by Brant, Kylie
She turned to aim an impatient glance over her shoulder. Officer Redmond shot a look to either side of him, as if to check for interested ears in the empty office. “Maybe you could tell a fella just how to get on with Adam Raiker.” A sheepish grin lit up his face. “I been readin’ up on him since I was knee high to a tadpole. Memorized crime details the way most boys collected baseball stats.” His expression went hopeful. “Always been my dream that someday I’d end up workin’ with one of the best, just the way you do.”
“You don’t apply to work with Raiker,” she told him bluntly. “He doesn’t accept resumes. He handpicks his people.” And she was still bemused that she’d come to his attention to warrant an interview, much less to be deemed worthy of joining his team. Raiker’s standards were as legendary as his background.
Taking in Redmond’s crestfallen face, she hesitated for a moment. Then, with a kindness that usually eluded her, she added, “The best way to attract his notice is be outstanding in your field. Flawless police work. An exceptional reputation. That’s what catches his eye.” That, and an uncanny intuition that seemed to allow the man insight into his operatives’ deepest darkest secrets. An insight that never failed to leave her feeling raw and exposed in his presence.
The young officer was beaming again. “That’s real good advice, Miz Clark. Thank you for that. I’m gonna take it, too. Gonna make somethin’ of myself here, and who knows? I may be workin’ with you one of these days.”
“Good luck,” she said, and headed out the door. Although truthfully, the best luck he could have was to not come to the legendary ex-FBI agent’s notice at all.
Raiker would eat him alive.
“Devlin Stryker, you old dog. You still chasing ghosts and goblins and whatnot?”
Dev grinned and settled more comfortably into the worn leather recliner at his granddaddy’s house. The sound of Denny Pruett’s voice was so welcome, he was kicking himself for not calling his friend more regularly.
It didn’t take much imagination to picture the man on the other end of the phone. With dark geeky glasses and thinning black hair, he’d be sitting behind a desk that would be piled with research books, his students’ essays, and at least two computers. Wouldn’t matter that it was the weekend. From his recollection, Denny’s home office was nearly identical to the one he kept in his ivory tower on the NYU campus. He’d be in one office or the other.
“Are you still looking for God ’round every corner?”
Denny’s laugh was hearty. “That’s no way to talk to the head professor of theology, son. Matter of fact, it’s downright blasphemous.”
“Head professor?” Pure delight ran through Dev. “Congratulations. I’ll bet Patti’s proud, too.”
“She is. She just got a grant to do a longitudinal study on the effect of group prayer on terminally ill patients, and . . .” The man trailed off abruptly. “And that isn’t why you’re calling, so I’ll shut up and let you get to it.”
“It’s not, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Got a little research to do on one of the foundin’ fathers of the town down here. Looks like he was heavy into religion, and I thought of you.”
“How old?”
Dev could hear the clacking of computer keys on the other end. “A bit before the turn of the century—1892 or thereabouts. What I have been able to uncover is a man by the name of Rufus Ashton came down from Pennsylvania and settled Buffalo Springs, Tennessee, in what’s now Spring County.” He checked the notes he’d taken today at the museum and library. “Among other things, he started the first church down here, which is still standin’. It serves the Methodist congregation now. But that doesn’t seem to match up with old records regardin’ their faith. I was wonderin’ ’bout the man’s beliefs back in the time he began it.”
“I’ll check into it for you. But only because I like having you in my debt.”
Dev toed off his shoes and slouched down, preparing for a long catch-up with his old college buddy. He hadn’t had dinner yet, and dusk was already falling, but it had been too long since he’d heard the other man’s voice. “Shoot, the way I figure it, we’re even. I did rid your office of the ghost that was hauntin’ it.”
“Rigging up a camera to catch Professor Hammond on tape using my office to diddle his grad students hardly qualifies as an exorcism.”
“It does if it . . .” The crash that sounded then had Dev bolting upright in his chair. Had the man on the other end of the line halting midsentence.
“What the hell was that?”
“I’m gonna have to call you back, Denny.” Unmindful of the glass scattered on the floor, Dev flipped the cell phone shut and ran to the shattered front window and peered out. Just in time to see a dark rusted-out pickup tear around the corner and out of sight.
His gaze turned to the room. Seeing the brick that had been thrown through the window had his mouth flattening. There was no note tied around it. Nothing that dramatic. The brick was message enough.
Someone around these parts wasn’t any too fond of him. And although he hadn’t recognized the truck wheeling around the corner, this had Banty Whipple’s name written all over it.
Something pricked the bottom of his stockinged foot, and Dev absently turned his foot over to pick a piece of glass out of it. Carefully he stepped around the mess to go in search of a vacuum. Someone on the police department might have an idea of whom the truck belonged to, but he knew his chances of proving anything were slim.
He pulled the vacuum from the back closet and headed to the living room to clean up the mess. Hopefully this little incident had evened the score in Banty’s mind. But in case it hadn’t, it’d pay to keep his guard up.
Maybe, if Banty were lucky, by the time Dev caught up with him, he’d have lost the urge to pound the cotton out of the man.
“Thought you were going to be gone for a while.” From Jonesy’s decidedly unenthusiastic tone, Ramsey had a hunch the man had been counting on it.
She’d donned the protective clothing before stepping into the lab, immediately noting the bagged and tagged evidence bags pinned neatly to a white board. They were the samples they’d collected from Frost’s apartment and car.
“I was gone. Now I’m back.” She strolled over to the board to peer more closely. “Did you come up with anything?”
“Came up with a lot of stuff.” Jonesy glanced at his watch before joining her at the board with a long-suffering air. “As far as matching the fibers and hair to anybody or thing . . . that’s going to be your job.”
Ramsey studied the board. He’d attached a note card specifying where each sample had been found, and had included another of his own findings—printed in handwriting that would shame a third grader—below each.
“I’ve got several samples of hair matching the victim. A couple other samples matching an elderly woman who uses blue dye on it.”
“Probably the landlady’s,” she murmured.
“. . . and one gray strand dyed by a different product, most likely coming from a wig. Human hair wigs are treated with an acid bath to remove cuticles, and the chemicals used were detectable in the tests.”
“Could you identify race or gender?”
“I can tell you they’re all human and Caucasian. Each strand originated from the head. But without roots on any of them there’s no DNA testing to be done.”
She nodded, wondering about Frost’s landlady. Would she be the source of the gray wig? Ramsey remembered a couple older women in Cripolo who came to her mother’s hair-styling shop in their trailer for a color and set once every six weeks. Rather than paying to come more frequently, in between appointments they’d wear wigs when their hair no longer looked “presentable.” She made a mental note to call Phyllis Trammel later and ask her.
Jonesy went on, talking faster now. “I’ve got stray carpet fibers everywhere. That carpet is circa 1980s and sheds like a diseased Siamese. A couple threads that match clothes from her closet. Some other fibers that match the ca
rpet in her car. Food particles. Like I say. A whole lot of nothing.”
He glanced at his watch again, and noting his tension, Ramsey eyed him anew. Observed for the first time that, for Jonesy, he was dressed up.
Still decked out in black, of course. But instead of his usual T-shirt and black jeans, beneath his lab coat, he wore a button-down ebony shirt with matching dress slacks.
Her brows skated upward as she raked his skinny figure with her gaze. Nary a chain in sight. His Mohawk was slicked up bristle straight. She couldn’t be exactly sure, but she thought she counted less piercings than usual.
“You going somewhere?”
He struck a bored pose, ruined it by sneaking a look at the clock on the wall behind her. “Got a date.”
She felt like she’d been poleaxed. “With a person?”
He glared at her. “No, with a three-legged pygmy goat. Hell yeah, with a person. With a woman, you smartass.”
“Oh.” Since diplomacy seemed beyond her, she didn’t bother to hide her shock. “Where’d you meet her?”
“I haven’t been slacking off, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His glare was murderous. “I work ten, twelve hour days. Even started running some of those plant samples you left this morning, though I’m not near done yet, and dammit, I don’t have to account for my free time with you!”
“Did I say you did? Jesus, you’re touchy. I just wondered . . . given the hours you keep, where you met someone, is all.”
Jonesy stared suspiciously at her, but something in her expression must have mollified him. “Met her down at The Henhouse this morning when I went in for breakfast. You woke me up at the butt crack of dawn with those damn plants, so I headed downtown to get some more of those biscuits and gravy. That’s where I met Vicki.”
“The waitress?”
“That’s right.”
By Ramsey’s estimation, the woman had a good fifteen years on Jonesy, but that didn’t seem to be dampening his enthusiasm.
“Well . . .” What the hell was she supposed to say? “Uh . . . have a good time.”
“You know, Ramsey, it wouldn’t hurt you to get out more.”
She narrowed her eyes at him in warning, but Jonesy seemed oblivious.
“Sex loosens up the muscles. Releases endorphins that increase brain productivity.”
“I’m plenty loose.” If there was any truth to his words, after those few hours with Stryker last night, she ought to be a proverbial rag doll.
And where the hell had that thought come from? She’d done her damnedest to sweep thoughts of him from her mind every time his image had horned in today, and that had been fairly often. He was as difficult to banish mentally as he was in person.
Jonesy, damn him, managed to look doubtful. “Uh-huh. All I’m saying is, you could use a few more endorphins to take the . . . ah . . . edge off.”
She bared her teeth at him. “I happen to like my edge. And didn’t I tell you once before I did not want to discuss sex with you?” She was going clammy all over just thinking about the man—she suppressed a shudder—doing it. It was enough to have that slice of pizza and soda she’d consumed in the car congealing in her stomach.
“Well, I’m going to be late.” He inched toward the door before turning back hopefully. “I don’t suppose I could use your rental?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but that seemed churlish. Digging the keys out of her purse, she tossed them to him. “Get naked in it, and I will hold you down and tear out every one of your piercings with needle-nose pliers.”
He grinned. “That’d be a shame. Because Vicki seemed especially interested in at least one piercing I told her about.”
“Please.” Ramsey squeezed her eyes closed against the mental image that threatened. “Stop talking.”
“Lock up, will you?” Without another word, the man hastened out the door to the parking lot where she’d left her SUV. Leaving Ramsey thinking about sex and endorphins and loose muscles.
And how all those things related to Stryker.
She scowled. It had taken some doing, but she’d managed to shove the man’s specter aside every time it popped in her mind today. She wasn’t quite as successful at shrugging off the guilt she felt at forcing him to drive her home in the middle of the night.
Guilt that she’d just have to get over. Sex was one thing, but the thought of sleeping with another person—any person—had her palms going damp. She’d exposed quite enough vulnerability to the man earlier yesterday evening. The last thing she’d wanted was to treat him to a front-row seat if she had one of her nightmares. He probably already thought she was a few bricks shy of a full load after the incident in the woods.
Muttering a curse, she headed out the door and secured it after her before setting the alarm. What did she care what Devlin Stryker thought about her, anyway? They’d had sex. Amazing, mind-numbing sex. It wasn’t like they were planning to ride off into the sunset together.
The thought had her throat easing. With neither of them racing to throw ties on the other, there was no harm in indulging the attraction, was there? It’s not like Dev was directly involved in the case.
And Jesus, the man was talented in bed.
She got to the parking lot in time to see Jonesy spraying gravel as he pulled out onto the road. For the first time, she considered just what it meant to be without her vehicle.
Pulling out her cell, she dialed the sheriff’s number. If he was still on duty, he could swing by and speak to her here. If she ended up having to walk into town to talk to him, she’d have only herself to blame.
Being nice usually proved to be a pain in the ass.
“So you’re sayin’ Frost might have been a hit? That her ex-boyfriend hired someone to off her for the insurance money?” Mark Rollins’s pleasantly homely face was alight with interest.
Ramsey chose her words carefully. “Powell and Matthews are following up on the possibility. They’ll be out of town for a few days while they comb through Sanders’s financials and whatever the warrant turns up.”
“I’ll be damned.” Mark leaned back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling. “Man would have to be ice cold to hire someone to do Frost that way. Can’t say as I like the idea of a hired killer familiar enough with the area to use the county for his dump site. But I’d be lyin’ if I claimed it wouldn’t serve to settle down the notion of that blasted legend.” Catching Ramsey’s eye, he shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not bein’ unfeelin’ here; I’m lookin’ out for my people.”
“There’s a possibility she was stalked prior to the kill.” Ramsey gave him an abbreviated version of the man Cassie Frost had reported watching her. The same one she’d identified trying to break into her window. “No way to tell at this point, of course, if the man she saw is the one we should be looking for.”
“Lisbon is a town of ’bout fifteen thousand, right?” Mark sucked in his lip, considering. “Small place like this, a stranger gets noticed. Not so much in a town that size. I don’t s’pose the investigation turned up anyone who could back up her description of the guy.”
Ramsey shook her head. “Not that I could find.” And she’d spoken to the woman’s employer. Her coworkers, neighbors, and landlord. Even the gals who had done her hair and nails. All had described a woman who was friendly but quiet. Cassie Frost hadn’t made any close friends in that town, either. At least not anyone close enough that she had been comfortable sharing her fears with. And Ramsey couldn’t help feeling sad about that.
“Wouldn’t hurt to start pokin’ at Sanders’s background. See if he has some distant connection to these parts. Even if he didn’t do the deed, the killer was likely familiar with the woods and Ashton’s Pond.”
“It’s possible,” she allowed. “I still think even if we do discover Sanders was behind it, the killer added some personal touches, and the dump site probably was one of them.”
“Like what?” Mark stretched his long legs out before him and slouched more comfortably in
his seat. He’d agreed to swing by the motel for a conference when she’d called, even though she had been able to tell from the noise in the background that she’d interrupted family time at his place. There had been earsplitting screams of childish laughter, emanating, he’d explained, from bath time for his kids. Ramsey didn’t remember baths being anywhere near that fun-filled. In the trailer she grew up in, hot water—and privacy—had been rare luxuries.
“Don’t forget the plant he had Frost ingest. There had to be a reason for that.” Ramsey let her gaze wander for a few seconds over the photos of the victim tacked on their murder board. “Likely the reason stemmed from him. It means something only to the killer. It’s just as likely the location of the dump site does, too.”
Rollins looked doubtful. “It’s also possible that Frost ate that plant or whatever on her own. It might be a clue to where she was being kept, ever think of that? One of the first cases I worked in TBI was a suspicious death. Husband swore up and down his wife had committed suicide. Swallowed a bunch of pills and booze. Autopsy found a key in her stomach. Turned out she’d found a strong box he kept with photos of him and young—very young—male prostitutes. He walked in on her before she could put things away, but she managed to swallow the key without him knowin’. Helped us crack the case wide open.”
