The Hidden

“I do. He and the others are with Lieutenant Gray. They’re heading to the morgue to examine the remains that were discovered up on the mountain.”


“Ah, okay,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say, so she asked, “Can I get you something to eat?”

“No, I ate on the plane, but feel free to get yourself something. Once you’re done, I would love to see your museum. I understand it holds an extensive weapons collection.”

“It does—except that it’s not here at the moment. The police took all our weapons. Except—”

“Yes, I know. You’re missing an 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver,” Adam said. “Most probably the murder weapon.”

“Someone must have broken in here and stolen it,” she said.

“They won’t now,” he assured her. “Not only do you have an alarm system, but we know exactly where all the keys are—with us.”

“Didn’t Ben ask for a key?” she asked. “He does own the property.”

“We asked him not to for the time being,” he told her. “Go on. Grab yourself some breakfast. While you eat, I’ll bore you with the story of my life.”

“I doubt any story about you could be boring.”

He smiled at that. “It all depends on what you’re willing to believe.”

*

The fact that anyone could actually tell anything about the remains that had been found up on the mountain was mind-boggling to Diego.

There was virtually nothing left.

They didn’t see the medical examiner; they saw a woman named Tammy Vargo, who was a forensic anthropologist and bone specialist. She was a no-nonsense woman with iron-gray hair and sharp features, but she was happy to speak with them, pointing out everything she’d been able to discover about the dead man.

“There wasn’t enough soft tissue left to determine cause of death—probably because he was left out in the open. As the ME probably told you, there are no nicks or scratches on the bones, so it’s unlikely that he was stabbed. If he was shot, it was a through-and-through and, again, never even nicked a bone. He was in his midthirties, maybe six-two or six-three. He died sometime between two and six months ago, tops. I linked the fabric fragments to a designer brand available here in town and all across the country. He never had a cavity, so we won’t get any help from dental records. No fingerprints, of course. No breaks in any of the bones—guy never even broke a toe. My guess is that he froze to death—the tundra level gets very cold—but as to why he was caught out there that way, I don’t know. He could have been bound and left, but no evidence of rope or any other kind of cord or whatever turned up. I wish there was more I could tell but I can’t. This appears to be the skeleton of a man who—until his demise—was incredibly healthy.”

“Thank you anyway,” Diego told her. “It’s actually helpful to be able to rule things out.”

Matt added, “We have a forensic artist coming to do a likeness. I hope you don’t mind.”

“They aren’t my bones,” she said. “Somebody somewhere is probably missing him. If an artist can help ID him and bring someone peace, I’m all for it.”

As they were driving back to the ranch, Brett asked Diego, “Do you think that guy’s death could be related to the Parkers’ murders? People do climb mountains, and sometimes they die on them.”