Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (47 page)

G
RAVE
D
ANGER

Read on for a sneak peek.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

July 2002

Coho, Washington

L
IBBY
M
AITLAND’S TRUCK WAS GONE
. She stood in the tiny, eight-space parking lot, gripping her keys until they dug into her palm, and wondered where the hell her truck was. The Suburban couldn’t have been towed. The lot was too small and her truck too large. Towing would have caused a commotion. It must have been stolen. A lousy end to a rotten day.

She couldn’t care less about the truck. Old, beat-up, and rusted, the beast drank fuel like a dehydrated camel, and a tank was more maneuverable. But it was the only vehicle she had, and, even worse, the excavation notes from the archaeological dig were inside. She mentally listed everything she’d loaded in the back when she left the site an hour ago: the stratigraphic drawings, the photologs, the burial notes, and the field catalog. If she didn’t get her truck back, her career as an archaeologist could take another major nosedive.

She turned around to go back inside the restaurant, planning to call the police, but she must have been their last customer for the night because the door was locked and the shades lowered. The windows vibrated with a loud bass beat she could hear through the glass. The cleaning crew had turned up the stereo. They would never hear her knock.

She fished around in her purse for her cell phone, and then remembered the phone was in the damn truck. She looked up and down the street. Who would have thought her truck would be stolen in Coho, Washington, a quaint little historic sawmill town where everyone knows everyone? Maybe this was a game the locals played: mess with the city girl who moved here only two weeks ago.

At ten p.m. on a summer night, the lengthy Pacific Northwest twilight was just starting to lose the battle with darkness, but there was enough light for her to see the police station, only a few blocks down Main Street. She headed in that direction, disconcerted to see the street was empty. Coho, a town at the edge of Discovery Bay on the lush green Olympic Peninsula, did not seem to offer an exciting nightlife.

The police station was a prime example of 1970s civic architecture: low, long, and brown. She went in the visitor’s entrance and was greeted by a series of windows reminiscent of ticket booths. Behind the first window sat a woman in uniform. Her name badge said
Eversall
. “May I help you?” she asked with the smile of someone relieved to have something to do.

“My truck was stolen.”

The officer looked surprised. “Wow. It’s been a while since we had a GTA in Coho.”

“GTA?”

“Grand Theft Auto. Give me the make, model, and plate so I can radio the patrol officers, then I’ll buzz you into the interview room, and an officer will take your full statement.”

Libby gave her the information and then went through the inner door.

“First door on the left,” Officer Eversall said.

The first door to the left was open. She flipped on the lights but thought the room held more promise when dark. The décor was bland industrial with a hint of municipal barren. Everything was clean, functional, made of metal, and at least twenty years old. She pulled out a chair and sat down facing the open door.

A man in plain clothes entered the room. Tall with broad shoulders, he was masculine in a way that would have flustered her if she were still seventeen. He walked with confidence and purpose that also would have befuddled her at a younger age. Thank goodness she’d said goodbye to seventeen half a lifetime ago.

“I’m Chief Mark Colby, ma’am. I can take your statement. I’m sorry to hear your vehicle was stolen.” His deep, warm voice held genuine concern.

Surprised to be greeted by the police chief at this late hour, she stood and shook his hand across the table. “Thank you. I’m Libby Maitland.” His handshake was firm and solid, and, like the rest of him, contained an air of authority. He was no backwoods hick in a small sawmill town. “I can’t think of why anyone would steal a beat-up old truck like mine.”

“What kind of vehicle is it?”

“A 1987 Chevy Suburban Silverado four by four. Black, gray, and rusty, it’s as big as it is ugly. And it’s really big.” She noticed his slight smile and felt entirely too pleased with herself. She wanted to flirt with him as if she were in a bar with her friend Simone and they were betting to see who could collect the most phone numbers. Of course, Simone always won because she had bigger breasts and wasn’t afraid to use them.

You are not in a bar. This is a cop.

“I don’t care about the truck so much as what’s inside it. All my field notes are there, and—” A wave of horror rippled through her and she gripped the edge of the table. “The GPS mapping unit is in the back. It costs two thousand dollars a week just to rent it.”

“If your truck was taken by kids on a joy ride, it’ll turn up quickly.”

Even in her worried haze, she felt the irony and scoffed, “Believe me, driving that truck is no joy.”

His eyes crinkled with a faint smile. “Then maybe it’ll turn up even sooner.” He grabbed a clipboard loaded with forms from the tabletop. “You had GPS mapping equipment. You’re a surveyor?”

“I’m an archaeologist.”

“The big dig out on the reservation road? You must be working for Jack Caruthers.”

“Yes. He hired my company, Evergreen Archaeological Consultants, to excavate the site on the proposed Cultural Center property.”

“Ever since hearing about your dig, I’ve wondered why you have to excavate before they can build the Center.”

She smiled. This, at least, was familiar territory, a question she was frequently asked about her job. “Archaeological sites are protected by law, just like endangered species. Construction, road building—these things destroy archaeological sites, and information about past human culture is lost forever unless we can recover it first. Jack Caruthers applied for a permit from the US Army Corps of Engineers to begin construction on the Cultural Center. The Corps won’t give him that permit until after I’ve done my job, which is to recover as much archaeological data as possible. No excavation, no permit. No permit, no Cultural Center.” What she didn’t say was: no Cultural Center, no new jobs for Coho, something the town desperately needed considering Coho’s primary employer, Thorpe Log & Lumber, had closed its doors two years ago.

“That makes sense.” He returned to his clipboard. “Is your vehicle company owned?”

“No, but I use it for project work a lot.”

“Are you the registered owner?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a local address?”

“We’ve moved here permanently. As part of my contract, I’m living in one of the Thorpe Log & Lumber houses in the historic district, the Shelby house,” she said, aware that most of the townspeople knew the mill houses by name rather than address.

The police chief wrote on the form, and then looked up. “You said ‘we.’ Are you married?”

“No. I was referring to my business and employees.” She wondered whether she should be flattered until he checked a box on his form. Oh, yeah, marital status would indicate joint ownership of the stolen property. Apparently her brain had been stolen along with her vehicle. She shook her head and cast about for something to say. “What an end to a stressful day.” She rubbed her temples. “You know, I lived in Seattle for more than ten years and never had anything stolen. I’ve been in sweet, idyllic Coho all of two weeks.”

“Coho’s appearance can be deceiving—perfect on the outside but we have problems like any other place.” He flashed her a full smile, which brought out the wrinkles around his deep blue eyes and a dimple in his left cheek. “That said, car theft is unusual.”

He probably gets whatever he wants with that smile
. Combine his smile with his easy good looks, the smooth, deep voice, and his air of assurance, and he was one dangerous male. She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Perhaps Coho wouldn’t be a bad place to live after all. And because her project had just gone to hell, she couldn’t afford to move again anyway.

He slid the clipboard across the table. “Here’s an inventory sheet. Please list the equipment that was inside the vehicle.”

She began to write. She was almost done when Officer Eversall stepped in the doorway. “I’ve got good news, Chief. Ms. Maitland’s vehicle has been found—it’s on the street—near the restaurant.”

“You’re kidding,” Libby said. “Is everything in it?”

“The officer on patrol said it looks fine.”

The police chief rose. “Let’s go check it out. You can tell me if anything’s missing.”

Together, they walked at a brisk pace down the street. The Suburban was parked in the shadows a block past the restaurant where she’d had dinner. She walked straight to the rear and looked inside. The field equipment was there. She rested her hand on the back window to steady herself and took several deep, calming breaths.

The police chief conferred with an officer inside a patrol car. She was eager to open the back and check the equipment, but worried she would ruin fingerprint evidence if she touched the door handle. After a moment, the chief stepped back, and the police car drove away.

Darkness had descended and the only sound to break the stillness of the night was the distant hum of the moving vehicle. Libby stood alone with the police chief. He studied her, and she wondered what he and the other officer had spoken about. Had his friendly manner really disappeared? Or was it just the effect of the dim streetlight and deep night shadows, which reduced his handsome face to only the sharpest angles: prominent squared jaw, forbidding brow. His deep blue eyes, warm cobalt in the fluorescent light of the police station, were now black.

She had the feeling he was waiting for her to speak. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Is this where you parked?”

“No. I parked in front of the restaurant.”

His shoulders dropped, giving her the impression she’d disappointed him. “Let’s see if everything’s here.” He opened the back of the Suburban. “Was this locked?”

“Yes. I always lock it when there’s field equipment inside.”

“Any chance you forgot tonight?”

She paused for a moment to consider her answer. “No,” she said firmly and scanned the contents of the back of the truck. “It looks like everything is here. The burial notes.” She flipped through a binder. “The field catalog, the photologs, the excavation notes.” She pulled out a bucket, revealing a bright orange case. “That’s the GPS mapping unit.”

He pulled out the case and opened it. The expensive survey equipment was nestled in gray foam padding. Relief rushed through her. She’d live to dig another day.

Leaving the equipment, the police chief walked a complete circle around the SUV, scanning each surface. He opened the driver’s door. Curious, she walked to the passenger side and peered through the window. He used his flashlight to inspect the interior, and then pulled the latch to release the hood. His gaze met hers briefly across the seat, and she felt a strange foreboding. He left the cab to raise the hood. She followed.

He rested a hand on the radiator and then touched the spark plugs, followed by the engine block. He straightened and studied her. He wasn’t happy. “Ms. Maitland, I’ll ask again. Is this where you parked your truck?”

“And again, no. I parked in front of the restaurant.”

“What time did you enter the restaurant?”

“A little before nine. I think they were just getting ready to close the kitchen.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Just after ten. When I realized my truck was stolen, I walked straight to the police station.”

“Ms. Maitland, have you been drinking?”

She felt blood drain from her face as his meaning sunk in. He thought she was so drunk she hadn’t seen her beast of a truck on an empty street. “I had a glass of wine with dinner, yes. One glass.” She reached into her purse. “Here’s the receipt.” The contempt in her voice adequately conveyed her outrage at his question, but inside, she could teach Jell-O to quiver.