Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Lucas hasn’t stopped scratching under Rolf’s chin since the moment we walked in, leaving the dog’s tongue lolling out.
He pauses now, frowning. “You really think we’re looking at a homicide?”
“Only other person who could’ve been with him had an alibi. The girlfriend.” Even as I talk, I’m digging my phone out and transferring the notes and witness statement I took into the Redhaven PD system. “They came here from California for a vacation. Hiking and photography. He went out the day before, she didn’t. Janelle Bowden vouches she was in their suite sick all day. So, finding the second set of footsteps without a police report about discovering a body?” I turn to Mallory. “Not one 9-1-1 call all day?”
Mallory sighs. “Nothing but people complaining about their neighbors’ music. I was so bored I even unlocked Ray, and I can’t stand that little twerp.”
“Still have no clue what any of that means,” Grant rumbles.
“Liar!” Henri teases, leaning over Grant’s chair and propping his elbows on top of Grant’s head. “You just don’t like thinking about our sweet Mallory playin’ her dirty little games with her sexy anime boys, eh?” He glances over his shoulder at Mallory and winks. “Ain’t nothin’ slowing you down, gorgeous. Keep at it.”
Mallory giggles, blushing and tucking a spiral of her silver-grey hair back into its bun. “You’re always such a flirt, Henri.”
Grant rolls his eyes, then shrugs Henri off. “I’m not a goddamned armrest, Frenchie. Move.”
“Okay, peanut gallery.” I swivel my chair back to my screen. “I’m going to actually work the case while you spoil my dog.”
“I thought spoiling your dog was part of the job? He’s a police vet, after all.” Lucas grins shamelessly.
“Pretty sure that’s my job, but Rolf doesn’t mind, so I’ll allow it,” I mutter, already focused on the photos on my screen.
Grant hefts himself up from his chair and makes his way over to my desk with his slow, bearish stride. He braces his hands on my desk, leaning over next to me and frowning at my screen.
“Besides the footprints, what else do we have? Motive? Suspects?”
“Nothing yet,” I grind out, but I’m lying. I very much have a murdering fuck in mind as I squint at the heel prints and indentation measurements. “No one in Redhaven even knew them, no recent altercations. But.”
That but has everyone in the room listening in.
Even Rolf pricks his ears up, swinging his head toward me.
“The girlfriend said he went out there to take photos,” I say. “She last heard from him the night before. So, the night before he had his camera. What did we not find in his bag or on his person?”
A few breaths suck in.
“Motherfucker,” Lucas growls.
Henri rubs his chin, his friendly air fading into quiet focus. “Perhaps he saw something he wasn’t supposed to out there. He photographed something that wasn’t meant for prying eyes, and the person who pushed him took the evidence.”
“Must’ve been all they cared about,” Grant adds, his brows lowering until his entire face is a thunderhead. “Didn’t take his ID or his phone. No attempt to conceal the body or hide who it belonged to. The Jacobins?”
“Only folks out there, usually,” I answer vaguely. I don’t want them mucking up my leads, and I inwardly apologize for the misdirection. “Of course, besides Culver, we’ve never seen them stoop to murder. Sure, they’ll light up your ass with buckshot for getting in their way, but generally that’s it. It’s the Arrendells who do the real killing around here.”
The entire room goes silent, turning that over.
I trace my thumb along the curve of that clearly defined half-moon heel print. From the soil firmness, imprint depth, stride length, and the narrowness of the foot, I have a good idea.
I’d say a woman, about five-seven to five-nine.
Average weight, roughly.
And I can already imagine one woman who fits that description perfectly, and who’d wear shoes that would leave just this kind of print.
Eustace Jacobin.
The crime scene also isn’t far from where Talia and I staked them out.
Yeah.
That’s food for fucking thought, all right. A lot to chew on.
Just what did poor Brian Newcomb see that he wasn’t supposed to?
Why would she kill him?
I swing my chair to look at Grant.
“Let me take this,” I say. “I know the hills around here pretty well. I can get in and out without being noticed. I’ll keep you guys posted if I find anything new.”
With a dubious grunt, Grant rubs the silver-shot brown scruff of his beard. “You always work alone. Dunno if this is a one-man job.”
“It is for now, Captain. We need stealth, not force.” And I need them out of my hair. One wrong move, and they could undo everything I’ve been working for when I feel like I’m on the verge of something big. “The second I need backup, I’ll loop you right in.”