Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter #1) by Melinda Leigh
CHAPTER ONE
Death never took a holiday.
Rogue County Special Investigator Seth Harding parked his cruiser and stepped out into the gravel lane that led to the recreation area. A light snowfall the night before had coated the region in an inch of white powder. Snow clung to fir trees and covered dormant grass. Like most of southwestern Oregon, the scenery was postcard beautiful—except for the small group of uniforms gathered around the dead body.
The parking area and the open space between the lot and the body were marked off with cones and crime scene tape. Seth walked past the medical examiner’s van and a half-dozen patrol vehicles lined up along the lane. Tires grated as a county forensics van pulled in behind Seth’s cruiser. He preferred to be one of the first on scene, but the forty-five-minute drive from his small town of Solitude to the crime scene in the county seat of Hannon had set him back.
Standing next to his patrol vehicle, Deputy Phil Harrison waved him over. “Seth! Good to have you back.” In his late twenties, Phil was a hard worker with ambition. A snowflake landed on the wide brim of his campaign hat.
“Thanks.” Despite the tragic nature of the case, Seth was glad to be back in the Major Crimes division. He’d spent most of the previous year on an interagency drug task force. The assignment had been good experience, but he’d missed investigating his own cases. In his soul he was a cop, not an administrator. Being a liaison had given him a headache, and the insane hours had been rough on his marriage. Seth and his wife had reconciled in September after a seven-month separation. Now that he had her back in his life, he wouldn’t let anything come between them again.
“What can you tell me, Phil?” Seth asked as they headed toward the remains.
“At seven thirty this morning, those three teenage boys were hotdogging on their ATVs when they spotted the dead woman.” Phil gestured toward the other side of the small park, where a public boat ramp provided access to the Rogue River. A deputy sat at a picnic table with three teenage boys dressed in orange and camouflage winter gear. Their ATVs were circled like wagons next to the Porta-John. Behind them the river flowed, moody and dark under a heavy gray sky. Seth’s temper matched the gloomy weather.
No one should die two days before Christmas. No one.
“It’s the first day of winter vacation, and they wanted to get out before the snow melted,” Phil continued.
Seth nodded. When he left the house, his seven-year-old daughter, Brianna, had already been suiting up to go outside, determined to scrape enough snow together to build a snowman. Snow in this region was a rare event and didn’t last long. Kids tried to make the most of it. He scanned the area. “Looks like they had a hell of a good time before they found her.”
To avoid destroying any more footprints, they skirted the open area. Overlapping circles of tire tracks crisscrossed the ground, obliterating the layer of snow. The sliding, knobby treads had torn up the grass and dirt, and a cluster of footprints leading toward the trees suggested the kids had dismounted to take a closer look at the body.
“Tire tracks and footprints will be a problem,” Phil said.
“Could it be Samantha Lyle?” Seth asked. The twenty-one-year-old waitress had gone missing after an argument with her boyfriend two months before. The most common hypothesis in the sheriff’s office was that her boyfriend had killed her but had been clever about disposing of her body.
“I doubt it,” Phil said. “This woman hasn’t been dead long.”
They approached the huddle of uniforms at the edge of the trees. Seth signed in with the deputy in charge of the logbook. Then he and Phil ducked under the yellow crime scene tape strung between the trees. People parted to give them room. A deputy was snapping pictures of the body from varying angles and distances. The Rogue County medical examiner crouched next to the remains, a folded black body bag and his field kit on the ground within reach.
Seth’s gaze dropped to the victim. Damn. Barely ten feet into the winter-bare woods, she lay facedown in the dirt under the spreading branches of an evergreen. A red jacket and a thin layer of snow made her look like an obscene package stuffed under a Christmas tree. Dead leaves and twigs matted long, dark hair that reminded Seth far too much of his wife. The gender of his victim shouldn’t make a difference, but it did to Seth. Violent crime always felt more offensive when women or children were involved.
“Hank?” Seth called to the ME.