by Pat Warren
Resolutely, Rachel dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. “I think we need to visit the scene where they found her,” she said, her voice soft.
Exactly what he’d have said. “Right you are, boss,” Jack told her, shifting into gear.
“And don’t call me boss.”
The wind had picked up by the time they arrived at the mountainous area that Sloan had told Rachel was the place where Christina had been found. Jack pulled the big Lincoln off onto the shoulder of the road and helped Rachel out. They started up the winding dirt path.
“Everything around here looks the same,” he commented, squinting as he gazed around. “How do you know we’re going the right way?”
“Because I lived in this area for eighteen years. Winter and summer, I’ve climbed these hills.” Glad she’d worn her boots, Rachel watched where she was stepping. Remnants of an earlier light snowfall could be seen in patches here and there between the scraggly bushes and the barren trees. Montana had yet to have its first big snowstorm of the winter.
Walking easily behind her, Jack let her study the terrain while his eyes stayed fastened to her slender frame. She moved gracefully, as if she climbed mountains every day, not a bit winded though the incline became steeper the higher they went. “You must work out at a gym back in Chicago, eh?” he asked, curious about her life back there.
“No, but I walk everywhere. I don’t own a car.” She ducked under a low-hanging branch, following the path around a bend. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was keeping up without strain. “How about you? Do you get much exercise?” He certainly looked to be in excellent shape.
“I like to drive to the ocean, park and run along the sand. I try to do that two or three times a week.”
“Mmm, I’d love to live near the sea.”
“Why don’t you move?”
Why hadn’t she moved? She certainly wasn’t tied to Chicago. “Maybe I will one day.” Rachel spotted a hawk circling the sky and stopped to admire the fierce bird. “He’s something, isn’t he?”
Moving up behind her, Jack followed her gaze. “Yeah, creatures of prey usually are fascinating. But very dangerous.”
Turning, she realized he was closer than she’d thought, close enough for her to smell the clean masculine scent of him. “Not just in the animal kingdom. That goes for people, too.”
His eyes met hers and there was laughter in them. “You think dangerous men are fascinating?”
“I don’t know any really dangerous men.” But there were all sorts of danger, such as a fatal attraction to the wrong man. Hadn’t she been there and done that once already?
“Maybe you do, but you don’t know he’s dangerous because he’s smart enough to hide that element of his nature.” Her hair was blowing in the wind, several strands whipping across one silken cheek. He wanted badly to reach up and fix that, to stroke her face. But he sensed she’d back away if he did.
“Are you referring to yourself as dangerous?”
Taking a step back, Jack smiled. “Who, me? Lady, I’m a pussycat.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.” She resumed walking.
Several minutes later, the path led into a shallow canyon. Just ahead they could see the yellow crime scene tape stretched across an opening. Slowing her steps, Rachel approached the narrow crevice. Suddenly, her hands were damp and yet she felt a chill.
Jack came up behind her, sensing her emotions were getting the best of her. Gently, he touched her shoulder. “Why don’t you wait here and let me take a look?”
“No, I want to see.” Her steps sluggish, she moved forward, then stopped and gazed down. The shallow grave was barely a foot wide and perhaps five feet in length. Christina had been small, about five-four, yet even so, it would have been a tight fit. A surge of emotion swamped her, imagining her beautiful sister crammed into that cold, harsh place, lying there for weeks on end. She pressed a hand to her lips, trying not to cry.
Jack had seen worse grave sites, but he guessed that Rachel probably hadn’t. She’d have been better off never having visited the scene. Forever after, in her mind’s eye she’d picture her sister in this cold, unforgiving place.
Noticing how tightly she was holding herself in check, he moved closer and turned her to face him. It was one thing to hear of a loved one’s death and quite another to visit the scene. Gently, Jack put his arms around her. “Let it out, Rachel. Sooner or later, you’ve got to let it out.”
She didn’t want to cry, not in front of this man she scarcely knew. But she couldn’t stop the torrent of tears that burst from her, taking her completely by surprise, weakening her knees and shaking her slim frame as she struggled with the onslaught.
Jack held her gently, as a friend might, smoothing her back, soothing her nerves, allowing her the release she’d been needing. He guessed that she hadn’t given herself enough time to grieve. He also knew she wanted to be tough, to stay in control. But sometimes, no matter how strong a person was, emotions swamped them and left them helpless. He was certain if his sister had been the one stuffed into that terrible grave, he’d be weeping, as well.
Rachel couldn’t have said how long she cried for all the wasted yesterdays and all the canceled tomorrows. She wept for Christina, for her child, wherever the baby was, for her family who’d let Christina down, and finally for herself and the guilt she’d carry forever.
When it was over, she eased back from Jack and found he’d placed a large white handkerchief in her hand. Gratefully, she dried her face and wiped off his leather jacket, which she’d all but drenched. Jack had probably been through scenes such as this before. He seemed to understand, and she was grateful.
Finally she looked up at him, eyes moist and misty. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re entitled.” He was unused to women crying in his arms, had acted instinctively when he’d seen her cloud up. He usually didn’t get that close to clients.
“Thank you,” she answered, pocketing his handkerchief.
His hand on her elbow guided her over to where the police had outlined two separate sets of footprints. Leaning down, Jack examined them carefully. “These over here look as if they’ve been made by a walking shoe.” He pointed to another section. “But those could have been made by a youngster, a teenager maybe.”
“Or a woman with a small shoe size,” Rachel suggested.
“That’s possible.” His eyes raised from the shallow grave to the bluff overlooking the canyon and silently he wondered if Christina had fallen down here from up there or been pushed. He needed to see the official report and to read the autopsy report to see if they’d determined exactly how Christina had died. And what was their best estimate as to what had been used to hit her on the head.
Rachel walked a short distance away, looking around. “Who would want to kill a pregnant young woman?” she conjectured out loud.
Jack strolled over to her. “Why do you suppose she was up here in these hills?”
Feeling cold, Rachel hugged herself. “I couldn’t say. If she and I had been in contact more, maybe I’d know what her habits were, such as hiking or whatever. The deputy told me she’d been found in a dress and street shoes, certainly not an outfit intended for hiking.”
“But it was August and probably warm.”
“Yes, and she loved dresses. She had lovely legs and liked to show them off, so she rarely wore slacks.” Narrowing her gaze, she scanned the area. “But what was she doing out here in the wilderness?”
“Maybe meeting her lover, the baby’s father?”
“Maybe. But surely they could have found a more comfortable spot. Unless he’s a married man and they didn’t want to be seen in town.” Rachel closed her eyes. “Oh, Lord, I hope that’s not the case.”
Jack slipped his arm around her, hoping to offer comfort. “We’ll find out, don’t worry.”
“Murder, of all things. Why would someone murder her? Did she know something they were afraid she’d reveal? Had
she seen something that would incriminate someone?”
Jack shrugged as he started them on the path back down. “There are lots of reasons for murder. For profit, to cover up another crime, revenge, rage, by accident. Then there are the homicidal ones who kill for sport, or the weirdos who hear voices telling them to kill, or serial killers who murder, for example, blond, blue-eyed women.”
She shot him a look. “You’re full of cheery thoughts.”
“Murder isn’t a very cheery thing to have to deal with.”
“No, it certainly isn’t.” Reaching the Lincoln, she waited until Jack unlocked the doors and got in. Wearily, she leaned back against the headrest. This was a lot harder than she’d imagined. But she’d wanted to be involved, so she’d have to manage. “Where next?”
Jack started the engine, adjusting the heater. “You said you talked with the deputy, but I have a few questions for him since he’s the one who found the body. And maybe the sheriff, if he’s around.”
“Fine.” Rachel closed her eyes and let him drive.
Sloan Ravencrest greeted Rachel warmly and shook hands with Jack. “Hey, I welcome all the help we can get. As long as you don’t keep anything you learn from us and you don’t interfere with our investigation.”
“Agreed,” Jack said, sitting next to Rachel, across the desk from the dark-haired deputy. “I know you’ve already told Rachel about finding the body, but if you have the time, I wish you’d go over it for me.”
“Sure. Sheriff Rawlings is out and I have to man the phones, so we might be interrupted, but I’ll tell you what I can.” In his methodical way, Sloan explained how he and Crystal Cobbs had run across Homer Gilmore, an old recluse who lived in the hills, and then followed the trail to Christina’s body. Finishing, he looked from one to the other. “That about sums it up.”
Rachel noticed that Jack never took notes and wondered how he retained everything. He must have a hell of a memory, she decided.
Rising, Sloan walked over to a cabinet, unlocked it and removed a large manila envelope. Opening it, he took out Christina’s license plate. “I can show you this since the lab’s finished with it. Only Homer Gilmore’s prints were found on it, although there were plenty of smudged ones.”
Silently, Rachel looked at the plate and wished she could turn back time to the first day she’d seen Christina’s car with the identifying Chris 37 tag on it, and her standing alongside smiling proudly.
“Then there’s this.” Sloan removed a smaller envelope and let its contents slide onto his desktop. A locket on a broken gold chain slipped out. “This was found clutched in Christina’s hand. Do you recognize it as hers, Rachel?”
Rachel leaned closer, then shook her head. “No, I don’t. But of course, she could have bought it or gotten it as a gift after I left. I never saw her wearing anything like that.”
“Yeah, anything’s possible.” Sloan busied himself putting things back into their evidence envelopes and locking them up.
“I assume the lab’s doing DNA testing on Christina?” Jack asked.
“Yes. We found quite a few dried blood spots on and around the body, some hair samples. It’s fortunate the killer buried her, preserving things. Also we’re lucky it wasn’t a rainy fall up there. Might have washed away a lot of evidence.” He resumed his seat.
Rachel decided to ask him for a favor. “Sloan, I’ve been trying to put together a list of Christina’s friends for Jack, but I’ve been gone so long that I really don’t know who she hung around with the last few years. Would you know?”
“Yes, especially her men friends,” Jack added.
Sloan hesitated, gazing at Rachel a moment, then reached into his desk drawer. “I compiled this off the top of my head, guys I’ve seen her with or men I’ve been told knew her.” He slid the paper across the desk, toward them.
Rachel tried not to react, but there were more than a dozen names there in Sloan’s neat handwriting. She gave him a weak smile. “She got around, I guess.” In all her adult life, she hadn’t dated that many men, Rachel thought, and she was older than Christina.
Jack glanced at her, then the list again. “I take it you’re going to be interviewing these men?” he asked Sloan.
“Right. I’ve already started. Can’t locate a few.”
“Do you mind if I talk to them, as well?”
Sloan regarded him a long moment. “All right, I’ll give you a copy and mark the ones I’ve already interviewed. Hold off on the others a day or two. I need to be the first to speak with them. And if you learn anything, call me. Agreed?”
“Yes, sure. Thanks.” He waited until Sloan made a copy of the list, marked his choices and handed it to Jack. He rose and offered his hand. “I appreciate all your assistance.”
“Hey, we’re on the same side here, working toward the same goal,” Sloan answered. He walked to the door with them, placing a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“As well as can be expected, Sloan.”
“I know it’s tough. Hang in there.”
Back in the Lincoln again, Rachel examined the list, wondering where to start.
Jack climbed in behind the wheel. “I’m glad Sloan was in, instead of Rawlings. The sheriff might not have been as cooperative. You know, this is a bit of a strange town. You’ve got eccentrics wandering about, like Homer Gilmore, and psychics with visions, like Winona Cobbs and her niece, Crystal. And, if that’s not enough, you’ve got a sheriff who was supposedly raised by wolves.” He shook his head. “Not your normal everyday little Western town.”
Even though she’d been gone awhile, Rachel still felt a bit defensive when someone criticized or made fun of her hometown. “Oh, I think all towns have their share of characters. Don’t tell me L.A. doesn’t. We read in the papers all the time about the kooks you have there.”
“You’re right about that,” Jack said as he started the engine.
A sudden suspicion nagged at Rachel. “How’d you know about Rawlings? From Gina?”
He hesitated, then nodded, again fiddling with the heater’s controls. “You know, for the amount they charge to rent this thing, you’d think the heater would work better.”
He’d paused a shade too long there, Rachel thought, turning in her seat to study him. Something wasn’t right. “You’re not telling me everything, are you? Gina didn’t tell you about Rawlings. Who did?”
Jack shrugged, annoyed with himself. He was usually more careful. “No one, really.”
“Oh, you just happened to guess that our sheriff was raised by wolves? Try again, and this time, make it the truth.”
He took in an irritated breath. “I checked him out before I came here, okay? No big deal. It’s standard operating procedure. I was a homicide detective, remember? Good cops and P.I.’s check out everyone they can before they get involved in a case.”
Rachel was getting a bad feeling about this. “Everyone? Like who ‘all,’ may I ask?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “The main players. The ones I’d have to deal with. The names Gina gave me of people who might be involved. The sheriff, his deputies, the victim, her family.”
Bells went off in Rachel’s brain. “The victim’s family? You mean you checked out my family?” That hadn’t occurred to her, though it probably should have.
All right, he’d had enough. It was time Little Miss Tough Stuff grew up. “Yes, your family. Your father, Ellis Montgomery, is fifty-seven, established the Whitehorn Savings and Loan, then went into politics and is currently the mayor though he has his eye on the state legislature. Your mother, Deidre Montgomery, died four years ago at age fifty, from cancer. She came from a prominent Montana family. Had enough?”
“Not by a long shot,” Rachel said, building up a full head of steam. “This is fascinating. Go on.”
“Your brother, Max Montgomery, thirty-four, is also highly ambitious, used to travel the globe overseeing the family’s extensive investments worth well over a million dollars until he was tapped
by Ellis to take over the bank when he was elected mayor. Max lives in a mansion-style home on a hill in the best part of Whitehorn.” He glanced at her, saw the sparks shooting from her eyes, but he was in too deep to quit now.
“Daughter, Rachel Montgomery, twenty-seven, won a scholarship to the prestigious Chicago Academy of Fine Arts two weeks after she turned eighteen, earned four A’s and one B in her senior year finals—not bad. Then she went to work for Kaleidoscope, a well-known graphic arts studio where she’s currently assistant head designer. In her senior year at the academy, she met and got engaged to Richard Montrose—an intense but charismatic art student—and moved into his studio apartment. Unfortunately Richard received a grant to study art in Florence, Italy, and bid her a fond farewell two weeks before the wedding.” He dared look at her again, thinking she’d probably have smoke blowing out of both ears by now. “How am I doing?”
“How could you get all that information so quickly, within a day before you arrived?” Much to her annoyance, her voice cracked.
“It’s called connections and the computer, honey.” He would have told her in time, Jack reminded himself. She’d forced this confrontation here and now.
“How many others?”
“Everyone I had a name for.”
Rachel glared at him, her eyes hot and furious. “You son of a— How could you? You came here, acting all innocent and uninformed, asked me about my family, our friends, and all the time you had all the answers.” She didn’t think she’d ever felt so angry, so betrayed. At least not since Richard. “You lied to me.”
“Never, not once. You didn’t ask me if I knew the family’s background. Besides, I told you on Day One that I wanted your version of how things went down.”
“Lying by omission, an old trick.”
“Listen to me, this is a job. Tell me, before you went to work for Kaleidoscope, did you check them out?”
“Yes, but I didn’t do a background search on the owner and his wife’s private life.” She raised her arm, ready to punch him.
