Jim Iverson’s log cabin was nestled against the side of the mountain. Fortunately, he had recently cleared the road up, or they might not have been able to make it. They pulled over at the bottom of the hill and waited for the state police to arrive. Once upon a time she would have chosen to take the lead on everything, but now she appreciated just how quickly everything could turn to shit, and she’d rather not be in the direct line of fire if she didn’t need to be.
“I really hope this will be painless.”
She didn’t realize she’d said anything until Jamison let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, me too. We haven’t had the best of luck with our last cases, have we?”
Her breath caught in her throat. She turned to look at him. They didn’t talk about what had happened. After months of avoiding him, she had tried to broach the subject, to apologize for what she’d done, and to say she was sorry for the part she had played in his wife’s death, but he had shut her down hard. He didn’t want to talk to her about anything other than the case at hand. She carried the apology ready to go, just in case, but looking at him now she realized she could never really make amends. Maybe that was part of her punishment.
There was nothing more to say so they sat in silence until the headlights of a police cruiser pulled up behind them.
She got out to greet them and flinched when a cold gust of air caught her cheeks.
Both of the officers looked like they were nearing retirement. The heavier one took off his glove to shake her hand. “Evening, folks. You’re a long way from home.”
“Yeah it was a bit of a trek. Thanks for meeting us. I’m Special Agent Jess Bishop and this is Special Agent Jamison Briggs.”
“I’m First Lieutenant Martin Wilson and this is Sergeant Paul Lewis. Just call me Martin. And you can call him Paul.” He pointed to his partner, who was pulling on the hood of his parka.
“Thanks, Martin.” Jamison reached across Jess to shake his hand. “Do you have the warrant?”
Martin patted the breast pocket of his thick winter coat. “Right here. But something tells me he won’t be asking to see it.”
Jess crossed her arms tight against her middle to try to conserve body heat. “What makes you say that?”
Martin pointed to the log cabin. “The fire’s not on. It’s too cold for him to be out here in this weather without the fire on.”
Jess’s shoulders slouched when she looked up at the chimney. They had driven for five hours across state lines and Iverson wasn’t even there.
As if he could read her mind, Jamison said, “We still have a search warrant for his house. It’s worth the trip for that.”
She nodded. “Yeah, true.”
She watched as the three men made their way up the hill to the cabin. She glanced down at the fresh layer of snow. In the pristine white was a set of fresh tracks. She squinted as she noted the overlay of wheel impressions. Someone, probably Iverson, had recently driven up the hill and back down again. She took out her phone and snapped a picture of the tracks because soon they would fill with fresh snow.
“The lights are on.” Jamison pointed at the window. “And it sounds like a TV or radio. Maybe he just went into town for a while and he’ll be back soon.”
Jess walked up the steps to the covered porch and peered in the window at the kitchen. One of the shaker-style doors had been left open and there were dirty dishes stacked in the sink.
“He must have left in a hurry,” Paul said. “Do you want to search the cabin before he gets back?”
“If he comes back,” Jess said. Anyone who could orchestrate such elaborate mind control and evade detection for this long was not stupid. Iverson probably realized he’d messed up for logging on from an unsecure server and took off. If he was smart, he would have a contingency plan worked out for this eventuality. They wouldn’t see him here again.
She took in a sharp breath when her palm connected with the icy handle. The metal was so cold it felt like it was burning her hand. To her surprise, the handle turned. “It’s not locked,” she said as she pushed the door open. “There’s something blocking it.” She held her breath as she gave a push.
“Jessie, look down.”
She glanced down at the knotty pine floorboards. A reddish-brown liquid welled between the deep grooves. “Oh shit. That’s blood.”
Sixteen
With one hard push, Jamison opened the door.
For a moment, everyone was too stunned to speak. Jess stared down at the blood-soaked rag rug and the lifeless body of Jim Iverson, his jaw slack and his tongue protruding. The left side of his face was unrecognizable: the exposed blood and muscle had been pulverized by a gunshot to the head.
“Oh my God. Is that his brain?” one of the police officers asked, but Jess didn’t answer because she was too busy examining the Beretta in Iverson’s hand. His hand was wrapped around the grip, his index finger pressed against the magazine release, not on the trigger.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood taut. It was possible for muscles to freeze into spontaneous rigor mortis at the time of death. If that was the case, Iverson’s finger would be on the trigger. If not, the gun would have fallen. And the shot was to the left side of his face. Only ten percent of the population was left-handed. She would have to check if he was, but it seemed far more likely that a right-handed assailant was facing him and shot him on the left side of his head. Anxious heat crept down her spine.
The suicide had been staged.
Everything from the position of the body to the placement of the gun felt off. She needed a medical examiner to officially confirm it, but she was certain. It just didn’t feel right. She was about to say something when Martin said, “Here’s the suicide note. He says everything is explained on his laptop.” He held up a sheet of lined paper.
Jess’s eyes narrowed on the paper. “Where did you find that?” she demanded. Her pulse spiked as unease spread through her. She tried to beat back the now familiar flood of paranoia but there was no holding it back. She was naturally suspicious of everyone and everything, but it was amplified now, her reactions more acute. It had to be because Jeanie was involved. She would not entertain the possibility that it was anything else.
“It was right here.” Martin pointed at the leather couch.
“You didn’t think to put on gloves? Now it has your prints all over it. Convenient.”
“Jessie.” Jamison’s dark brow raised in question.
Martin’s nostrils flared. “What does that mean?” he demanded.
Jess shook her head, surprised at her own rudeness. Admittedly, she wasn’t the best with interpersonal skills, but it wasn’t like her to be rude. And it really wasn’t like her to go about implying that fellow law enforcement officers were shady. “I’m sorry.”
Martin’s back remained rod-stiff, his face contorted in rage. “What exactly did you mean by that?”
Before she could answer, Jamison spoke, his voice low. “This is her first case back. We lost an agent on the last case, her best friend.”
Jess’s cheeks burned hot with mortification. Anger roiled in her stomach. He had no right to say anything or make excuses for her.
“I’m sorry,” Martin said. His face changed, the anger replaced with compassion. “I understand. Years ago, I lost my partner in a traffic stop gone wrong. I wasn’t the same for a long time after that.”
Jess didn’t know what to say so she looked away. She would rather he think she was rude and unprofessional than feel sorry for her. She knew what to do with the antipathy that came her direction, but compassion was something else entirely.
“We need to get crime scene investigators in and get the body to the morgue.” Jamison took over, organizing and giving orders, which gave Jess the opportunity to wander around the cabin and piece together what had been happening just before Jim Iverson died. She refused to think he had committed suicide but she conceded that Martin and Paul had nothing to do with it. Implying that they had was unprofessional. But something was o
ff: she could not shake the feeling that something bigger was at play. There were too many coincidences, and Jim Iverson’s death too convenient, but she couldn’t say it out loud, not in those words, unless she wanted people to think she had gone insane.
She glanced around the room. The embers of the fire still glowed red; it had only recently been put out. There was a used towel on the bathroom floor and the bed hadn’t been made. She took in every aspect of the cabin, taking pictures and making mental notes. Slowly her anger at Jamison dissipated. He had diffused a situation she had created. She couldn’t blame him for the way he had chosen to do it.
“Jessie,” Jamison called from behind her. “They’re here to take the body.”
She spun around to face him. “That was quick.”
“Not really. It’s been over an hour.”
She blinked. It had only felt like a few minutes. She had been so lost in her thoughts. “Did you get photos of his body? Of his hands?” The crime scene investigators would take pictures but she wanted her own.
“Of course. I’ve met you.”
“Thanks.”
They walked back into the main room. A technician stood bent over a white body bag. He zipped it and then stood up. Jess watched as they carried Iverson’s body to the stretcher and then down the hill.
Martin turned to them once the body was loaded. “Are you coming?”
She needed five minutes alone in the house but there was no way to ask for it without raising suspicion. “I just need a few minutes to… breathe… It’s hard, you know… seeing that… after, you know…” She let her voice trail off. She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand as she pretended to be on the verge of tears. It was a stab in the heart to realize she wasn’t above using Lindsay as an excuse. If she were a better person, she would have come up with another excuse, but somewhere between shooting Jamison and getting Lindsay killed, she had given up on being a good person. Now she settled for being a good agent.
The sheriff reached out and patted her shoulder. “That’s all right, darlin’, you take your time. We’ll just finish up here. You take all the time you need.”
She gave him a faint smile and then looked away. She waited until Iverson’s body was loaded up and taken away. Slowly the flurry of activity died down until it was just her and Jamison standing on the front porch. When she was sure everyone had left, she snapped on a pair of gloves and went back inside the lodge.
Jamison was two steps behind her. “What are you doing?”
She stood at the edge of the room and examined the bloodstains that had soaked into the rag rug. “He chose to come almost to his front door to commit suicide.”
“You’re not buying that.”
“No. Not at all. Look around. We are surrounded by woods. I could see him going outside to be with nature to do it. I could see him sitting in a chair or lying in his bed. I could see him doing it in the bathtub to make clean-up easier for whoever had the misfortune of finding him. We’ve seen all those scenarios. We’ve never seen someone lay out evidence, go to the front door, and then blow their brains out. Never.”
Jamison rubbed his jaw with his knuckles as he thought. “There’s a first for everything, Jessie. We’ve seen a lot of crazy stuff. This doesn’t begin to touch the sides.”
She thought he would say that. That was his job, to challenge her, make her think. That’s why they were a good team. “What about this?” She pointed to a small splotch on the door frame. That’s blood and it’s fresh. It could be transfer that happened when the killer staged the crime scene. You saw the way he was holding the gun. His finger wasn’t on the trigger.”
He gave it a long, hard look. “You can’t say that’s blood without testing it.”
She opened her bag, took out a swab, and rubbed it against the mark before she stuck it in an evidence bag.
“What are you doing? If you wanted that swabbed, you could have asked one of the technicians.”
“It’s not my fault they missed it.” She put the evidence bag back in her case.
“What’s going on with you, Jessie? Is this about Lindsay? What is it?”
Her back stiffened at the mention of her best friend’s name. They both had things they didn’t want to talk about, and Lindsay was on that list. “I’m just covering all my bases.”
He gave her a look that told her he wasn’t convinced but he didn’t press the issue any further.
“I need to check one more thing before we go and I need your help.”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What do you need?”
“I took a picture of the tread marks on the drive before everyone got here.”
“Of course you did.”
“It had just snowed so they were fresh tracks. I couldn’t not take a picture of them, could I? I want to check if they’re a match to Iverson’s car, but the garage is locked. I could pick it myself but you’re a lot faster, and I’m pretty sure you want to get home before dawn.”
“You can’t play me, Jessie. I’ve known you too long. We both know you know your way around a lock better than anyone.”
“Well, in that case, it’s only right you use the skills you acquired in your misspent youth. Consider it penance.”
His full lips hitched into a lazy smile. “Fine, but not because you tried to play me, because I want to get to sleep tonight.”
Jess felt herself smile, a genuine smile. For a flash of a second it felt like old times, the way they used to be. She looked away and reminded herself it could never really be the way it was. “Come on. Let’s get this done.”
She walked out to the porch and then down the steps. She had to lift her knees high in awkward, pronounced movements to wade through the fresh snow on the footpath that led to the garage. Iverson must have cleared the drive recently and piled the snow high on the sides.
Jamison followed a few steps behind her. An automatic light turned on when they reached the garage. She stood to the side to give Jamison room to work.
He knelt down in the snow. A second later, he looked up and smiled. “You didn’t need to sweet-talk me—it’s not even locked.” The wheels of the door screeched against the metal tracks as the door opened.
Inside there was a black Bronco parked beside a workbench full of woodworking tools and a piece of oak.
She knelt down to examine the tires. Her pulse crept higher as she examined the tread. “The tracks aren’t from this car.” She took out her phone to show him the pictures she’d taken. “Look: the car that left these tracks has a feathered tread. Now look at these. They’re like interlocking bricks.”
Jamison looked from the phone to the car and then back again. “Dang it, Jessie.”
“So, you see it?”
“That our case just got a hell of a lot more complicated? Yeah, I see it.”
Seventeen
Jess glanced out her office window. Frozen rain pelted against the glass. She picked up her phone to look at the pictures she’d taken at Jim Iverson’s cabin. A message flashed up to alert her she had two missed calls from Jeanie. She sighed. It was too early to return the call but she didn’t know what to tell her anyway. More than anything she didn’t want to let her down. With every case came a pressure to do what was right by the victims and their families, but she felt it more acutely now. The memory of Jeanie crying flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes and pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think about that now; she had to focus on the case.
She opened up the picture of the tread marks she’d found. She squinted as she examined the pattern. Snow and dim lighting made the impressions more difficult to see but they were definitely there, and the more she looked at them, the less she could deny they looked like the winter tires of a Ford SUV, the same as the cars her team used. And the same car that many agents within the bureau drove.
It wasn’t definitive proof of anything, but it did raise more uncomfortable questions. She rubbed her sore eyes and let out a pathetic noise that sounded like a whimper. Was
she actually contemplating the possibility the real curator was an FBI agent? Oh God, she was insane, or quickly headed that direction. She had been down this rabbit hole of suspecting her colleague and it had ended with Jamison bleeding out on a serial killer’s floor. She wouldn’t let her paranoia destroy her again. “Lots of people drive SUVs. This is America for God’s sake,” she said aloud to her empty office.
She was startled when someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”
Jamison opened the door. He frowned when he saw her hunched over her desk. “Have you been crying?” Concern laced his deep voice.
“No, I just didn’t sleep last night.”
In an instant the concern was gone, replaced by annoyance. The muscles along his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. He thought she meant she had gone out to screw a stranger. She didn’t blame him for the assumption. That was who she was, the woman who quieted the voices in her head with random men. She couldn’t even remember the last time she knew the name of the person she was having sex with. But that’s not what she’d done last night. She had asked her dog-sitter to keep Stan all night so she could come into the office and work, but she would rather Jamison think she was out. Best that neither of them forget who she really was.
“Director Taylor wants to see us.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. His casual demeanor had changed, replaced with an impenetrable wall of ice.
She smoothed her hair back into a ponytail and put on some of the deodorant she kept in her top drawer. She hoped her breath didn’t smell as bad as her mouth tasted because she’d run out of toothpaste, so there was nothing she could do about it now.
As she stood up she remembered her last interaction with the director. “I need a coffee.”
“You don’t have time.”
When they got to the director’s office, Smart and Scott were already seated. Tina was standing near Taylor’s desk, looking at the pictures that lined the wall.
Catch Your Death Page 10
