by Rachel Grant
“Now I understand your reaction to Jason.”
“He didn’t know she and I were together. She lied to him, to me. She had a shot at the rich lawyer of her dreams and went for it. When Jason discovered we were living together, he dumped her and told her to confess to me or he’d do it for her. She admitted to the affair, and I moved out of our apartment the same day. A few months after that, I finished my master’s program, and Jason gave my name to the headhunter Coho had hired to find a police chief. What Sheila did has never been an issue between Jason and me.”
“But Sheila’s an issue now, or you wouldn’t be telling me about her.”
“I think he’s interested in you. Apparently we have the same taste in women.”
“The corollary being, am I the same type of woman, ready to jump from you to him? Don’t hold me accountable for your ex-fiancée’s actions, and I won’t assume all cops are like Aaron.”
He was making a mess of this. “I had that coming.” He gathered her closer. “Listen, Libby. I’m crazy about you. I want this to work between us. I trust you. I don’t care that you’re working with Jason. I just want you to come home to me at the end of the day.”
“That’s what I want, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LIBBY PAUSED BY THE REAR DOOR of the Shelby house, bracing herself to enter for the first time since the attack. Mark had wanted to be by her side this morning, but a traffic accident at the north end of town prevented him. Which was just as well. This was something she needed to face down on her own. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
As promised, Jason had had a security system installed. She shut off the alarm, and then spent several minutes familiarizing herself with the system before resetting the security code. After that, she squared her shoulders and turned to face the kitchen.
A cleaning crew had visited over the weekend and the crisp scents of lemon and pine permeated the space, and yet she was certain she could still detect the faint odor of gasoline.
Reminded of the first sharp jolt from the Taser, her knees weakened. She stepped to the sink and braced her arms against the front, holding herself up. She ran the faucet and splashed cold water on her face and then closed her eyes. Think of the frigid river water. Think of mud, laughter, fishing, and falling in love.
She opened her eyes and looked around the kitchen again. You can do this.
She wanted to reclaim the room by preparing and eating something, but she had no appetite. She turned and went upstairs to her office.
She was engrossed in a transcript when her geomorphologist, Jerry Santos, called. “Hey, Libby. What the hell are you doing sending me Mount St. Helens ash and claiming you found it a meter deep? You trying to mess with me or something?”
“Are you talking about the soil samples I sent over a week ago?”
“Yeah. I started processing them this morning.”
“We didn’t send you Mount St. Helens ash, Jerry. The samples we sent are from the site in Coho. Ash from the Mount St. Helens eruption didn’t dump here on the peninsula.”
“I know. But the bag you sent me is St. Helens.”
“Wait a second—read me the provenience information written on the bag.”
Jerry did while Libby opened the site master catalog on her computer.
“That sample came from just above Angela’s remains—we sent it before we found the bones. I forgot to tell the police to contact you to get the samples back.”
“Police? What the hell are you talking about?”
“That bag of St. Helens ash you have is police evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“We found a murder victim in the site, a woman who has been missing for more than twenty years. It made the news here, but might not have made the headlines in Idaho. Stop processing all the samples that came from units 22, 23, and 24. I’ll have the officer in charge of the investigation contact you,” she said.
After the conversation ended, Libby leaned back in her chair. Angela had been buried under a large pocket of Mount St. Helens ash. The ash couldn’t have fallen naturally on the Olympic Peninsula—Jerry had identified a clue to where she’d been buried before her remains were moved in 1984.
She picked up the phone to dial Mark, and then stopped. She would rather tell him in person and could use a break from the Shelby house. Traffic was light—as usual for Coho—when she crossed town, noting that the earlier accident had been cleared. Mark was probably at the station.
An officer she didn’t know led her through the squad room to Mark’s office. He smiled in surprise when he saw her. He looked gorgeous. His button-down shirt was open at the collar, bringing vivid memories of running her tongue over his exposed skin. She licked her lips.
His dimple deepened, and he gave her a sultry look before he said softly, “Cut that out, you’re giving me a hard-on. I’m going to be stuck behind this desk all day.”
She laughed. “I have news. I got a call from my geomorphologist this morning. We sent him some samples before we found the remains. Today he told me an ash sample we took a meter below the surface was from Mount St. Helens.”
“As in the 1980 eruption?”
“Exactly. The sample was taken from just above the bones, where we uncovered a large ash stratum. The layer could only have been deposited on May 18, 1980, when St. Helens erupted. The ash cloud from St. Helens coated Eastern Washington within hours, but only trace amounts of ash ever made it to the Olympic Peninsula, and most of that traveled all the way around the world before getting here. Which means, the pocket of ash we sampled had to have been moved with her. There’s no way a deposit of St. Helens’ ash that thick is in situ on the peninsula.”
“So you think she was in Eastern Washington before she was moved here in 1984.”
“Yes. She must have been buried in a very shallow grave before May 18, 1980. You asked the ME if a body could decompose down to bones in less than five years—well, Eastern Washington’s desert environment is perfect for rapid decomposition.”
“And you assume she was buried in a shallow grave because the layer of dirt above the bones but beneath the ash deposit was thin.”
“Yes. It’s the Law of”—her face heated as she remembered exactly how she’d explained the principle to him on Saturday—“Superposition again.”
His eyes flashed with amusement. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that geologic law.” He turned serious. “So it’s likely her body was originally buried somewhere in Eastern Washington, then St. Helens exploded and the ash covered her grave.”
“Yes. Whoever dug Angela up from her first resting place removed her bones with the soil and ash that was on top of her. I’ve already given you copies of the maps we drew of the ash layer with depth measurements. A snow shovel or something similarly wide and flat would make it possible to move the remains and dirt in solid pieces, which explains why her skeleton was still articulated and the ash layer intact.”
“I need your geomorphologist’s phone number.”
She handed him Jerry’s card.
He leaned back in his chair. “The person who killed her must not have worried about someone finding her accidentally, because even a dog could easily uncover a burial that shallow. I wonder what changed? Why was she moved?”
“I don’t know. That’s your job, Chief.” She stood. “I’ve got to go.” She paused and turned. “Maybe you should get an FBI profiler to review the case.”
“You watch too many movies.” He stood and followed her to the door.
“No. I read too many mysteries. I like Patricia Cornwell, don’t you?”
“I don’t have time for thriller fiction. I’m a cop. I live it.”
She burst out laughing. “Uh, huh. And I’m Indiana Jones without the Fedora.” She paused. “You know, I could buy a whip.”
He closed the door, pressed her back against the solid panel, gave her a searing kiss, and then said, “And I’ve got the handcuffs.”
MARK PLAYED P
HONE TAG with Jerry Santos for a while before finally connecting. Santos promised to send a full report of his analysis of the ash sample, along with all the remaining bags from the burial pit. Mark hung up. He couldn’t believe his luck. He had a team of cops working overtime to ferret out every last bit of information from any small scrap of evidence they had, yet it was Libby who had just provided him with a major break.
The Mount St. Helens ash indicated Angela had originally been buried in Eastern Washington. Back in 1979, investigators had tried to place Angela in Eastern Washington. If they’d been able to prove Angela went east from Seattle instead of west, they’d have had a strong case against Jack, even without the body.
“Chief, you got a minute?”
Mark looked up to see Luke Roth in his office doorway. It was nearly noon and he’d planned to head out and get a bite to eat. “What do you need?”
“I’ve been following up on the Maitland investigation and have some questions.”
“Fire away.”
“You stated you’d argued with Ms. Maitland about the boxes she had, which contained Angela Caruthers’ papers. Did Maitland know you planned to return with a warrant to seize the remaining boxes?”
“She did.”
“Did she know how long it would take you to obtain the warrant?”
“I told her I would be back in an hour.” His phone rang. Caller ID said Seattle PD. Could be Bobby. “Luke, I’ve got to take this call. We’ll finish this when I’m done. Close the door,” he instructed before picking up the phone.
“Listen, Colby.” Surprise registered as he recognized the voice. Aaron Brady. “This has got to stop. You’ve got Internal Affairs crawling up my ass and all because I showed seriously bad judgment in getting involved with a whack job groupie.”
Mark kept his voice level. “Brady, perfect timing. I have questions about your activities Thursday night.”
“I was home reading my Bible. Look, I’m calling you cop to cop. You need to put a stop to this.”
“Fine. Stop harassing Libby.” Mark wanted to keep him on the phone, hoping he would slip up and say something that could be used against him.
“I didn’t harass her before and I’m not harassing her now. She harassed me because I wouldn’t help her with her financial troubles.”
“That doesn’t sound like a groupie. Decide on one story and stick to it.”
“Oh, she definitely has a thing for cops. I bet she’s already gunning for somebody in Coho, the poor bastard. I was just a bonus, because I had a connection to her client, which she wanted to use. The project she ran for my brother was in financial trouble.”
“Sounds like a convenient excuse.”
“Deny it all you want, Colby, but I’ve got the facts on my side. She took my brother to court. She lost. Hasn’t she whined to you yet about the thirty thousand my brother supposedly owed her? He didn’t owe her a dime. The judge agreed.”
“I’ve read the court documents. That wasn’t the issue, nor was that the finding.”
“She claimed my brother agreed to the increased budget. She wanted me to back her statement. I wouldn’t do it, no matter how good she fucked.”
Anger gripped Mark. He wanted to rip Brady’s throat out. “Libby lost because the signed copies of the contract addendum mysteriously disappeared. She had nothing else to back up her claim. There was a break-in at her office, and you were harassing her twenty-four/seven, so I have a personal favorite theory about what happened.”
“I get it now,” Brady said, his voice oozing satisfaction. “Smart woman, going straight for the top. Man, I should have called you sooner and saved you some trouble. I admit she’s a fine piece of ass. Just remember, she’ll fuck anything to get what she wants. She wanted me to get more money out of my brother. She’s probably screwing you so you’ll believe her bullshit stalking claims.”
“You’re full of shit if you think I believe a word you say.”
“Does it bother you I had her first?” Brady asked in a whisper filled with taunting malice.
“It might, if it were true.”
“She told you we didn’t fuck?” He laughed. “I fucked her till my dick nearly fell off. I know what it feels like to be inside her. I know what she sounds like when she comes.” He paused. “She has a scar from a barbed wire fence. Inside thigh. Two inches long.”
“Don’t call again. I don’t have time for this.” He slammed down the phone. Brady knew about her scar. He didn’t believe Brady. He couldn’t. But still, doubt crept in.
Or maybe it had never quite left.
He picked up his car keys and left the station.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LIBBY SAT ACROSS FROM JASON in her dining room. Because she was swamped with work, he’d brought lunch from a Chinese restaurant. She wondered what his purpose had been in arranging this meeting. She’d seen the rivalry mixed with respect between Mark and Jason, but now she understood why. Did he feel guilty about Sheila? Was he really blameless?
Their meal had reached the point of winding down, and Jason still hadn’t broached whatever he wanted to talk about, which, she knew from experience, was unusual for him. This made her worry he was going to drop a bomb worse than last time.
Jason sat back, setting his chopsticks on his plate. “Jack and I have begun making arrangements to bury my mom. It’ll be a while before the funeral but knowing we can bury her is a relief.”
Reality slapped her into the present. She’d lost sight of what Jason and his father were dealing with. Guilt flooded her. “I’d like to attend when the time comes.”
“Thank you. I want her killer found. I want a conviction. And I know that means waiting for the police to release her remains, but, after more than two decades, I’m ready to put her to rest.”
“I’ve been going through her research, Jason. I can’t help but feel as if some of it is missing. I wasn’t able to go through all the boxes, but still, there doesn’t seem to be enough data considering the number of years she put into it.”
“The Coho PD should give you copies from the boxes you didn’t get to go through. If you have trouble getting it from them, let me know. Also, Dan Parker called to let me know he found boxes in storage. I was going to pick them up over the weekend, but ended up staying in Coho. How is your report coming?”
“I’m behind.” She didn’t tell him the truth—that being assaulted had changed her priorities. Work was no longer first. Jason was Jack’s son and Jack might not understand. “I hope what I have is what Rosalie wants. But, because I can’t include conjecture or supposition, under threat of your lawsuit, she’ll get the best I can manage.”
Guilt flashed in Jason’s eyes. “That brings us to what I wanted to talk to you about. I feel like I owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do, and the good news is that maybe in a few days your report won’t matter. I’ve spent the last ten months negotiating a deal to sell Thorpe Log & Lumber. Now we’re scheduled to sign and close on Thursday. If the deal goes through, I don’t care what you write in that report.”
Surprise rippled through her. “You managed to move up the closing date on this business deal so it would be complete before I send my draft to the Corps of Engineers.”
He nodded. “It wasn’t easy. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. It still could fall through.”
Stunned by the amount of trust he had in her, she asked, “Why are you telling me?”
“To take some of the pressure off you. You found my mom, and I know you had to work to convince the cops she wasn’t Indian. If you hadn’t pushed, then there never would have been a DNA test that verified her identity. Nothing I do can equal what you’ve done for Jack and me. For my mom. Giving you the freedom to write your report the way you need is small payment.”
“Who is your buyer?”
“A consortium of investors. They want to make Coho into a living history museum. A tourist attraction. Like Williamsburg
.”
Libby set her glass down with a thud. “Coho is the perfect setting for that.”
“They’re buying everything with the guarantee that the historic district will remain intact. We’ve been trying to sell ever since the mill closed, and the historic district was always the sticking point. All company holdings are on the National Register of Historic Places. That scared off potential buyers. It was either break up the historic district or let some buildings fall into disrepair so they could be razed—not ethical, but still legal. Now we don’t have to do anything that drastic. In fact, the buildings that need work will be returned to their late-nineteenth century state.”
“Why did my report matter?”
“I couldn’t take the chance that the investors would back off. There’s another sawmill town on the Kitsap Peninsula—Port Gamble. They don’t have as many structures or acres as TL&L, but they also don’t have a racist bastard who ran things for nearly seventy years. The whole project is a celebration of history. Coho history. Like Williamsburg, they plan to do reenactments of actual events that happened in Coho, with the focus, fortunately, on the 1870s—before Lyle. But there will be displays and exhibits about TL&L in the twentieth century. If they know exactly what Lyle was, how he treated the tribe and the workers, I think they would choose to buy Port Gamble instead.
“So, Libby, if for any reason the deal doesn’t close on Thursday, what you put in your report could cause the sale to fall apart.”
“And there’s the major problem. An accounting of Lyle’s sins is exactly what Rosalie wants. If your buyers are likely to look elsewhere due to controversy, then anything I write could be a problem.”
“I need to close on Thursday,” Jason said. “If I don’t, will you let me read your draft before you submit to the Corps?”
“I won’t change anything, Jason.”
“But you’ll let me read it?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his watch and stood abruptly. “It’s later than I thought. I’ve got a meeting to get to.”
