The Bones of Others

by Vickie McKeehan

  “We aren’t talking about me.”

  “Sure we are. We could postpone talking about me while I try and guess your middle name.”

  “Oh for God’s sakes. Fine. Skye Melody Cree.”

  He busted out laughing. “Melody? And I thought Sebastian was bad.”

  “Oh shut up. Now, back to those websites I found. Almost all of them mentioned you are one of Seattle’s youngest and brightest entrepreneurs. That’s a given. But…one of the city’s most eligible bachelors? I guess women go for those little glasses and the long black hair, huh? Look, you might as well spill your guts because otherwise I’ll just keep badgering you, returning the favor, in spades of course.”

  He gave her a prolonged, disdained look. “Okay. But I don’t see how dredging up the past is relevant here.”

  “Your wife died.”

  He snarled low in his throat. “About a year ago I came home from work one evening, found her lying on the floor in the bathroom, she wasn’t breathing. She didn’t have a mark on her body, no bruises, no gaping wounds, nothing. The coroner said she died from a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry, Josh.”

  Their eyes met. This was the first time she’d actually used his first name without the usual mocking, scornful bent she usually took. “So was I. So was I,” he repeated.

  “You loved her.”

  “I did. We were only together for two short years. She was only twenty-eight-years old. How does a woman that young die from a heart attack, and not know she had anything wrong with her heart beforehand? Her parents told me she’d never even so much as had an attack of indigestion let alone any type of heart ailment.”

  “Life is a mystery. People die young. My parents were only thirty-eight when they were coming home one day from the grocery store and stopped at a red light. They were sitting in a left-turn lane at two-thirty-eight in the afternoon when a drunk driver ran through the intersection from the opposite side and ended up crashing his car on top of theirs. That was the exact time on the clock in the car, which was pretty much totaled. They both died instantly while the drunk driver, a guy in his mid-fifties with several DUIs under his belt already, lived. Go figure.”

  “I’m sorry, Skye. Thirty-eight is way too young. And way too young for you, at thirteen, to be left alone without your mom and dad.”

  “So…we agree the past, for both of us, is something we…”

  “Take off the table? Sure.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve settled that, let’s stay with subjects that interest both of us like Ronny Whitfield.”

  “How do we find him? I know he’s out there…somewhere—stalking young girls. He may not have been the one to grab Erin Prescott—this time—but you can bet your sweet ass he’s someplace else targeting other Erins.”

  Josh went to his laptop, booted it up. “On that we agree. What exactly do you intend to do when you find this guy?”

  Skye rocked back on her heels, took another sip of coffee. “Observe. Follow. Find out what he’s up to.” She told him about her theory that he lived near Tacoma on land that belonged to a relative. When she took in the look on his face, she said, “And yeah, I’ve already been out there. Four times. Just as a concerned citizen, of course, taking a nice long drive in the country to see the sights, who just happened to end up near his crappy mobile home. It’s time to take another road trip out there to see if all’s as it should be.”

  Josh narrowed his eyes. “When were you planning to do that?” He reached out, grabbed her arm. “You shouldn’t go out there alone.”

  Maybe she should delve into these feelings he kept stirring up inside her every time she got close to him, or like now, whenever he touched her.

  “What would you have done if you’d spotted Whitfield on any of those sojourns you took?”

  She shrugged, batted her lashes and tried to look innocent. “Concerned citizen, right place, right time. Maybe.”

  But Josh wasn’t quite that naive. “Okay, we’ll assume you won’t take the passive route. Did you ever want to be a cop, make it official?”

  She tipped her head to one side, cocked a brow and glared at him. Damn it, how did this guy read her so well when he didn’t really know that much about her? “Did you get that off the Internet, too? Because yeah, I did, for about five seconds, but I had this one little problem.”

  “And that was?”

  “I couldn’t pass the psychological profile.”

  He spit out some of his coffee. That was the last thing he had expected her to say. “Really?”

  “Really. I have an attitude problem when it comes to perverts that use little kids for sex. I want to crush them into little pieces before kicking the shit out of them.” She laughed at the look he gave her and added, “Contrary to popular belief they don’t actually give out commendations to those kinds of police officers.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Then you, Mr. Ander, would probably have a problem passing the psych exam, too. Look, I have a high school diploma, didn’t want to waste time in college. The only time I’ve ever really held down a job with pay is the six months I put in at Country Kitchen right out of high school. But I’m not stupid.”

  “No one said you were. I went to college, briefly. My mother hoped I’d become a surgeon but I have this little issue dealing with the sight of blood, much to my mother’s disappointment.”

  Amusement flicked in her eyes. “Ah, Friday night. That’s what you found so funny in your inebriated state. The irony. It’s a good thing I didn’t know that at the time. You could’ve passed out on me.”

  “Exactly.” He made a face just thinking about dealing with blood on a daily basis. “The first two years at UDub, I found I could put my C++ skills to work creating games and apps. Hey, IDE was my life back then.” When he saw her puzzled look, he added, “IDE, integrated development environment. I’ve always been good with code. Plus, I love games, puzzles, solving mysteries even. My roommate and I created a computer game, got lucky marketing it. In the last twenty-four hours, I seemed to find myself thinking about how Whitfield the predator, is just a different kind of puzzle or mystery that needs solving. Where’d he go when he got out of the joint? How’d he disappear?”

  “Listen to you. The joint? Did you talk like that two days ago? I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”

  He smiled before telling her, “I’m mesmerized by your eyes.” When she didn’t say anything, when she just kept staring at him he added, “But then I’m probably not the first person that’s ever told you that.”

  She shook her head. “Are you coming on to me? You dump one woman and then half an hour later you’re putting the moves on me. I’m not in the market, Ander. Got it?”

  Josh nodded. “Got it. Sorry. You have issues you haven’t gotten past. I understand that.”

  Skye strode out of the kitchen before turning around and heading right back in, getting in Josh’s face. She slapped one hand on his chest. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my issues. Just because you looked me up on the Internet and found a couple of ancient newspaper articles about me, does not in any way mean shit. But I’ll tell you what I know about you and it took me less than twenty-four to figure it out, mainly because I’m very observant when it comes to sizing people up.”

  She ticked off the points on her fingers. “One, you have a major drinking problem. Two, I’m not the only one who hasn’t moved past their issues. You haven’t gotten over your wife’s death. Three, you are lousy at confrontation unless of course, it’s dumping a five-foot-three inch woman. So, do not think you know me, do not presume or assume you know anything about my issues.”

  With that, Skye stormed out of his kitchen, hopped on his goddamn personal elevator and went to retrieve her bike.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Skye spotted Harry Drummond the minute she turned the corner, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside her apartment building.

  “Where’ve
you been? I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”

  “Nah, I took my bike and rode off a mood, had to drop it off at the storage unit. Come on up.”

  “Why do you keep the bike there?”

  “No room at my place. When was the last time you were here? I’ve added a few things,” Skye explained as she took out her key and unlocked the front door of the building. Once inside the tiny vestibule, she studied Harry’s body language, the slump of his shoulders. She hadn’t known the man for thirteen years without recognizing his temperament. “You aren’t here for small talk. What’s up?” The two started making the climb up the stairs to Skye’s fourth-floor walkup.

  “Erin’s started talking. She said Hiller kidnapped her, used her, and planned on selling her to someone else.”

  Skye arched a brow. “Human trafficking? I told you so. That confirms the MO. You know damn well that fits Whitfield’s past to a tee.” She lifted a hand in peace. “Don’t even bother denying it.”

  “I wasn’t going to. But…”

  “Come on, Harry! Ronny keeps them around for a couple of days, three at the max, gets his jollies and then passes off the girls to his friends in the underground sex trade. We both know Ronny gets his cash, his asking price, which is probably in the neighborhood of fifty grand, maybe more depending on the girl. It’s a win-win for the pervert community.”

  The detective sighed. “Now, you’re making things up. You know I don’t have a shred of evidence that points to Whitfield for running so much as a red light let alone connecting the bastard to human trafficking. But…”

  Once again, she didn’t let him finish. “Why didn’t you mention this on the phone earlier?”

  When they reached the door to her apartment she turned to stick the key in the lock and decided Harry definitely had something else on his mind.

  “How long have we known each other?”

  After walking inside, she tossed her keys into the bowl on the little table and wheeled on the man she’d known for so long. “What exactly do you want from me, Harry?”

  “Level with me. Tell me how you found Erin. I want the truth. And don’t give me any bullshit about being in the right place at the right time. I might’ve bought that story two years ago with Ali and the second time with Hailey, but not now, not with Erin, ‘not third time’s a charm’ crap either. I want to know the truth.”

  For the second time in a little more than an hour, someone wanted details she had no intentions of revealing. For one thing, no one would believe her. And for another Kiya was a Nez Perce tradition, a private, personal belief from her father’s people. She would share Kiya with no one else. Ever.

  “Geez, you’d think I had some mystical creature leading me down a blind alleyway to the kidnapper’s lair.” She rolled her eyes for better effect and snapped her fingers. “Next time a reporter sticks a camera in my face, maybe I’ll try that out and see how many look at me like I’ve lost my mind or need to be committed to a safe place without any sharp scissors lying around.”

  Harry cocked a brow in frustration. “Skye. You are the most secretive person I know. You always have been even when you were thirteen.” He held up his hands in peace and stared at the stubborn set of the woman’s jaw. “Not that you don’t have a right to your privacy but—” He scrubbed a hand over his tired face. “You don’t share with me, I don’t share details with you about my cases, which means stalemate because you have no intention of telling me anything. Am I right?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a show of nonchalance. “There’s nothing to tell.” He wouldn’t believe her about Ronny Whitfield so why in the hell would he listen to her if she told him about her mythical spirit guide? Her father had cautioned her not six months before his death that telling anyone about Kiya was not a good idea. Looking back, Skye took that as something akin to Daniel Cree’s premonition, something her father had felt, compelled him to warn her about disclosure. Just because the Nez Perce were fierce in their beliefs didn’t mean anything to Harry. Or anyone else for that matter. Just because her father’s people believed that part of getting through life meant staying true to your spirit guide, staying on your path, a path destined before birth, didn’t mean a cop wouldn’t laugh his ass off.

  And she’d been laughed at for many things.

  She sent Harry a sharp look, recalled the very first time she’d ever set eyes on the man in the hospital. He’d been standing there beside her bed wanting to know if she was okay. The hardcore questions he asked came later, things like how exactly she had gotten loose? How had she snuck away from her abductor without detection? The inquisition then wasn’t that much different than today’s. But back then he’d taken the word of a little girl and accepted it. These days it seemed to be a little tougher to swallow.

  Harry Drummond would never in a million years believe that during her three days of captivity with Ronny Wayne, Kiya had been the one to get her through the entire ordeal. Her spirit guide had told her what to do to escape and when exactly to do it. Even at twelve Skye had known that no one outside of her parents would believe that.

  Skye didn’t think remembering her father’s warning now was a coincidence. As far as she was concerned, Daniel Cree’s words were etched in stone. Besides, the only people who had ever known about Kiya had been her parents—and they were gone.

  To change the subject, she offered, “How about some coffee?”

  “Sure,” Harry said as he took a seat at her little kitchen table. “I know there’s something you’re keeping from me. If it’s illegal…we’ll start from scratch, start over from this point forward. I didn’t like it when I found out you were prowling the streets at night. I thought then that it would only lead to disaster. But I accepted it because it was you and I knew that deep down it was something you had to do.”

  Skye reached out, put a hand over his. “If prowling the streets at night is illegal then I’m guilty. But that’s all I’m doing, Harry. Stop worrying about me.”

  “I’m fairly certain that ship has sailed.”

  Skye huffed out a laugh and tried for a casual demeanor. She kept her eyes diverted to the task at hand, filling the coffeemaker with water, measuring out beans for the grinder. “Aw, you know, I’ve always liked you, too.”

  But Harry continued frowning and got serious. “Up to now I think I’ve been reasonable in looking the other way during what I considered your very unorthodox method of going out at night—which also covers how exactly you find—these girls but—”

  “It isn’t a crime to walk the streets at night, Harry,” she reminded him, putting her hands on her narrow hips as the Mr. Coffee began to sputter and brew. Harry wasn’t the only one that could dig in.

  “How did you find Erin—specifically?”

  Okay, she would play the game. “I went on my rounds as usual, past the prep school, ended up near the docks. I heard her crying out for help. The window was open about an inch. I boosted myself up, raised up the window, and climbed in. There she was in the bathroom, not a stitch of clothes on. She was burning up with fever. I threw my coat around her and we booked, called you. That’s it, Harry. Just a lucky turn of events, no different than walking past Ali Crandon and realizing that sick bastard, Chad Rossi, had his hands on her. No different than going antique hunting that day in Kent and stumbling across Hailey getting out of that asshole’s car in the parking lot of his apartment complex. What was his name?”

  “Perry Duncan.”

  “Yeah, Duncan. He’s serving twenty-five years to life for that.”

  “And Rossi’s locked up in Aberdeen. You know the public might buy this lucky shit stuff, Skye. Maybe because when the media puts a nice feel-good spin on the rescue angle story, the general public eats it up. I know two years ago I even bought into it because I wanted to believe you. The second time—” He waved his hand back and forth indicating an iffy gesture. “But after last night, not a chance. I’m a cop, Skye. A pretty damn good one at that. You tell me it was luck, fine, we’ll le
ave it at that—for now. But I plan to keep asking you until you bend, let me in on exactly how you get so lucky. I’ve never seen anyone as good at evading as you are. And that’s probably my fault because when it comes to you I’ve been lenient. I talk to you when I shouldn’t. I tell you stuff I shouldn’t.”

  “Oh please.” Skye got down mugs for their java and turned to face him. “Fine. You keep asking and I’ll keep telling you the same thing. Now, what else did Erin tell you? I don’t mean the dirty details, those you get to keep to yourself. I want stuff like what the perp looked like, what kind of car he drove…that sort of thing.”

  “Stop it! You are not a member of law enforcement. This is an ongoing investigation. Mine at that. Weren’t you listening? You don’t share with me. I don’t share with you.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. I get it.” She’d been stonewalled before. “But I get results and you can’t argue with that.”

  “Look, I share too much with you as it is. If Captain Wallace ever finds that out, I’ll be walking a beat or taking early retirement for good and that won’t help either one of us. I don’t want you crossing a line, Skye. I might not be able to pull you back if you do.”

  “So you came by to grill me about the how, and to insist I’m doing something illegal to find these girls? I have news for you, Harry. Accusations aren’t going to make me tell you anything,” Skye grumbled.

  “Maybe so, but we’ve always had honesty between us, or at least I thought we had. You could at least come clean with me.”

  “Nice try. You haven’t used that approach in a while.”

  With that, as if in defeat, Harry ran a hand through his thinning, once-brown hair turning gray all over. “Skye, you try me, you really do.”

  She grinned and threw an arm over his shoulder. “But you love me anyway.”

  “Yeah, but I’m beginning to wonder why. This Whitfield preoccupation has to come to an end sometime. I just hope you know what you’re doing. Because damn it, I really don’t see this obsession of yours ending well.”