Governor Brody spoke low in the background.
“I’m getting to it, Phil,” the senator said. “Detective, this guy was arrested for trespassing at the capitol building, so there is a record of who he is. But after his arrest, I never saw him again. I haven’t contacted Salem police to try to track down the arrest record. I thought I’d run it by you first.”
Mason scribbled in his little flip book. “I’ll look into it. You said this happened within a few months of…of the disappearance date? How close to the date do you think the arrest was?”
“I’m guessing within four weeks.”
Mason wrapped up his power phone call. The senator didn’t have much other information. He scanned his notes from the call, an odd buzzing in his stomach. It wasn’t the buzz he got when he knew he had a hot lead. This was different. This was a dire, impending buzz.
Or maybe his stomach felt that way because he was still outside the medical examiner’s building. And now he was late.
He hustled across the parking lot and through the double doors. The girl at the front desk waved him in. “They were just asking if I’d seen you. They’re in op six!” she hollered after him as he strode down the hall.
“Sorry!”
Mason took off his hat and wiped at the sweat on his temples. The building was icy cool compared to the stiff heat outside. He wrinkled his nose as the smell entered his nostrils. There was no getting away from it. Tonight, he’d have to wash his pants and shirt and take a shower before going to bed. It didn’t matter if he was in the building for thirty minutes or three hours. The scent still clung. Dr. Campbell claimed the building had the best air filtration system available. And he didn’t doubt her. Clearly, nothing had been invented to eliminate the odor of decaying flesh.
He added a medical examiner’s perfect air filter system to his mental list of how to make a million bucks.
Mason paused outside of op six, took a deep breath through his mouth, and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Dr. Victoria Peres and Lacey Campbell were shoulder-to-shoulder, bent over a skull on one of the silver tables, as Dr. Peres pointed at the nasal opening. Dr. Campbell was nodding emphatically, her brows narrowed in concentration.
Scanning the room, Mason took in four other tables with full skeletons. Each arranged as if the person had simply lain down and his flesh had melted away.
How had they separated the skeletons?
The pit had been one giant hole. The bodies tossed in like trash, their bones and flesh commingling over the years.
“Mason. Over here.” Dr. Campbell gestured, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.
Actually, he figured her eyes were already bright from her fascination with the case. It took a special breed of person to get excited over old bones. Dr. Campbell was one. Dr. Peres was another. They were so deep in bone heaven, they probably hadn’t noticed he was very late.
Dr. Peres nodded at him. “Detective.” She glanced at the clock on the wall.
Scratch that. The forensic anthropologist missed nothing.
He moved closer, his boots sounding too loud on the hard floor. “Morning, doctors.” He stopped next to Dr. Campbell and forced himself to take a good look at the remains. The bones were a muddy brown, not the ivory color he’d expected. He glanced at the other tables. The other skeletons were the same. “Why are they dirty?”
Dr. Peres bristled and Dr. Campbell smiled, putting a calming hand on the other woman’s arm. “They aren’t dirty. They absorbed the color of the dirt they were buried in for twenty years. It’s pretty common. And they’ve been cleaned. There was some tissue still attached in a few places.”
Mason grimaced. “Tissue? There was still flesh left?”
“A bit. A simple soaking in a few different solutions takes care of it.”
Mason knew she’d purposefully left out details. In the past, he’d stepped into the room when bones had been simmering to remove the flesh. It’d smelled like a restaurant. He swallowed hard.
“How’d you get them separated? How do you know you have the right bones grouped together?” he asked.
“Very carefully.” Dr. Peres spoke. “I’m glad I was there for the unearthing. That’s where the first mistakes are always made. Luckily, he’d buried them one at a time. There was a small layer of dirt between each skeleton, enough to help us keep each separate.”
“Layers of dirt? How long apart between each burial?”
Dr. Peres bit her lip, and Mason knew she was frustrated that she didn’t have a perfect answer for him.
“I can’t tell. We can have each dirt sample analyzed, but I’m comfortable saying all five were buried within a ten-year period.”
Mason nodded. Once they had identified the bodies, he had a hunch each one would have been reported missing around the same set of years. He needed to get them identified first.
“What else can you tell me?” He pulled out his notebook and pen.
Dr. Peres’s face shifted into lecture mode. “This is number three. He’s a Caucasian male, approximately eighteen to twenty-five. Six feet tall with a well-healed fracture of his tibia.” Dr. Peres pointed at a bone in the lower leg. Mason bent closer and saw the thickened, slightly lumpy area along the sleek bone. “It can take three to five years for a break to look this good. It’s an old one…compared to this one.” Dr. Peres moved to a different table and indicated the smaller lower arm bone.
The bone had a jagged break that ran across the bone. “This happened pretty close to death. And this particular break on the ulna usually indicates a defensive wound.” She lifted her arms and crossed them in front of her face as if protecting her head. “Imagine defending yourself against a swing from a baseball bat. Where is the impact going to be?”
Mason nodded. Her visual worked very well for him. “But how do you know it didn’t happen while transporting the bones? Old bones have got to be brittle. I wouldn’t think it’d take much to accidentally break one.”
Dr. Peres smiled and picked up the thin arm bone. “Every break tells me a story. See here?” She ran a gloved finger along the break. “See the darkness? It’s a stain from the bleeding because of the break. The broken ends would be a lighter color than the outer bone if it happened during the recovery or transport because there would be nothing to seep in and stain the break. And see how notched the broken surface is? When fresh bone breaks, the ends are jagged and angled. When a bone breaks long after death, the break is almost flat, because the bone is brittle…like a dry stick snapping. Ever try to break a green tree branch? It’s a jumbled mess. A fresh stick will never break cleanly. Same with bone.”
Mason blinked, remembering his attempts to break some small tree branches to roast marshmallows with while camping. It’d been a disaster. He’d used an ax to finish the job. “So someone took a bat or mallet to him, and he tried to protect himself?”
Nodding, Dr. Peres gently laid the bone back in its place. “He was hit with something hard. And his skull shows three blows that are perimortem…close to time of death. I can’t tell you what the weapon was other than it was large and blunt. The imprints on the skull are too large to be a hammer.” She lifted the skull, showing Mason three impact sites with radiating fractures.
“Were those enough to kill him?”
“Easily.”
Had the man been beaten to death?
“But I don’t think that’s what killed him.” She rotated the skull and showed him a small circle at the back of the skull. “This is probably your cause of death.”
“Christ,” muttered Mason. “Entry or exit wound?”
“Entry,” stated Dr. Peres. “See how there’s no beveling of the bone around the wound? Entry bullet holes are flat around the holes. The bevel is inside. I didn’t find an exit wound or the bullet. It either exited through the eye or never exited at all.” She frowned. “Though I would have found the bullet if it had stayed inside.”
Mason made a few notes. “Do the others have gunshot wounds?”
“Three of the skulls do,” answered Dr. Campbell.
“Do you have ages for the rest of them?”
“They’re all in the same age range,” said Dr. Peres. “Three are white, two African American.”
Mason looked up from the notes he was scribbling. “Oh? An equal-opportunity killer?”
Dr. Campbell’s eyes narrowed. “Does the race matter?”
“Usually killers will stick to one race. Not always but more often than not.”
“I prefer the word ancestry over race,” added Dr. Peres.
Mason held up his hands. “I just want to find who did this. Sorry I’m not the most PC person in the world. Frankly, I can’t keep up with what’s okay to say and what’s not. But yes, a pattern in the type of victims does help direct us to the killer.” He met both women’s gazes. “Now. Tell me how you can tell someone is black…African American…whatever. He’s been killed, and I want to find the murderer.”
The women exchanged a glance, and Dr. Campbell picked up the closest skull. “Common to African Americans is the wide nasal opening and the rectangular eye orbits.”
“Rectangular? Seriously?” Mason asked.
Dr. Peres picked up a different skull. “See? This one is Caucasian.”
Sure enough, the other skull had eye openings that looked more angular.
“There are many things to take into account when determining race,” said Dr. Campbell. “But the nose is one of the most useful.”
In Mason’s opinion, the noses were f*cking gone. All that was left were holes. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Damn it.” He dug the phone out. It was the same unknown phone number from before. The senator.
“Callahan,” he answered, avoiding eye contact with Dr. Peres. No doubt he was getting the evil eye for answering his phone in the middle of her lecture.
“Detective, I thought I’d save you some time. I made some calls and tracked down the arrest record of the man I told you about earlier.”
Already? Mason couldn’t get results that fast.
“I’m having a copy e-mailed to you. The man’s name was Jules Thomas.”
“Thank you, Senator. I’ll look it over.”
“Glad to be of help.” The senator signed off.
Mason slipped his phone back in his pocket, shaking his head. The man knew how to get things done. Fast.
“Senator?” asked Dr. Campbell. “Senator Brody?”
“Yes, your ex-boyfriend’s father. He dug up some information for me.” He didn’t volunteer more information. Dr. Campbell personally knew the senator and his son. If she had questions, she could ask them.
“I’ve enjoyed the anthropology lesson, but I need to head back to the office.” Mason touched the brim of his hat. “I look forward to your reports, Dr. Peres. As soon as we can figure out who these skeletons are and match them to missing persons’ records, we’ll figure out who did this to them. And who did it to that bus full of kids, too. Goodbye, Dr. Campbell.”
He kept his walk to a steady pace as he exited the operatory. Pushing open the door to the outside heat, he inhaled deeply three times.
Fresh, clean air.
Michael did a double tap on the desk bell for the second time. Jamie glanced around the small room. The little town’s only hotel turned out to be a bed-and-breakfast two buildings down from the restaurant. The house was charming, but it had that old lived-in smell to it. The one where you figure the carpets have been vacuumed twice a day but not cleaned in several years.
Michael looked ready to jump the counter and check them in himself. Jamie put a hand on his arm. “The woman at the sheriff’s office said to keep hitting the bell because the guy’s a little hard of hearing.”
Michael’s answer was to whack the bell again. Finally, a muffled voice came from upstairs.
“What’d he say?” Michael asked.
Jamie shrugged. “Beats me. But at least he heard us.”
Someone came slowly thumping down the stairwell. The cadence of the steps was odd, unrhythmic. A gray-haired man smiled at them as he rounded the corner. One of his legs was slightly shorter than the other and didn’t bend. Jamie responded to his contagious grin as he limped behind the counter.
“Well, you must be the two Sara called me about. She said you’d be checking in. You from Portland?”
The power of small towns.
“Yes. That’s us,” she replied. “Are you Chuck?”
His brown eyes beamed. And Jamie fell in love. If she could remember her grandfather, this is who she’d want him to be like. Smiley and kind. “I am. And I’ve got your room all ready for you.”
“That’s great,” said Michael, bending to grab his bag. “We’re bushed.”
Jamie froze. “Wait—”
Green eyes and brown eyes looked quizzically at her. The green ones twinkling innocently.
“We need two rooms,” she pleaded.
Chuck’s face fell. “Oh…well. Then we’ve got a problem. I’m full up.”
“Full? The whole place is full? I thought this town rarely got any visitors,” grinned Michael.
“Now, that’s true. But I’ve only got five rooms. And four are full. It’s kind of a busy week for me. The Hensens have relatives in town but no room to put them, so they take up two of my rooms. Jordeen Gold’s mother-in-law is here, but she won’t sleep at Jordeen’s because Jordeen is her son’s second wife, and she’s still rather partial to the first.” Chuck ticked off the rooms on his fingers. “And Bill Norman has been staying for the last two nights since his wife kicked him out. I figure he’ll be here another two nights. That’s usually about her limit.” He looked up with a grin. “That leaves one for you.”
“Perfect,” said Michael. He leaned a little closer to Chuck. “Jamie just didn’t want the town getting the wrong idea…seeing as we’re not married and all. But you seem like an understanding kind of guy.”
Jamie wanted to elbow him. “We don’t want to put you out. Is there somewhere else where one of us can stay?”
“You ain’t putting me out.” Chuck patted her arm. “That’s my job. And I’m the only place to stay for thirty miles. Unless you feel like camping.”
Jamie’s stress level was floating somewhere close to the ceiling. A night alone in a room with Michael Brody. Hormones had been bouncing between them since they met, and now they were going to be trapped in a small space with a bed?
Wait a minute. What the hell was she worrying about? She took a few deep breaths. She was a grown woman, not a teenager. This man had been flipping all her switches into the on position for the last two days, and now she had a chance to be alone with him. This was an opportunity, not a situation to run from. She needed to look at this differently.
Peeking from the corner of her eye, she saw Michael was pleased with the arrangement. Why didn’t this sort of situation stress men?
She needed to start thinking like a man.
If she wanted something from a man, she needed to show him. Or ask him.
What’s he gonna do? Say no?
She doubted it.
“Well,” said Chuck slowly. “I do have the attic room. I don’t rent it out during the summer because the air-conditioning doesn’t—”
“That’ll work. We’ll take it, too.” Jamie exhaled as her argument with her inner vixen suddenly became meaningless. She had her own room. Disappointment surged, surprising her. An opportunity had slipped through her fingers. But more so, she was missing out on taking a chance. She rarely risked anything. But she’d nearly talked herself into risking…risking what? A moment of embarrassment when he refused? Losing out on one of the hottest nights she’d ever experience? How often did men like Michael Brody come along?
This was the first time in her life.
Would there be a second chance?
God, she was confused.
Beside her, Michael’s shoulders shook in a silent chuckle, as if he knew what was going through her mind. She glared at him. “Michael will take the attic.”
Chuck was cool. Michael liked the old man a lot. He’d given Michael a wink as they’d headed up the stairs to the rooms.
“I need a few minutes to check out the attic room,” said Chuck. “I’m gonna let you guys wait in the first room. I’ll go open the windows up in there, but it’s gonna be hot. You better give it some time to cool off.” He handed Michael the key. A real key. Not a key card. “I was just putting a bottle of wine in here when you guys showed up. It’s still cold. Enjoy.” Chuck closed the door behind him, and Michael heard his uneven steps trudge up another set of stairs.
“Perfect,” said Jamie. “I need some wine.” She picked up the bottle, glanced at the label, and deftly used the opener to slide out the cork. She poured a large glass and raised a brow at Michael in question. He nodded and she poured a second glass, handing it to him.
The room was clean, and the king bed looked comfortable. The decor was dated and faded, but Michael could not care less.
Jamie’s wine vanished. She refilled her glass and disappeared into the bathroom. Michael could hear her banging little makeup jars and brushes and shampoo bottles and whatever else women traveled with. She would probably come out in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, even though it was ninety degrees outside. And then send him to his hundred-degree room.
Michael sighed, set down his wine, and flopped on the king bed, tucking his arms under his head. Tomorrow they would talk to Chris and hopefully find out some leads on what happened to Daniel. There was nothing more he could do about it tonight. Thinking endlessly about it wasn’t helping; time to put it aside and pay attention to what was in front of him.
Jamie.
What did he want from this woman?
Sex.
Was that all?
He frowned. No. Not even close.
His body was craving sex. That was obvious. He simply had to be in her presence and he felt his hormones hit overdrive. But he wanted more than that. Michael studied the ceiling. He wanted that part that came after, too. The part where you wake up the next morning and roll over to pull the woman closer to you, knowing neither of you had to leave. The part that sits on the back deck and drinks coffee together, sharing the Sunday newspaper, and discussing where to vacation next.
He could still hear that overpowering voice that’d spoke in his head the first day he’d seen her. The one that’d told him to hang on to this woman. End statement.
Now…how did he let her know? Without her walking out on him or laughing in his face?
Aw, f*ck. He was in deep.
And she had the shovel.
He couldn’t blow it tonight. He patted his pocket, checking for his cell phone, feeling an urge to call Lacey and get her advice.
How would it look to Jamie if she came out and he was on the phone with another woman? Not cool.
Think, Michael. WWLD? What would Lacey do?
Lacey would talk. She’d say exactly what was on her mind to Jamie.
He could do that. Just filter out the sex stuff.
He wanted to know what Jamie was thinking. They’d had several moments where he felt like she’d let her guard down and spoken to him like she’d known him forever. And several moments where the hormones were off the charts.
Lacey would tell him to simply ask Jamie how she felt.
No problem. He sat up, feeling clearer in the head, ready to talk.
The bathroom doorknob turned.
Michael took a deep breath.
Why hadn’t Chuck left a bottle of vodka?
It’s now or never.
She’d had a second chance dumped in her lap when Chuck said he needed to check the attic room. Only a stupid girl would ignore it. Jamie held her breath as she reached for the bathroom doorknob. She’d spent the last five minutes arguing with herself—and finishing that second glass of wine—as she changed into the black bra and matching thong that she’d coincidentally packed.
Some coincidence. She’d known exactly why she’d thrown that black duo in her bag. Because she might end up in a hotel room with Mr. Hottie. And here she was.
The only thing holding her back was herself. She was certain he wouldn’t turn her down. She’d caught him staring at various parts of her body multiple times, and he’d been putting out that protective vibe since her house was trashed. She could almost smell the pheromones.
Today had been one of the most stressful days of her life. There was someone back in Portland, looking for Chris, desperate enough to attack her in her home. But putting nearly an entire state between them and the attacker felt good, and being close to Michael made her feel safe. Tomorrow he’d help her find her brother, but tonight…
He’d held her hand.
That’s what’d touched her the most and made her melt inside. When he’d taken her hand at dinner with the sheriff as they talked about her nephew, she’d wanted to curl up on his lap and bury her head in his neck.
But tonight she wasn’t seeking comfort. She wanted a taste of the wild ride that the man promised. It leaked out of every pore of his body. Pure testosterone pumped up with smooth male confidence.
What was the worst that could happen? He f*cked her and never called? Yes, that would suck, but she’d live. And probably have a memorable night.
Damn it, she wanted that memorable night.
She wanted it bad. Bad enough to make her step outside her comfort zone. She wanted to be a different woman tonight. Not Principal Jacobs. Not perfectly neat and organized Jamie who didn’t take a step without a plan.
She looked in the mirror and ran her hands over flat abs. Boobs looked good. A thong made almost every ass look good. She could feel the wine warming her limbs, giving her the courage she needed. She wanted Michael Brody and was about to let him know it. She lifted her chin and opened the door.
He stared.
A goddess had emerged from the bathroom and stood in front of him in black lace. Her chin lifted, and she held his gaze, inviting and fearless.
He had no voice. He reached out to touch one thigh and pulled back. He needed to simply look some more, mentally soak in the sight. Jamie was all smooth skin and long limbs, with legs that didn’t end. She brushed her hair over one shoulder and his heart nearly stopped.
“Sweet mother of pearl. You are smoking hot.”
Her laugh warmed his heart.
“What are you doing?” he choked out. She looked ready to go several rounds in bed with him. And he’d just talked himself into having a conversation with her.
His brain shifted mental gears. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Don’t say anything. I don’t want you talking yourself out of this.”
Jamie’s lips turned up. “You’re learning me well. Because if I overthink this, I’ll be back in that bathroom in a heartbeat, and I’ll put all my clothes back on.” A touch of nervousness appeared in her gaze.
And if he made a wrong move, she’d run.
“God, woman. I want you so much at this moment, I think I’m about to explode.”
The nervous light in her eyes evaporated.
“While you were in the bathroom, I convinced myself to spend our evening talking about our feelings.”
Her eyebrows arched.
“I know. Stupid, huh?” This time he did touch her thigh. Silky. Just like he’d known it’d feel.
“You have feelings to tell me about?”
“Oh yeah.” He placed both palms on her thighs, staring at the skin under his fingers. I want to feel you everywhere.
“Michael. Really. What did you want to talk to me about?”
He blinked. And looked up into questioning light green eyes.
Talk to her.
He didn’t want to talk right now. Every thought except one had blown clear out of his brain. He scrambled to get his thoughts together and removed his hands from her legs, because the feel of her skin was short-circuiting his mind even more. She sat on the bed beside him, holding his gaze, and reached for his hand. Hers were slightly damp. This close, he could smell the wine from her mouth.
He licked his lips.
He’d read somewhere that women were turned on by what they heard? And men by what they see?
Too true.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he started. “I want this. I want what you’re…offering. I’ve wanted that from the first time I saw you at the door at your house. You’re the full package, you know? Brains, beauty, and some balls.”
She scowled slightly.
“That’s a compliment.” He wiped at his forehead. Compliment? “I mean, you went through some tough shit and came out great.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“Ah, f*ck me. Damn it. You’d think I don’t know how to talk.” He grabbed both her hands, turned toward her, and looked at her in earnest. “Listen. You do it for me, princess. In an amazing way. You get me hot with one look, but that’s not all of it. I don’t want just that. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and stretch out a leg and feel yours against it. I want to open my bathroom cabinet and see your makeup next to my stuff. When I pour my coffee in the morning, I want to pour two cups.”
She simply blinked at him.
“I want to know your opinion on the next election and that stupid kid beauty pageant TV show and if you like Indian food.” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if you like to travel or see movies or go camping, but I want to find out! What I’m saying is that I like you, Jamie. A lot. I don’t want to just have an awesome night of sex—and it will be awesome—I want to keep moving forward. Does that make sense?”
A wicked gleam touched her eyes and she smiled. “Perfect sense. You’re saying I’m not a one-night stand.” She touched the collar on his shirt and then the skin just below it, her gaze following her fingers.
Fire lit at his neck and shot downward.
He lunged forward and kissed her.
She met him kiss for kiss, and the next few minutes flew by in a flurry of hands and mouths. Tugging at clothing, undoing hooks, grasping at bedding as they flung back the covers to get bare skin on cool sheets. He moved her back against the mattress and stretched out beside her, touching every inch of that silky skin of hers with his own. She clung to him, gripping as she rubbed her thighs against his, her chest pressed tight to his.
He wasn’t done talking with her, but there would be time to talk later. She ran her nails through his hair, and his body lit up like fireworks. He continued his deep assault on her mouth as they rolled on the bed, taking turns for control. His hands traced her smooth skin, touching and memorizing every dip and curve. It was fast and hungry, no calm, soothing sex here. He felt like a starving man.
And Jamie was delicious.
He pulled back and stopped, holding her at arm’s length, pinned against the mattress, so he could look his fill. Her eyes were dark and her pupils dilated, her lips open and wet, her chest heaving as she paused. Her gaze held his, saying she was giving him a moment to look but not much more. Something possessive gripped him.
“It’s not just sex,” he repeated. He needed to know she truly understood before this went further.
“I know.” The pulse at her neck throbbed.
Her leg shifted between his, stroking his rigidity with her thigh. Michael tried not to moan. Instead, he bent his head to her breast and took her nipple gently between his teeth, teasing the silky tip with his tongue. She hissed and clutched at him. The scent of her skin shot heat down his spine and put every hormone in overdrive.
There wasn’t time. He parted her with a hand, stroking her, and found her slick wetness, which nearly made him release on her stomach. She pressed a condom into his hand. He ripped it open and sheathed himself as her knees came up and her head tipped back. He pressed against her and slid deep.
Their bodies arced together, their pace frantic and feverish. It was mindless, hormone-driven sex. Exactly what he’d needed and apparently she’d needed too. She scratched his back, and the small pain magnified his anticipation. White lights danced behind his eyelids as he heard her gasp, felt her clamp and pulse around him. His tension built.
Michael came, his brain and spine exploding with sensations.
Later, he wrapped his arms around her, relishing the feel of her skin pressed against him. She’d drifted off, but he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to relinquish the moment. He wanted to stretch it out as long as possible, savoring the intimacy they’d shared. He still wanted more, more of everything she had to offer him. Physical, emotional, and mental. He was keeping Jamie around for the long haul.
But he couldn’t wait to pour two cups of coffee in the morning.