by Brant, Kylie
“It’s possible. The only trace evidence I found was the bleach on one heel.”
“She was facedown in the water,” Ramsey said slowly. “The kids sighted the foot of the body first.”
“Of course, she could have stepped in somethin’. She could have brushed up against it, and that would account for that residue on her skin. So again, all I put in the report was the substance and where it was located.” As if growing uncomfortable with his conjectures, he covered the body up with the sheet again. “Like I said, all the facts are included in the report. The rest . . . it doesn’t mean anythin’.”
“Maybe not.” Ramsey was in unfamiliar territory herself. Facts solved crimes. Built cases. But sometimes speculation led to a valuable lead.
And there was at least one lead she wanted to follow as soon as she downloaded these pictures.
The last person Dev expected to see walk into Leanne’s Sharp Cuts at ten o’clock in the morning was Ramsey Clark.
He caught sight of her in the mirror first, in between exchanging flirtatious rejoinders with Maddie Simmons in the next chair. Maddie was twice his age, and perhaps double his weight—he wasn’t going to go there—but she was a woman, and he’d never met one yet who didn’t enjoy passing the time with a little innocent repartee.
Enter then Ramsey Clark, serving as the exception to the rule.
She stopped dead when she caught sight of him, and he enjoyed betting that her clenched jaw meant she was gritting her teeth at his presence there. No one else had noticed her yet, or the way she was inching back toward the door.
Because his mama had taught him to be neighborly, he called out, “Why, if it isn’t Ramsey Clark. You’re a sight for sore eyes this summer mornin’.” Leanne twirled around and squealed in delight.
“Ramsey! Dev and I were just puttin’ our heads together tryin’ to figure how I was goin’ to see you again. I have so much I want to ask you, you just have no idea.”
The smile on Ramsey’s face looked forced. “I had a question I thought you could help me with. But I can come back. It looks like you’re busy.”
“Shoot, Dev’s done and Hailey here is working on Maddie.”
Leanne approached Ramsey in that friendly way of hers, and Dev got out of the chair, intrigued. He didn’t know much about Ramsey Clark, but he knew enough to recognize she was about at ease in a place like this as a long-tailed cat in room full of rocking chairs.
She slanted a look at him. “Does Superman know you’ve stolen his cape?”
He grinned, unabashed and reached up to take off the red protective plastic cape that was emblazoned with the salon’s name. “Actually he gave it to me on account of me achievin’ superhero status.”
“Get along, Dev.” Leanne shooed him away. “She didn’t come to see you.” Turning her attention back to Ramsey, she said, “What can I do for you, hon? A trim? We do a facial here that will have your face skin feelin’ as fresh as dew on a rose petal.”
“Nothing like that. I wanted you to look at a picture and give me your professional opinion on something.”
To her credit, Leanne managed to contain her shock and excitement with an aplomb Dev could only imagine was costing her.
“Sure thing. Why don’t you come back to my office?”
His own curiosity piqued, Dev trailed at a distance to the back of the shop. When he arrived there, he saw Ramsey taking some papers out of her bag. “I downloaded some pictures from my camera and ran them off. I’d like you to take a look at the hands in these photos. I’m wondering if the nails were professionally done.”
Leanne peered at each digital photo in turn. “Doesn’t take care of her hands, that’s for darn sure. I’ll never understand why people take the time, some even pay good money for a manicure, to be this careless with their nails. We’re runnin’ a special on manis and pedis next week. Probably shouldn’t tell you that, bad for sales, but if you’re interested it would be a great opportunity to . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she lingered over one of the pictures. Dev came closer to see for himself, his presence still not commented on by either woman.
“I know that’s a special kind of manicure, right?” Ramsey tapped the photo Leanne was looking at. “What do you call it when the nail tips are polished that way?”
“It’s a French manicure,” she responded absently. “Probably done in a salon. Lands, look at all the breaks she has. Was she diggin’ ditches?” Without a breath, she shifted back to her assessment. “Of course I can’t tell for sure, because there are certainly plenty of women who do their own. But see this?” She traced a line on the nail. “It takes skill to get the smile line that perfect on every finger. Real hard to do on yourself. If I had to guess, I’d reckon this is a salon job.”
If the pronouncement affected Ramsey, there was no sign of it. Her voice was even when she asked, “Any way to tell approximately how long ago it was done?”
Leanne sucked in her bottom lip, a habit of hers Dev recognized from the time they’d been kindergarteners. “Probably within the last week, week and a half. See that clear polish she has over the nails? There’s not a lot of outgrowth showin’, which means it had to have been done fairly recently.”
She handed the pictures back to Ramsey, who refolded them and slipped them back into her bag. “I really appreciate this, Leanne.”
“Hope so.” She smiled brightly. “ ’Cuz when this is over, I’m goin’ to pump you somethin’ unmerciful about all this. I figure you can’t say anythin’ now.”
Dev recognized the relief that flickered over Ramsey’s face. He was a bit shocked himself at Leanne’s restraint. The woman had many admirable qualities, but patience wasn’t one of them.
“No, I can’t. But you have been a great help. Thanks a lot.”
Ramsey turned then and nearly bumped into Dev, who had, he’d admit it, sidled closer to get a better view of the pictures.
“You’re constantly underfoot,” she noted, in a tone far different than the one she’d used with Leanne. “Don’t you have ghosts to bust?”
Something devilish in him had him taking his time moving out of the way. “Bagged my quota last night,” he replied, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “Wouldn’t be sportin’ of me not to leave some for the next quack who comes along.”
She brushed by him, and because he wasn’t a man to waste an opportunity, he turned to observe her retreat. It was, he noted with appreciation, a sight well worth watching. The slim-fitting black pants she wore did an admirable job show-casing those trim hips and long legs.
“Dev.” Leanne grabbed his arm and shook it, and reluctantly he shifted his attention back to her. “Do you know what I just did?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued on a suppressed squeal, “I just helped in a murder investigation!”
“Now, Leanne,” he started, warningly.
“I know, I know,” she raised her clasped hands to her lips, her brown eyes sparkling. “But that just had to be pictures of that poor gal they found in Ashton’s Pond last week, didn’t it? I mean, that’s what brought Ramsey down here, so it goes to figure.”
“Maybe,” he allowed, although it was probably true enough. “But this isn’t one of your television shows, so don’t go gettin’ carried away.”
She gave him a slight push with the ease of a woman who’d known him all his life. “If it were an episode of CSI, the thing would be solved in fifty-three minutes. But just because I like watchin’ those shows doesn’t mean I’m naïve about how things really work.” Leanne nodded toward the direction Ramsey had taken. “For instance, I know a bit about that outfit she works for. Raiker Forensics. Bet I know more than you do.”
He didn’t want to admit to the interest her words sparked in him. “How would you know about that?”
“There was somethin’ on Primetime: Crime about it just last year.” A bell rang and she ducked around him to see who had come in the front door. Turning back to him, she said, “That Raiker fella, he used to be one of t
he FBI’s top profilers. They mentioned all the famous cases he was involved in. But then he was on the trail of that serial killer—’member the one that killed all those kids in Louisiana?—and he saved a victim but ended up gettin’ captured himself.” She waited expectantly, but Dev merely shrugged. He didn’t share Leanne’s fascination with grisly crimes. For all her elegant appearance, she was frighteningly bloodthirsty.
His lack of reaction seemed to annoy her. Her bottom lip, slicked with bright red lipstick, jutted out briefly. “Anyway he was held captive and tortured for days before escapin’ and killin’ the guy. He retired from the Bureau and started his own agency. You know what they call it, right?”
Because he felt guilty for being such a poor audience, he searched his memory and came up with the name she’d mentioned. “Raiker Forensics?”
“Not the real name, dummy.” Leaning past him, she called out, “You just go ahead and sit down in my chair, Eileen, I’ll be with you in minute.” Turning back to Dev, she lowered her voice even more. “They call his outfit The Mindhunters. On account of them being called in on the most puzzlin’ crimes. Think of that. One of the Mindhunters in li’l ol’ Buffalo Springs.” She sent him an arch look. “If you don’t see how special that is, Devlin Stryker, you’ve been livin’ under a rock.”
“Sounds like you’ve been talkin’ to my housekeeper.”
He trailed after her as she bustled out to greet her newest customer, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. Despite his expressed disinterest, he was mulling over what Leanne had revealed.
He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to discover the woman knew what she was talking about. As if in response to the quiet small-town life of Buffalo Springs, she was voracious in her hunger for sensational crime. It came, he supposed, from being born and raised in a town where an enthusiastic case of TPing made the weekly paper.
But he was less intrigued in the history of Ramsey’s employer than he was in the woman herself.
He ambled to the door, pausing to lay a couple bills on Leanne’s desk, and responded to Eileen’s greeting distractedly. What kind of woman, he wondered as he pushed open the door to the sidewalk, would voluntarily immerse herself in this kind of gruesome job, day in and day out?
It was different for Leanne. She had an almost voyeuristic interest in true crime, a distant view from her secure perch in a sleepy little town. The murder that had rocked Buffalo Springs was, for Ramsey Clark, a commonplace occurrence.
Because there was nowhere in town far enough that he couldn’t walk to it, Dev set off for the house left empty when his granddaddy had gone to the assisted living facility.
Easy enough to see where Ramsey’s edge had come from, he reflected, making his way up the street at an easy pace. A woman in an occupation like that would have to be tough.
And he was contrary enough to wonder what all lay beneath the woman’s tough exterior. And if he’d ever get a chance to discover that for himself.
Chapter 4
“You’re Robbie Joe, right?” When the teenager in the store uniform turned around in the grocery line to look at him, Dev gave him a friendly grin. “Devlin Stryker. Knew your daddy when I was in school. He still workin’ at the mill in Clayton?”
The kid looked seventeen or so, still in that gangly awkward stage that every living boy paused at on his way to manhood.
“Yeah, that’s right.” The kid shuffled up to the cashier and laid a small fortune worth of junk food and a half liter of pop on the counter. “He’s a supervisor there now.”
The bored-looking cashier, who looked to be a few years old than Robbie Joe, rang him up and announced the total. As the boy fumbled for his wallet, Dev dropped some bills on the counter.
“Let me get that for you. Least I can do for a local celebrity.”
Looking considerably more cheerful, the kid said, “Thanks, Mr. Stryker.”
Dev fell into step beside the boy as he headed out the automated double doors of Easley’s Supermarket. “You done for the day?”
“Uh-uh.” Robbie Joe was already digging into the plastic bag holding his purchases. “I’m on lunch break.”
Remembering the contents he’d bought, Dev suppressed a wince. Hopefully the boy’s belly was up to the punishment it was about to get. “Mind if I hang ’round while you eat?”
Shaking his head, Robbie pulled out a package of Nutter Butters and opened it. “I guess you recognized me from TV, huh? I’ve been on lots lately. One was even national news.”
“Actually I recognized you because you’re the spittin’ image of your mama in high school,” Dev said. They stopped at a bench located several feet away from the store and sat down. He’d always liked the boy’s mama, though his daddy had been something of an ass. After he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant and dropped out of school, Dev had rarely seen either of them. When it occurred to him that Robbie Joe must be the product of that encounter, he could practically feel his bones creak.
“I’m interested in what you saw that night, Robbie.” Dev watched in unwilling fascination as the boy washed half a package of cookies down with the soda. “Before you found the body.”
“You mean the red mist and stuff?” Unconcerned with social niceties, the kid wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Tell you the truth, Mr. Stryker . . . it all seems like sort of a dream.”
“I’ll bet.” Dev dug in his pocket, pulled out his card, and handed it to him. “I make my livin’ checkin’ that sort of thing out. Write books about people’s experiences with paranormal events and phenomenas. I’d like your perspective.”
The boy took the card but didn’t look at it. “I recollect your name now. Heard my daddy mention you a time or two.”
Since Dev’s opinion of Robbie Joe’s daddy was handily reciprocated, he didn’t dare ask for more details. Instead he pulled a slim miniature recorder out of his pants pocket and held it up so the boy could see it. “Mind if I ask you a few questions then? With the recorder on?”
A measure of enthusiasm showed in Robbie’s expression for the first time. “Are you gonna put me in your book?”
“Depends on whether I get enough material while I’m in Buffalo Springs to interest my editor in the project,” Dev hedged. Everything inside him shied away from using the events in this town for a new release. It was too intensely personal. And way too painful.
But even that nonanswer was enough to loosen the teenager’s lips. He embarked on a highlight of the events of that night, and Dev listened without comment until the boy ran down. Then he said, “Let’s back up to those lights you saw. The ones you thought were the guys’ flashlights.”
Robbie had worked his way through the package of cookies and was making serious inroads on a second Twinkie. Dev didn’t know whether to congratulate him on his intestinal fortitude or hand him a Tums.
“Yeah, I thought the guys were behind me. Just funnin’, y’know? But then I figured, shoot, it could be fireflies. Probably was, just like I told Becky.”
“So these lights were the size of an insect?”
Robbie scratched his head with the edge of Dev’s card. “Well . . . no, they were bigger than that. Like I say, they looked like they coulda been from flashlights, except dimmer, y’know? Like maybe when the battery’s runnin’ low. But in some parts of the Smoky Mountains, they got those special fireflies that all glow at once, don’t they?”
“Synchronous fireflies,” Dev said absently, thinking about what the boy had revealed. “So you’re sayin’ you only saw one light at a time?”
“Sometimes there was just one and sometimes there’d be a bunch of them hoppin’ around. Just like bugs do. That’s what I’m sayin’. The biggest one was like four inches or so. But then when I saw the smaller ones, they were half that.”
“And the lights were solid white?”
Robbie started to speak and then paused. “Tell you the truth, Mr. Stryker, I’d be makin’ it up if I told you I noticed. They made me think some of the guys were the
re, and then I started thinkin’ about that, not what the lights looked like.”
Dev didn’t press. Becky had insisted the lights had a violet ring around them—she’d been very specific about the color—but he wasn’t going to relay that to Robbie and influence his opinion. Instead he drew him out at length about the fog the boy insisted had come out of the ground, starting at his feet and winding around his body before spreading across the entire area.
“I heard Butch Tippon saw the red mist, too,” Robbie added. He was clearly anxious to prove he wasn’t imagining things. “And Becky said Silas Parker and Wally Greenberg did, too.”
Dev had heard the three men’s names as well and, in fact, had already talked to those men, and at least five others who had made similar claims. If their accounts were to be believed, given their separate locations at the time, the red mist had covered an outlying area of town of at least five miles. Dev made a habit of eating breakfast every morning at The Henhouse because there was no better place to overhear interesting tidbits like that to follow up on.
