Of course, she’d seen photos of Sheriff Holcomb, even included several in the paper. She’d had the passing thought that he was an attractive man, if not her type. At least he didn’t have a substantial belly hanging over his belt the way the previous sheriff had. She’d always thought a lawman should look as if he could actually break into a run to chase a fleeing suspect. Holcomb’s belly…well, she suspected it was flat and muscular, to go with his big shoulders and broad, powerful chest.
So, okay, she’d given more than passing thought to his appearance. She hadn’t loved the military look of his close-cropped hair or a neck thick enough to suggest he spent his off time lifting weights instead of reading some good books.
In person, she wasn’t sure she liked him any better, but he was compelling. It was his eyes, she decided; she hadn’t known they were a steel gray she suspected could darken or lighten with his mood. Slightly droopy upper lids gave him a look of lazy amusement that was likely deceptive.
Whether he was competent to investigate a murder that wasn’t a simple domestic or a tavern brawl remained to be seen. If he wasn’t, would he be able to set aside his ego long enough to request help from the Oregon State Police?
That remained to be seen. She could take some satisfaction in knowing that she was in a great position to put pressure on him. And wouldn’t he love that.
*****
Sweeping the ground with his gaze, Grant walked slowly through the frozen high desert landscape, careful where he stepped. Twenty feet to his left, Dawson did the same. If the killer hadn’t dropped something handy like a cigarette butt or left a shell behind, they might never find where he’d set up – assuming this was the kind of ambush Grant envisioned. Still, he’d had to have transportation of some kind out here – horse or ATV. They’d get a break if they found something distinctive in the tire track, a horseshoe wearing in a particular way or specially made. Even if tracks turned out not to be all that helpful, every puzzle piece completed a little more of the picture.
He brushed against a rabbitbrush, bringing a hint of its foul and too pungent scent to his nostrils. It was almost as plentiful here as sagebrush in various forms. When crushed, the leaves of big sagebrush were pretty strong smelling, too, but pleasant. It was mostly the patches of snow he studied, and the gritty volcanic soil in between.
He paused momentarily to orient himself. Damn it, they had to be two hundred yards out from the fence line and body. Too far. Most hunters couldn’t shoot accurately from anywhere close to a hundred yards. The same held true for police snipers, who rarely trained on targets out more than a hundred, a hundred-and-fifty yards. Maybe he was wrong about how this killing had played out.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Dawson crouch to inspect something more closely, then straighten and move on without comment.
Jed Dawson had been an army sniper who’d served through tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. When interviewing him, Grant had asked about his background. He’d grown up in Georgia, which wasn’t a surprise, given the soft hint of a Southern accent belied by a stone face and eyes that rarely held any expression at all. Jed was a hard man to get to know, but Grant hadn’t yet regretted hiring him.
He hated thinking this, but Jed could have made this shot. Why…well, that was another matter.
Damn. Grant wished he knew where Jed had been this morning. Asking would be sure to damage a relationship that he’d have called the beginning of a solid friendship.
Later. For now, he had to believe in his one and only detective. There wasn’t another deputy Grant would trust out here.
He bent his head again and took another step. Now, there was a clump of sagebrush substantial enough that a man could hunker down unseen behind it. Even more mindful about where he placed his feet, he scanned the ground. A man lying down for any length of time would warm the earth beneath him. Once he stood up, it might take a print—
A slight depression beneath the brush caught his eye. Two depressions. He squatted to see better. “Damn,” he murmured, looking from here to the cluster of people working around the body. Bird’s-eye view.
Swiveling slightly, he imagined he saw two places scraped by boots.
“Jed,” he called.
Dawson made his way over to crouch right beside Grant, who pointed and said, “Bipod.” The twin imprints weren’t deep, but were perfect.
The detective let out a slow whistle. “Miracle you spotted that.” As Grant had, he considered the viewpoint a man would have had lying in this exact spot. He, too, turned, zeroing in on the faint marks left by the toes of boots. “This isn’t good,” he said finally.
“No, it isn’t.” Grant glanced at him. “This distance would be an easy shot for you, wouldn’t it?”
“This is nothing,” he agreed. “Could have made it from a lot farther, once upon a time. Given the right rifle and a good scope.”
He didn’t talk about his tours in Afghanistan as a sniper. Grant didn’t expect him to. He wasn’t big on reminiscing about his own tours in Iraq.
Surveying the wide-open country around them, Jed frowned. “Wonder if anyone heard the gunshot? Stands to reason other ranchers might have been out feeding their cattle this morning.”
“Someone might have spotted him.”
“Could have claimed to be hunting.”
“He’d have done his damndest not to run into anyone.” Locally, people knew each other. So well, any encounter the killer had this morning would be remembered. It would be nice to think a stranger had wandered into town, but murder was usually done by people with personal grudges.
Grant worked an evidence marker into the wiry branches of the sagebrush and poked the other into crusty snow, then said, “Let’s see where this leads.”
“Lot of people with military backgrounds around here,” Dawson commented after a lengthy silence.
“There are, but that kind of shooting is rare. I can’t remember hearing about anyone.”
The detective gave him an odd look. “Except me.”
So he’d guessed that Grant had to wonder about him.
“You ever even met Curt Steagall?”
“Nope.” Jed stopped. “This has to be it.”
The juniper was bushy enough, a horse tied behind it wouldn’t have been seen by Curt.
The horse had left one clear print in a small patch of snow. Grant couldn’t see that it told them anything but that it had been shod. Nothing distinctive jumped out.
“We need to canvass anyone who might have been outside anywhere in the vicinity,” he said. “There are half a dozen ranches within riding distance.”
“Sooner the better.”
Yes, but there was something he needed to do first.
*****
A half hour later, Grant made it back to the Steagall’s house driving the ATV. He hated the damn things. As far as he was concerned, horses did everything better, and a lot more quietly. He didn’t like motorcycles, either, or jeeping in the back country.
Despite his uneasiness, he’d left Dawson in charge. The detective had taken the horse that had been patiently waiting for so long, and was going to try to track the hoofprints. Failing that, he’d return the horse to the barn and drive from ranch to ranch along this narrow, two-lane road. Basic police work: who saw what and when. Who heard what – say a gunshot – and when.
Grant preferred to oversee any crime scene investigators, but he’d put off talking to the widow and the newspaper woman too long already. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been forced to cut corners given his lack of manpower. Leaving the ATV in the broad aisle of the barn, he walked back to the house, heading by habit to the kitchen door.
Ms. Ward was waiting to let him in. He hoped the two women had thought to lock up when they got back here, whatever Karen’s usual habit was.
She shivered and hurriedly closed the door behind him. “I think it’s getting colder.”
“I’m sure it is.” He glanced around the kitchen before focusing on her. She was a li
ttle dab of a thing, all right, at most five foot three, he guessed. He shouldn’t be noticing the surprising amount of curves she had packed onto that small frame, but couldn’t help himself, although he did succeed in keeping his eyes from dropping below her neck. Mostly.
Anyone inclined to dismiss her because of her lack of height hadn’t taken a good look at her face. She was sharp-featured: cheekbones, nose, chin. Brown eyes with those gold highlights. Dark auburn hair, cut short to curve behind her ears, was accented with a defiant purple stripe.
That stripe made him want to smile. He resisted the impulse.
“Where’s Mrs. Steagall?”
“Lying down.” Ms. Ward cast a worried glance toward what had to be the bedroom wing of the house. “She’s pretending, but I don’t think she’s really asleep.”
“I’ll talk to you first, not disturb her until I have to.” He pulled his hat off and dropped it on a chair. “Hope you don’t mind if I strip.”
“Oh. No, of course not. I can hang your coat up…”
“Chair is fine.”
“Let me pour you some coffee.”
He hadn’t even had to ask. He already liked this woman, despite their earlier clash.
She poured two cups and brought them to the table. “Have you had lunch? I can get out sandwich makings.”
Grant hesitated. He would normally say a polite no, but he was hungry, and couldn’t guess when he’d make it back to town. Anyway – she was offering someone else’s food, and Karen would likely never even notice a few missing slices of bread and cheese. “If it’s no trouble,” he said finally.
Cassie opened the refrigerator door, giving him a chance to admire a taut, rounded ass without risking her ire. It only took her a minute to produce thick slabs of roast beef, cheese, lettuce, tomato and a choice of condiments. Homemade bread, too, that she had to slice. His stomach rumbled. Some guilt surfaced.
“Karen makes her own bread?”
“Bread machine.” Cassie nodded toward an appliance on the kitchen counter. “I helped myself to a sandwich a little while ago, and was overcome by an attack of inadequacy. It helped to find out she hadn’t been kneading bread at the crack of dawn.”
Grant smiled crookedly, the only way he could smile. The nerve damage he’d suffered during one of his tours could have left him with considerably more troubling symptoms.
“Now, why is it that I can’t seem to imagine you ever feeling inadequate?”
“You try being a foot shorter,” she said coolly. “You figure out really quick that you need to find other ways to get noticed.”
“Height does matter to men when they, er…”
“Compete for status?”
He grinned. “Something like that. I’d think it would be different for women.”
“But most women have male co-workers,” she countered. “Or work in male-dominated fields. And even for women, small suggests childish.”
Given that her body was as womanly as they came, he doubted men would dismiss her on those grounds. For being a woman…sad to say, they might.
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said diplomatically. His sandwich assembled, he came close to gobbling.
“There’s cake, too,” she said after a minute.
He sighed. “I might have to get back on a horse.”
Cassie Ward laughed, a rippling sound that tingled on his skin. “Somehow, I think you can handle dessert.” Without even asking, she popped up to bring him a big slab.
He’d started in on the cake – rhubarb, he thought – when she asked abruptly, “Did you find anything?”
Grant swallowed. “I’d rather not say yet.”
Her eyes searched his. “I am capable of discretion.”
“I’ve already apologized.” Or had he? When she didn’t respond, he rolled his shoulders to release tension and said, “This isn’t personal. Investigators have to hold back.”
“I understand. It’s just…” She averted her face. “Seeing something like that…”
“It was ugly. Even by my standards.”
Her eyes flew back to his. “Murder is rare in this county. I took a look back – there’s been an average of one every four or five years.”
He nodded, understanding that she was really questioning his competence to investigate this crime. “About that. None since I became sheriff. But you know I took the job here not much over a year ago. I’m ex-military. And I started my career in law enforcement in Scottsdale, Arizona. Population is about a quarter of a million.”
“I remember that from the profile the paper ran when you were hired. I’d forgotten the military part.”
Surprised, he said, “You weren’t around last year, were you?”
“No, but I kept up with the newspaper online even when I was in Portland, and I’ve been skimming archived copies since I got back, too.” Her head tilted, birdlike. “Why Arizona?”
“Why don’t we do the personal exchange later?” he suggested. Like over dinner? Except, damn it, he wouldn’t be stopping tonight to sit down and eat, so he could hardly invite her to join him.
Her expression closed. “Fine.”
Would she open to him again? Despite regret, he said, “Tell me again about the phone call.”
She did, and in more detail. Every extra detail unsettled Grant.
“You thought the voice was familiar.”
“Like I said, he was distorting it somehow. Muffling it, for sure. I had an instant of wondering, that’s all.”
“You’ve thought about it.”
“Of course I have!” Her indignation died quickly. “The thing is, in my line of work, I hear a lot of people talk. He could have sounded like someone I interviewed in Portland. Since I’ve only been back in town for two months, that’s more likely than anyone local. I just don’t know.”
Her father had had his stroke back in November, Grant recalled. Accepting her judgment, he said, “But he knew your name.”
“It’s on the newspaper website, where I’m listed as acting managing editor. Plus my name is on three or four articles and the editorial in every issue.”
In his experience, first instincts were most often right on. His gut said it would eventually turn out that she knew the caller, if only in passing. Still, until and unless she had an epiphany, pursuing this wouldn’t gain him anything.
“This wasn’t your personal phone.”
“No.” Knowing where he was going with this, she pressed her lips together.
“I’ll get a warrant for the LUDs on all lines to the newspaper. Are you going to oppose me?”
They both knew any judge would hesitate to grant police the right to browse through calls to a newspaper, versus to an individual. He thought most judges would come down on his side, but if she fought tooth and claw arguing freedom of the press, that might tip the balance.
There was a long, long hesitation. “On general principal, I should, but…” She visibly wavered. “This is different. He isn’t a whistleblower, or someone coming to us with information he thinks the public should know. He’s using us to grandstand,” she said in obvious disgust. “So…no. I won’t fight the warrant.”
“Thank you.” After she nodded, Grant said, “You’re sure he said to ‘see’ Curt, versus ‘talk to him’?”
Not so coincidentally, she crossed her arms tightly. “Positive. Remembering gave me the creeps when Karen and I got out there.” After a pause, she said, “It still gives me the creeps. He sounded…amused. He knew.”
“He set you up.”
“Yes, he did.” More of that temper flared, sparking gold flecks in her eyes. “I wondered if he was watching when we got there.”
“If it’s any consolation, I doubt it. How could he have retreated without risking you seeing him?”
“I hustled Karen behind the trailer.”
“But he couldn’t know you’d do that,” Grant pointed out. “Even if he’d been well-hidden, movement would have caught your eye. Land’s pretty open out there.�
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“That’s true.” Her body loosened. “And it wasn’t as if I was afraid he’d shoot me, too. Pretty clearly, this guy wants his exploits in the newspaper. Front page, he said. I’m his tool.” That pissed her off, no question.
“I don’t suppose the call was recorded.”
He hadn’t held out enough hope to be disappointed when Cassie shook her head.
“Okay. Did you hear any gunshots during the drive or once you arrived?”
“No.”
“Did Karen mention hearing any? If she had, that might explain her worry.”
“She didn’t say. Although I’m not sure she would have. She was friendly, but treating me with kid gloves. I doubt she was enthusiastic about having a reporter show up, eager to talk to her husband.”
His mouth curled. “Understandable.”
She countered, “Plenty of people want to get their names in the newspaper, you know.”
Grant smiled. “Then that says something about Karen, doesn’t it?”
“It does seem to go with her personality,” Cassie conceded. “Beyond that first…scream, even her grief has been quiet. She turned inward.”
“She doesn’t know you well.”
Ms. Ward shrugged what could be another concession, then searched his face, although what she was looking for, he had no idea. Finally she asked, “Do you want to talk to her now?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. This was the roughest part of a homicide or rape investigation – although, in this case, he wasn’t also doing the notification. He’d have changed that, if he could, to save Curt Steagall’s wife from the hideous sight that had greeted her out there. “If you don’t mind,” he said civilly.
Cassie nodded, stood and slipped out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER THREE
Sheriff Holcomb’s talk with Karen was short and unproductive. Cassie knew, because he let her sit in on it, probably in case of hysterics. Which didn’t happen. Really, it was surprising she could answer questions in any coherent way.
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