“Hey, Panetta!” She smiled, glad to see him. “I knew they couldn’t keep you down for long.”
He cocked his head to the side with a self-effacing grin. “It’s my natural magnetism and charm. The brass reinstated me yesterday.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle of Tylenol, and popped two in his mouth, swallowing them dry.
Nearly fifty and lean, with a youthful countenance despite the gray in his dark hair, he was a handsome man. Today he had dark circles beneath those mischievous brown eyes. In the week since she’d seen him, he’d lost some weight, and was sporting a cut under his left eye that still shadowed a greenish-yellow bruise.
She said, “You’re not your usual Mr. GQ today. More like a Survivor contestant.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“You okay?”
“I spent the last three nights with my punching bag in the garage instead of sleeping.” He grinned wolfishly. “I’ve given it a name and drawn two beady eyes on it.”
“What’s the name?”
“Do you need to ask?”
She shook her head. “You’re still angry at Tucker?”
“He said things about Ellen.” His lips thinned. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”
She had no doubt that he could have delivered a mortal injury. He had served full-term in Army Special Ops and transferred to the FBI, where he’d worked for twenty years in Hostage Rescue. Because of family issues, he’d retired and moved to Medford. But, unwilling to adapt to retirement, he’d acquired a position with the Medford Homicide Detective Unit a little over a year ago. Just a few months before Riggs was diagnosed with stage-two melanoma. “I don’t blame you for decking him. I don’t think anyone does.” She cast a glance at the tan line that remained where a wedding ring had once been. Everyone knew Panetta’s wife had a drinking problem and had left him six months ago for a barfly who “had time for her.” Tucker, one of four homicide investigators, wasn’t known for his tact. “Tucker’s an ass. You did everyone a favor.”
“Tell that to the brass.” He shrugged. “They don’t appreciate me the way you do.”
She shook her head. “All things considered, you got off easy.”
“Yeah, well, your friendly journalist didn’t help matters. Did she say who fed her that story?”
“Oh, you met her today? She’s here?”
“Yes to both. Her pictures don’t do her justice.”
Riggs smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman, even when she’s in the trenches. I thought you might notice.”
“Who wouldn’t? So, I’ve been meaning to ask. You weren’t her source, then? For the story she wrote about me?”
“No, of course not! I don’t rat out fellow cops.”
He nodded. “I didn’t think so. Kind of odd, you two being friends. How does that work? With your jobs, I mean?”
“Very carefully. As to her writing about you, that’s your own fault. You and Tucker didn’t pick a very private place to go at each other … right there in front of the ticket window.”
He shrugged.
Then, changing the topic, Panetta pointed to the nearly severed foot. “Cinderella didn’t make out so well this time.”
“No kidding. Speaking of Cinderella, the vic’s shoe is a Sergio Rossi, Italian and expensive. I looked it up on my cell. This woman was either wealthy or she had a sugar daddy.”
He eyed the shoe, a dark frown suddenly appearing.
“Something wrong?”
“Could be.” He walked around to the head of the grave. “If I were a betting man, I think I’d win on this hunch. It’s not gonna be good. But we won’t know until we dig her out.”
“What hunch?”
“Naw … I like to hedge my bets. Let’s just say my being here is not a coincidence.”
Riggs knew him well enough not to expect an answer. It had to be something big if he was back to work already. Decisions from on high were not revoked easily. “Okay. Any details from the witness yet?”
“Mr. Wolcott took a shot at the bear and wounded him, which is why we still have a body.” He turned and pointed to the tree next to him. “Looks like the bullet splintered the tree here.” His gaze traveled to another pine six feet away. “Probably ended up over there.”
At the sound of footsteps crunching the leaves underneath, they turned and saw Sergeant Detective Blackwell of the sheriff’s department lumbering their way. He ignored the crime tech crew setting up equipment for a grid search and walked directly toward her.
In his late fifties, potbellied with a pockmarked jaw and gravelly voice, Blackwell was a transplant from Texas. The drawl made people underestimate the man. He had a law degree and was often asked to help with chain-of-evidence procedures. The guy could be teaching or practicing law, but he preferred the grit and grime of detective duties. And his ailing mother lived nearby in Jacksonville.
Riggs had worked with Blackwell the past year at the sheriff’s department, where the ME’s offices were located. She respected his intelligence, and he had a decent sense of humor. He’d supported her during chemo by shaving his head.
He tipped his hat, revealing a full head of silver hair. “Riggs … Panetta.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and clenched it in his moustached mouth. At her frown, he said, “I’m not smokin’, just chewin’. Don’t want to pollute the crime scene, and I know how you feel about secondhand smoke.”
Blackwell turned his penetrating stare on Panetta. “I coulda sworn you were off duty. Been reinstated?”
Panetta sighed. “Apparently.”
Puzzled, Blackwell said, “I heard you weren’t comin’ back until next month.”
“My leave of absence was cut short.”
“Hmmm.” Blackwell motioned toward the body. “That’s an ugly business. You got an ETD yet?”
“I’m not sure.” She glanced at the grave. “Time of death is difficult to determine on this one. If the grave were deep enough, the chill in the ground would have preserved her like a refrigerator. But, from the smell, I don’t think that happened. It’s close enough to the road. It probably got full sun during most of the day. Could have worked like a fire pit and helped decomp the body. We’ll need to move her and get a temperature reading of the ambient air in the hole.” She reached down to the black kit bag resting at her feet. “Help me spread out the tarp, and you two can move the body.”
Riggs pulled two pairs of latex gloves from her bag and handed them to the guys.
Blackwell busted one of his gloves open. “Ah … damn.”
With a grin, she supplied another. “You’re a bull in a china shop.”
He accepted the glove with a smirk. “There’s lots of things I could say to that, but I’m not gonna.”
Too late, she realized her reference to a bull could be utilized as fodder for the male ego. “You’re a gentleman, Blackwell.”
While Riggs kept busy with her camera photographing their progress, the guys relocated the heavy stones to a nearby tarp. The crime lab unit would painstakingly sift through the pile later.
Pausing for a breather, Panetta asked Blackwell, “Are you point man on this one?”
“Yep. It’s county jurisdiction. We’ve already established that MADIU is takin’ the case. Detectives are canvassin’ the campgrounds now. We got a temporary command center set up at the ranger station. We’re gonna hitch up there in an hour.” He chewed the tip of his cigar, dark eyes questioning. “You up for it?”
The inference that Panetta might not be at peak performance probably hit home hard. The sting was barely perceptible—only a clenched jaw.
MADIU was Jackson County’s Major Assault and Death Investigation Unit. The interagency group was county-wide and worked diligently with the DA’s office to bring cases to trial. Because the agencies all cooperated—most of the time—they had a high clearance rate.
Panetta challenged Blackwell’s penetrating gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
After a long moment, Blackwell shrugged. At least he
had the decency not to bring up the fight. Turning to Riggs, he asked, “Has the ME been notified?”
She nodded. “I called Dr. Weldon an hour ago. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I’ll x-ray the vic late tonight at Rogue Community Hospital. The x-ray staff complained about the offensive smell of decomposing bodies during prime hours.”
Blackwell scowled. “Can you get the results to me by tomorrow noon? You’d think an x-ray machine would be priority for the ME’s office. Stinkin’ budget cuts. Well, Panetta, you can buddy with Riggs during the autopsy.”
Panetta flinched.
For a trained special ops guy, he was awfully squeamish, Riggs thought, not for the first time. When she had asked him about it months ago, he’d simply said the whole autopsy process was distasteful to him, like watching someone getting scalped. He preferred hand-to-hand combat any day.
He made no mention of that now. “Sure. I could use a good diversion. Sign me up.”
That settled, Blackwell shoved the cigar to the corner of his mouth and bent to the job at hand.
After a few minutes of rock removal, Blackwell heaved a large stone, then straightened and stretched his lower back. “It’s hotter’n hell out here.” Face flushed, he leaned over, resting his hands on his knees.
Another few minutes and Riggs feared he’d pass out in the heat.
Unable to just stand by and watch, she helped with the smaller rocks.
They worked in silence, each preparing with weary anticipation for whatever lay beneath Mother Nature’s carpet. Riggs shared their natural reluctance to view the dead woman’s cast-off remains, abandoned for insects and wild animals to consume. Over the past year she had analyzed that aspect of death as well. What to do with her body. Cremate it or bury it or place it in a mausoleum above ground. She’d chosen a dignified sienna bronze casket with a velvet rose interior. The thought of burning her body to ashes horrified her, and any hack could break into a mausoleum. No, eight feet under in a respectable, nonrusting bronze casket was the ticket. Now, seeing this poor woman, tossed into the dirt like garbage in a landfill, she imagined herself slung into that hole, beneath the dirt and rocks, with slimy creatures dining out on her flesh.
With renewed energy, Riggs heaved rocks. “Let’s get her out of there.”
Sweaty and miserable, they removed the last of the rocks and debris. The corpse, shrouded in dirt and leaves, lay facedown wearing what had once been white capri pants and a red halter top, her long dark hair a tangled mass. With a collective sigh, they shared an unspoken relief that the victim had not been hacked to pieces by some freak, and there were no obvious signs of torture.
Riggs knelt by her black bag and retrieved the thermometer. “The grave is relatively shallow. Makes me think the perp wasn’t familiar with the area. There’re a lot of mountains and hills around here that aren’t embedded with river rock he could have used.”
With a swipe from the back of his arm, Blackwell cleared the sweat from his brow. “I’m bettin’ he saw the dead-end sign and figured this was about as deserted as he was gonna find.”
“What about the campground?” Panetta asked. “It’s not that far away.”
“In the dead of night,” Blackwell said, “I’m thinkin’ the joker assumed this was remote enough, ’cause he didn’t know it’s a popular fishin’ spot. Means he’s no outdoorsman.” He studied the body. “She clear enough to hoist her to that tarp?”
“Yes.” Riggs leaned forward, ready to get the ambient temperature of the grave as soon as the body was lifted out.
“Shoo.” Blackwell knelt at the head of the grave as a warm gust of wind from the approaching storm stirred up dust and whistled through the tree branches. The stench of decomposing flesh whirled around them. “This one is ripe! Let’s get on with it.”
Stone-faced, Panetta positioned himself at the vic’s feet and grabbed hold just above the broken ankle. “Ready.”
“On the count of three,” Blackwell said. “One, two, three …”
In unison, they easily moved the vic, who couldn’t have weighed more than 115 pounds. They rolled her onto her back. She was slender, though her abdomen was swollen with decomposing gases. Riggs estimated about five foot seven, approximately forty years old. She wore large gold hoop earrings, and several expensive diamonds still graced her hands. Robbery was definitely not the motive. Riggs thought she might have been quite beautiful when she was alive. As she had suspected, bugs had found a way to start feeding on the cadaver’s flesh.
“This is not good,” Panetta said. He bent forward, peering down at the vic.
Waiting for a reading on the thermometer, Riggs glanced up at his tone. “What?”
“Do you know somethin’ we don’t?” Blackwell asked, uneasy.
“I hope I’m wrong.” Panetta pointed to the vic. “But I think this is Niki Francis.”
“The actress?” Riggs asked, incredulous. Her gaze darted back to the bloated face, the lavender flesh. It held little resemblance to the famous actress who had quietly moved into the Southern Oregon foothills five years ago.
He nodded. “That’s why I was reinstated early. The captain contacted me yesterday with orders to investigate a high-priority missing persons report.”
Blackwell shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth and moved in closer to the vic, peering at her face. “What makes you think this is Niki Francis?”
“Her housekeeper said she’d been gone for a few days, but hadn’t reported it because Niki sometimes disappeared without telling anyone. But when she didn’t return her manager’s calls from LA and didn’t show up for a new movie she was filming in New York, the manager called the police station to voice her concerns.”
“And the brass called you?” Blackwell asked.
Panetta nodded. “The possibility of an abduction for ransom crossed their minds, or some wacked-out fan. My history with the FBI came into play.”
“That explains your bein’ here,” Blackwell said. “So what’d you find out?”
“I checked her phone records. There’s been no activity for four days. No banking action either. The last ping on her phone and her car’s OnStar alarm was about ten miles up the road, at Applegate Lake. At first I thought she might be staying in a cabin nearby. I did some investigating and came up empty. Now I’m thinking the car and the phone are both probably underwater.”
Blackwell asked, “How come I didn’t hear about this sooner?”
“The brass insisted on containment until I had more information. I was putting together a team with the canine unit to search the area when the possible homicide was reported.”
“Holy shit.” Blackwell glared down at Riggs. “I’ve changed my mind. The media is gonna be all over us. Get that housekeeper or somebody to ID the body. Dental records. Whatever. And to hell with the hospital staff; I need that autopsy ASAP.”
CHAPTER
4
FIVE MINUTES UP the trail, and the hair on the back of Whit’s neck stood on end. Even the suffocating heat didn’t relieve the icy chill of her skin.
Sounds of the river reverberated off the mountain in whispered echoes, amplified by the vast forest. A shadow passed across her face and she flinched, glancing up. Flying low over the trees, an osprey glided past, its six-foot wingspan cast dark shadows across the green foliage like something prehistoric. The bird of prey had a fish in its talons, still dripping water from the river. It circled wide, emitting loud, panting screeches like a monkey, then landed in a nest at the top of a tall pine.
She shivered and moved on. With all the excitement down on the road and the threat of a bear, she’d not passed a single soul on the trail. No diversion to dispel the rising terror. It was like an emotional assault from all sides.
Faced with yet another bend in the trail that led higher up the mountain, she stopped short, paralyzed with overwhelming dread.
Her breath came fast and shallow, ears drumming with the pulse of her pounding heart.
The sky crys
tallized into shards of sparkling blue through the canopy of trees. The bird’s caw transformed into an eerie cry for help. Pine and spruce trees pressed in on her. The air seeped, damp and cloying, into her lungs.
With eyes squeezed shut, she began to count.
Deep breath in … one … two … three … four … five, breath out slowly. Deep breath in …
Oh God …
“Run, Whit!” John whispered in her ear, pushing her ahead of him.
She leaped forward, but after only a dozen racing steps, she heard the single shot, and turned to see the spray of blood erupt from John’s head. She watched his body fall limply to the forest floor, still gasping for air.
Rushing to his side, she huddled over him, frantically trying to stem the pulsing blood.
A kick in the ribs sent her rolling into the underbrush, the air knocked from her lungs. Viciously hauled by her hair back to the trail, she fought, arms flailing against her attackers.
A fist like a sledgehammer split her lip.
Her face crushed into the grainy trail. Spitting blood and dirt, she tried to crawl back to John.
Another kick flipped her onto her back, her head cracking against a rock …
Sensing sunlight on her face, Whit opened her eyes and found herself crouching on the trail. With each breath, the scent of pine nauseated her.
Just like Korangal Valley … the Valley of Death.
Lurching to her feet, she leaned over a fallen log and vomited the burger she’d eaten an hour before. She heaved until her stomach was completely empty.
Wiping her mouth with a trembling hand, she turned and sat on the log.
Eight months ago, her assignment with the Los Angeles Times had been to report on the liberation, or lack thereof, for women in Kabul and northern Afghanistan. Her husband, a freelance photographer, agreed to go on the assignment with her while their daughters were vacationing in Oregon with her parents. The risks were minimal. But on their third day they were kidnapped in Kabul by al-Qaeda extremists who had bribed their interpreter. They were whisked away in a taxi to Korangal Valley in northeastern Afghanistan.
A Desperate Place Page 3
