by Mary Burton
Marissa cocked her head. “Dr. Granger, this your first crime scene?”
She moistened her lips. “Seen my share of crime scene pictures, but this is my first active scene.”
Jo’s face had paled to a pasty white. Her lips were drawn tight. She looked like she wanted to throw up.
Shit. He’d assumed she’d been to crime scenes. “You okay?”
Fire spit from her eyes. “I’m fine.”
Marissa cocked a brow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “The first murder scene is always roughest. I threw up when I saw my first dead body.”
Jo moistened her lips again and stood, as if the mention of getting sick unsettled her even more. She backed up, creating distance between her and the body. “I’m fine.”
The strong, putrid scent of death rose up as Brody stood and took Jo’s elbow in hand. She looked as if she’d topple over. “Let’s step back and let Marissa finish her work.”
Jo resisted. “I need to observe. There could be valuable observations I’ll miss if I’m not here.”
“They’re taping it all. We can check it out later.”
“Seriously, Jo,” Marissa said. “Don’t get sick on my scene.”
Persuaded by the logic, Jo ducked back under the tape and walked stiffly away.
“She’s going to be sick,” Marissa said.
Brody was already turning to follow Jo. “I know.”
Put one foot in front of the other. One. Two. Three. Jo counted the steps, grateful for each new one that put more distance between her, the body, coiling smells and the cops that would never let her forget this day if she threw up in front of them.
She made it beyond the line of cars and behind a bush before she lost control and vomited. Thankfully, she’d had little to eat today, but humiliation burned as her body took over control, leaving her helpless. When her stomach was empty, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and straightened.
“Damn it.” At least she’d managed this humiliation in private.
She turned to find Brody standing several feet from her, a fresh water bottle in hand. Heat rose over her face. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why couldn’t he have left her alone? He knew she was sick. Just like Brody to push.
He held out the bottle to her. “Don’t drink it. Rinse your mouth out.”
She accepted the bottle. “Thanks.”
Carefully, she unscrewed the top and took a small sip. However, the idea of spitting in front of Brody bothered her more than her upset stomach. She swallowed and instantly regretted. She turned and vomited again.
Drawing in an irritated, shaky breath, she straightened. This time she took a sip, but after swishing it in her mouth, spit.
“You always were stubborn,” he said.
“Hardheaded was the word you used.”
He smiled as if a memory drifted out of the shadows. “You’d been trying to teach me a poem.”
“Thematic construction.”
A dark brow cocked. “I didn’t want to learn, and you refused to sign the sheet releasing me to play ball until I did.”
She moistened her lips, wondering if she could find a ginger ale. “You learned it.”
“Forgot it as soon as I took the test.”
“But you earned a C minus on the test.”
“Enough to play ball. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I should be saying that to you. I’m the one with the great memory. Mindful of trivia you once said.” They stood poised at memory lane, ready to travel. Mentally, she stepped back as she raised her water bottle, pointing to the scene. “Sorry about that. I thought I could handle it.”
“I should have asked you if you’d been to a crime scene before. I assumed you had.”
She’d foolishly assumed that the hundreds of gruesome crime scene photos she’d seen were enough prep for real life. “Like I told Marissa, I’ve seen lots of pictures.”
Brody eased his hat back with the edge of his finger. “It’s the smell that got me the first time.”
“You threw up?”
“Hell, no.”
“Oh.”
He chuckled. “Don’t take it so personally. Not everyone has a cast-iron stomach like me.”
“Right.” Damn, why couldn’t she have kept it together?
“Why don’t I take you home?”
Her fingers tensed around the bottle. “Absolutely not. You’re working.”
He shook his head. “You’ve been out here for over seven hours.”
“As have you and everyone else.”
“We’re used to it. You’re not. Call it a day, Jo.”
Brody’s kindness flew in the face of angry memories she’d carried of him for too many years. But if she dug deep enough, she remembered that Brody could be nice when it suited. When he’d needed to pass the English exam, he’d called her freckles cute. When he needed his paper edited, he’d called her brilliant. When he’d wanted sex, he’d talked about her hot body.
He was past writing college papers and taking tests now, and considering he’d watched her get sick, she doubted he had sex on his mind. But he wanted insight into this killer. And though she had a weak stomach, she read people especially well.
She scraped her thumbnail against the water bottle’s label. “I’m used to working long hours.”
Amusement lightened his gaze and eased some of his stiff formality. “Inside. Behind a desk. Different when it’s cold and smells like death.”
She raised the water bottle to her lips, thought better of another sip and recapped it. “Point taken. Look, I’m fine. You go back to what you were doing. I am not leaving until the scene is processed.”
“Stubborn.”
“I think we covered that ground.”
He looked as if he wanted to speak but thought better of it. “Take it easy.”
Her stomach was settling. “I’d also like another look at the body.”
Brody raised a brow. “Really think that’s a good idea?”
This wasn’t about pleasing Brody, as it might have been when she was eighteen. This was about proving something to herself. “I promise not to ruin Marissa’s crime scene. Before my stomach got the better of me, a detail caught my eye.”
Doubt darkened his gaze. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted his hat back over his brow and extended his hand, indicating the path back to the crime scene. “Lead the way.”
When they reached the body this time, the medical examiner’s attendants were preparing to lift the body from the ground. The face and hair were still badly caked in mud and dirt, rendering them unrecognizable. This time she breathed through her mouth and eliminated the smell.
One of Jo’s greatest assets was that she could distance herself from horrific images or a client’s wild emotions. She’d come to understand that if she could remain free of emotions, she could really see the facts and sift efficiently through the data. Moments ago, the smell had gotten the better of her stomach, but she was prepared to pull back and really observe.
Holding the water bottle close to her chest, she studied the victim and the crime scene. However, this time Jo convinced herself she was looking at evidence. This time she focused not on the girl’s humanity but on the details that needed cataloging.
The victim was dressed. A peasant blouse made of a gauzy, green synthetic, likely from a high-end store. Tattered, stonewashed designer jeans that hugged narrow hips, fashioned to look old but in fact were expensive. Detailed black cowboy boots that cost five hundred plus dollars. Remnants of pink nail polish on long fingernails.
“She came from money,” Jo said. “This girl did not live on the streets.” She leaned closer, zeroing in on a tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. “Can I get a better look at that tattoo?”
Marissa motioned for an assistant with a video camera. “Shoot this.” When the camera was rolling, she slowly cut the bindings enough to release the wrist. Rigor mortis had long come and gone so the arm moved with relative
ease. Though the skin had darkened and slipped, it was possible to make out a butterfly tattoo.
Jo’s eyes narrowed. At first with the decomposition she wasn’t sure but the longer she stared at the image the more certain she became. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Where?” Brody said.
“I volunteered to help find a missing girl.”
She studied the girl’s pale face, forever frozen in panic and fear. She couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have the earth crushing the air from your lungs. “We were looking for a girl named Christa Bogart. Twenty-two years old. Went missing about a month ago. A local businessman started the Find Christa! campaign.”
Brody frowned. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure Christa had a butterfly tattoo. If you can clean her up, maybe get prints, you might be able to confirm this is Christa.”
“We’ll get on that ASAP.”
She leaned closer. “What’s that in her hand?”
Marissa leaned closer. “Looks like a silk flower.”
“A Texas bluebonnet,” Jo said.
Brody’s jaw tensed. “The classified ad read: BLUEBONNETS.”
“How did Smith know that she was here?” Marissa said.
Jo took a sip from the water bottle. “I don’t think he knew for sure. I think he rightly guessed if his apprentice was indeed killing that he was going to follow in his footsteps and use a burial site they’d visited before. It would have been a place this killer knew, was familiar with and therefore felt safe here.”
“But if he’d chosen another site,” Marissa countered, “he might not ever have been caught.”
Brody rubbed the back of his neck. “He sent a message to Smith through the paper, and Smith sent one back when he sent us here.”
“I suspect Smith knows Robbie as well as Robbie does himself.”
“They’ve not seen each other in a decade,” Brody said.
“That will add variables to the equation, but Smith made Robbie. Programmed him. If we want to find Robbie, we need to talk to Smith again.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
When the DPS officer dropped Jo off at her house, it was ten minutes to seven on Sunday evening. Brody had stayed at the crime scene but she’d opted to leave, knowing she’d done all she could for now. She had enough time to shower quickly and hustle into town and make her dinner appointment with Lara and Cassidy.
Hair wet and no makeup except mascara, she made it to the restaurant ten minutes late. A miracle.
“Well, you look like something the cat dragged in,” Cassidy said to Jo.
Jo slipped into the booth at the casual, vegetarian Austin eatery, doing her best to look cheery and not fresh from a hurried shower and a crime scene. Sitting across from her was Cassidy Roberts, a tall brunet. Sleek, well dressed and wearing a turquoise bracelet and earrings, Cassidy looked like a successful art gallery owner. And beside her was Lara Church, a petite blonde, wearing a loose top, jeans and no makeup. She looked like an artist. Several of her photographs hung in Jo’s house. The two women were first cousins.
Jo had met Lara and Cassidy last year when she’d been asked to consult on a case. And somehow the three of them, an unlikely trio, had become friends. Tonight they were celebrating Lara’s upcoming wedding to Texas Ranger Jim Beck.
Jo accepted a glass of wine from Lara. “Cassidy, be grateful I took the time to shower.”
Lara frowned. “Jim told me you were at the crime scene.”
Jo took a liberal sip of the wine. “Yes.”
Cassidy leaned forward, a colorful turquoise bracelet jangling on her wrist. “You were at a crime scene?”
“I was.”
“I can’t believe you emerged from behind your desk,” Cassidy teased.
“It’s been known to happen,” Jo said.
“Can I ask for juicy details?” Cassidy asked.
Lara sat back in the booth and sipped her wine. “No, you can’t, Cassidy. I’m willing to bet what she saw wasn’t nice.”
Lara’s controlled tone served as a reminder that she had survived a horrific attack last year. She was far too acquainted with crime scenes.
Cassidy frowned. “Sorry, Lara. Insensitive of me.”
Jo smiled. “I’d rather talk about fun things. Like Lara’s wedding.”
Lara’s smile warmed. “Now that is a subject near and dear to my heart.”
They chatted about the upcoming event, which was to be casual and held at Lara and Jim’s country house. Lara had emphasized from day one that this was to be a stress-free event.
Cassidy sipped her wine. “Jo, have you bought your dress?”
So much for no stress. “Not yet.”
“What?” Cassidy asked. “My God, woman, the wedding is six days away.”
“That’s enough time.” Jo tossed a silent appeal to Lara. “Right?”
Lara indicated her own worn jeans and white peasant top. “Don’t ask me. Cassidy is our fashionista.”
“Mine was ordered and altered weeks ago.”
Jo snatched up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. Her stomach had settled and she was now hungry. “Don’t worry, I’ll have something to wear by next Saturday.”
Lara cringed. “Jo, don’t worry over the dress. I don’t want this to be a burden. The wedding is casual. You don’t have to drive yourself crazy. I think you’d look amazing in green but, really, wear whatever.”
Cassidy sat back, her arms folded over her chest. “And I don’t know where you heard that weddings aren’t stressful. They were designed to drive people crazy.”
“I’m not going there,” Lara said. “I am not.”
Cassidy pushed long fingers through her dark hair. “Well, Jo will be if she thinks she’ll find a dress in less than a week.”
“She can wear whatever she wants,” Lara said. “Now can we talk about food? I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I am starving.”
Jo studied the vegetarian menu. “I’m so hungry I could eat tofu.”
The women laughed and Cassidy was able to flag their waitress. The young girl arrived at the table as Jo scanned her menu. She listened to Lara and Cassidy’s order before raising her gaze. The instant she saw her waitress she froze. She wore jeans and a green T-shirt that read: FIND CHRISTA!
It was after eleven when Jo climbed the steps to her front door, her mind ticking through tomorrow’s agenda at the office. She considered tomorrow’s unread files, brewing a pot of coffee and squeezing more work out of the day.
As she moved to unlock her front door, her neighbor Ted Rucker called out. “Are you on the seven-day-a-week work schedule again? Thought you were going to cut back.”
Managing a smile, she shoved her key in the lock and turned it. “I know it doesn’t look like I’m cutting back, but I really am. This weekend was the exception.”
He shoved back a lock of thick, blond hair with long fingers and laughed as he walked toward her with a large chocolate Lab. “Isn’t that what you said the better part of last year?”
Jo descended the two porch steps and scratched the Lab between the ears. “Hey, Greta. And I meant it. I planned to take this weekend off but work came looking for me.”
“You could have said no.”
“I could have.” It had never occurred to her to say no to Brody. He’d asked, and as if she was a naïve eighteen-year-old she’d come a-running. Not good.
Concern darkened his gaze. “You look beat. Where the heck did you end up?”
The night air here smelled so sweet compared to the crime scene. “I can’t get into the details. But it was a crime scene.”
“You at a crime scene? I can’t picture that.”
“Why not?”
“I remember the look on your face last fall when I buried that dead dog. I thought you were going to be sick.”
A wry smile twisted her lips. “Safe to say, I survived, and I’ve provided my professional opinion to the powers that be.” She patted Greta one last time. “B
y the way, if you see a sparkly little blond hurricane knocking on my door again, pretend you don’t know any details of my life.”
He grimaced. “I spilled the beans to your mother, didn’t I? I should have known. Mention of Winchester’s name about sent her into orbit. That’s why Greta and I happened by. We came to apologize.”
“We?” Jo smiled at Greta as she wagged her tail. “I always took Greta for the silent type.”
Rucker shook his head as he scratched the dog between the ears. “She can be a real blabbermouth at times.”
Jo chuckled. “Did Greta say anything else to my mom?”
“Only that you looked a little stressed.” He grimaced. “She shouldn’t have said that either.”
“No harm, no foul. You and Greta need not worry. My mom might have blown a gasket, but she’s likely forgotten all about it now.”
“Why did the mention of Winchester tick her off? Old boyfriend?”
Boyfriend. She and Brody had gone straight from one strong sexual attraction to married. They’d never really dated. And she’d certainly never called him her boyfriend. “Yeah, sorta like that.”
He leaned close as if they were coconspirators. “No relationship between you two now?”
“God, no.”
“That mean you’re gonna finally stop breaking Greta’s heart and go on a date with me?”
“Last time we talked it was coffee.”
“Greta says I needed to man up and offer dinner. She says there’s got to be a night when you’re not working or chasing that group of teen girls.”
She’d been avoiding Rucker’s dates for months, using her busy life as an excuse. But now she wondered why she’d been putting him off. Her mother had attributed her monastic life to Brody. How many times had she heard, “He ruined you for all other men.” That was, of course, not true. She had dated other men. But in the last couple of years she’d been so busy, she’d not made time for dating. Brody was a professional colleague, at best.
She studied Rucker’s smiling face, noting it was a nice change from Brody’s perpetual scowl, which she’d seen a lot of in the last twenty-four hours. “Rucker, I’m slammed this week and I’ve a wedding to attend on Saturday but I am open weekend after next. We can grab dinner downtown.”
