Nalchek watched them close the doors of the van. “I should have been with him.”
“You couldn’t know there would be any trouble. Ron Carstairs could always take care of himself. Whatever happened must have been a complete surprise. You were the one in the woods and vulnerable to attack, John. Why would anyone think it necessary to go after Carstairs?”
“How the hell do I know?” Nalchek said roughly. “He didn’t know anything about the case. He didn’t even want to be here.”
“And how do you know this has anything to do with that little kid you dug up? It’s not likely, John. Who would be hanging around eight years after a killing? The murderer would think he was safe and go on his way. You always have to ask yourself why in a homicide. You said that someone had gone through Ron’s pockets and stolen some petty cash and ID from his wallet. Why are you discounting theft?”
“It looks like someone is trying to throw a red herring. Why risk killing a cop for that little cash? Everyone knows we don’t make that much money.”
“Then maybe it’s just someone who doesn’t like cops and saw Ron out here by himself and took advantage of an opportunity.”
John shook his head. “Weak, Dad. Very weak.”
“He liked women. Maybe one of the girls he picked up in a bar got jealous and decided to—”
“No.”
His father shrugged. “Just don’t ignore other possibilities. You’re the only one who thinks the discovery of that little girl’s body is of any lasting significance in the scheme of things.” He paused. “It’s been a rough night for you. Why don’t you come home with me, and we’ll have a drink.”
John shook his head. “I’ve got to go to see Ron’s sister, Clara, and break the news.”
“Later?”
“Maybe.” He doubted if he’d do it. His father wouldn’t be able to keep himself from sharing his own practical experience as sheriff, and usually John listened. But not this time. Practicality had nothing to do with what he was feeling right now, it was pure instinct. He looked away from him. “Thanks for coming out here when you heard about Ron. I appreciate it, Dad.”
“What’s family for?” He turned toward his truck, parked near the road. “If you need to talk, give me a call. Remember, the question is always why.”
John watched him walk away. Why? He thought he knew why Ron was dead, but he couldn’t explain or give reasons. No one believed that an eight-year-old murder of a child would cause this attack. Not even his own father.
But if it had anything to do with that kid, why would anyone attack Ron? He wasn’t working the case. He hadn’t even gone with him to the grave site.
He’d just have to think about it, and he couldn’t do that now. He had to think how he was going to break the news to Clara that her brother was dead.
He opened the driver’s door and got into the car.
And that wasn’t going to be easy. Clara didn’t have any family except Ron, and they were close. He wouldn’t be—
He inhaled sharply.
Holy shit.
He went still as he looked down at the passenger seat and the documents placed with order and clarity on the dark leather. Every page had been unfolded and was by itself so that it was readily viewed and accessible. None of the dossiers were in the folder where Ron had so carelessly tossed them.
The dossiers he had told Ron to go over when he left him to go into the woods.
And on the first page, Eve Duncan’s photo stared up at him.
*
“Eve?” Joe was standing at the front door. “Okay? I tried to phone you on the way home, and you didn’t answer.”
“What?” She shook her head to clear it. “I’m fine. Something must be wrong with my phone.” She was having trouble fighting her way out of the intense concentration into which she’d been drawn. “You’re home early.”