Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (9 page)

“Yeah.”

He shook his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She tore open another wipe. “So if you own this property, I’m assuming that trap’s yours?”

“Don’t know whose it is. At a guess, I’d say Alligator Joe.”

“Alligator Joe? You can’t be serious.”

He looked over his shoulder. “He’s got a little cabin down by the hollow, lives off the land.”

“You let him squat on your property?”

“He’s been here forever. Doesn’t really bother anyone.”

Sure. Except clueless federal agents stumbling around in the dark. Maybe it had been Alligator Joe crashing through the forest, scaring the crap out of her.

She finished cleaning her cut, acutely aware of Liam’s tall, muscular body right beside her, so close she could feel the heat emanating from him. His unexpected presence here rattled her. And when she got rattled, she tended to be a bitch.

She pulled her cuff down and stuffed the bloody wipes into her pocket. “I need to get back,” she said.

“I’ll take you.”

“Don’t bother. My SUV’s down the trail.”

He walked around the front of the truck. “I’ll take you to your SUV, then. Get in.”

She watched him as he slid behind the wheel. He had a way of bulldozing people. She understood it completely because she had it, too.

She tucked the Maglite into her pocket and slid into the truck. Warmth surrounded her, and she looked at him in the glow of the dashboard. He had a strong profile, straight posture, broad shoulders. Again she was struck by the raw masculinity of him and felt a hot rush of attraction.

She focused on the view outside her window as he turned the truck around in the narrow space.

“How long have you owned this land?” she asked.

“Almost a year now.”

“Why’d you buy it?”

“Case I want to expand.”

“And you just let some guy live on it rent-free?” she asked.

“He pays in other ways. Works as a handyman around the place sometimes. He can fix damn near anything with a motor. He drives a truck even older than yours—an eighty-seven Chevy, blue and white, with a hundred-eighty-five-horsepower V-8.” He glanced at her. “What’s your Ford, a ninety-one?”

“Ninety-two.”

“That’s a first-generation.”

She slid a look at him. “You sound like a mechanic.”

“My dad was a mechanic. I grew up around cars,” he said. “And you never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“What are you doing out here?”

She sighed. “I was looking for clues we might have missed.”

“Find any?”

“Not really.”

He glanced at her. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You seem jumpy.”

Irritation bubbled up, and she stared out the window. But okay. She’d drawn down on him. He had good reason to think she was paranoid.

The truck bumped along the road, and she looked at him. She was used to being around big men. SWAT was second only to the military as a destination for jacked-up alpha males. But this one was especially large, and just sitting next to him made her feel small by comparison, weaker. And she didn’t like feeling that way.

She gazed out the window again and realized her pulse was still thrumming. He unnerved her. It wasn’t just his size, it was his attitude. Maybe she was self-conscious because he’d caught her flat on her ass. She was definitely embarrassed that she’d pulled her weapon on him.

She adjusted the vent and got a waft of hot air. His attitude bothered her, but she liked his truck. It smelled like leather and earth and felt deliciously warm. She forced herself to ignore the little flurry of nerves generated by being alone in the dark with him. The nerves weren’t from fear but something else. And she wondered which was worse, being afraid of a man she was investigating or being attracted to him?

“You shouldn’t come out here alone.”

She looked at him. “Why not?”

“We’ve got more than a few meth heads around here. You don’t want to walk up on something, not without backup.”

She watched his face in the dimness, uneasy with the protective tone of his voice. “We confirmed the ID today,” she said.

“I know.”

That ticked her off.

“Won’t be long till the media has it,” he added.

“Where are you getting your information?”

He didn’t answer.

“And the other day,” she said, “how’d you know we were here, me and M.J.? Are you having us tailed?”

Even if he was, he’d probably never admit it. But she at least needed to ask and get his reaction. Shadowing investigators could definitely be considered suspicious behavior.

Although she had to be honest with herself. She didn’t consider him a real suspect. Despite his links to the victim, she simply didn’t feel it.

“I’m guessing you filmed us approaching your property and ran my plate,” she said.

The corner of his mouth curved. “Nothing that cloak-and-dagger.” He glanced at her. “I’m friends with Crystal.”

“Who’s Crystal?”

“She waited on you at the Waffle Stop. Bright red hair, eyebrow ring. Her dad’s Leo Marshall.”

She just stared at him.

“The manager at Big Pines. Try to keep up.” He was grinning now, and she knew he was teasing her.

She turned to face the window. “Small-town grapevine. And here I’ve been all impressed with your spying abilities.”

“You should be.” He pulled up to her Explorer and parked. “We’re the best there is.”

She looked at him in the darkness, so confident it bordered on arrogance. And the crazy thing was she believed him—he was that good.

His eyes locked on hers, and the air between them felt charged with electricity. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her heart skittered. Was he going to kiss her? He eased closer, watching her, making her heart pound.

“I’m sorry about Catie,” she blurted.

He pulled back, as she’d intended.

“You were fairly close, I take it?” When he didn’t answer, she kept pushing. “You knew her routines?”

He just looked at her.

“We’re trying to understand how she ended up at the park that day,” she explained. “Silver Springs Park. A witness might have seen her jogging, but her husband doesn’t think so, and we didn’t recover any clothes, so . . .”

His brow furrowed, and he turned away. “She went there sometimes. She liked the solitude.”

“How do you know?”

“I showed it to her.” His gaze met hers again.

Yet another circumstance linking him to the murder. And still Tara wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure of his relationship to the victim, just that he hadn’t told her everything.

Was it a love triangle? Was he part of Catie’s marital problems? Even if they weren’t having an affair, there could have been undercurrents of jealousy.

She pushed open the door. “Thanks for the help.” As she said it, she realized he still hadn’t explained why he’d been out here.

He put his hand over hers, warm and possessive. “Be careful, Tara.”

She pulled away. “I will.”

SHE TOOK OFF
without a backward glance and Liam watched her in the rearview mirror. What the hell was it with her?

He shoved his truck into gear and got moving. She considered him a suspect, and so he ranked right up there with every lowlife scumbag she’d ever put in jail.

He drove through the woods, thinking about her, as he had been for days. He was a good judge of people, and the more he thought about it, the more he believed the way she acted toward him was just that, an act.

Tara Rushing was smart. And despite the incriminating circumstances—because they sure as shit were—he doubted she really believed he was a cold-blooded killer. There was something forced about her frosty attitude.

He’d caught the look in her eyes when they’d first met. And he’d watched her reaction to him tonight. Liam knew when women were attracted to him, and this one was, no question. And yet she held back. He wasn’t sure what her hang-up was—probably something to do with work—but she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length.

He was determined not to let her.

A SWAT team. Damn. Now it was going to be even harder to get her out of his head.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he dug it out. “Yeah.”

“You done yet?” Jeremy asked him.

“Just the northwest. I’m headed for the southeast corner now.”

Silence, probably as Jeremy wondered what the holdup was. Then he said, “Okay, we’re good to go in the control room. Everything’s live.”

“I’ll finish this installation and be there in a few,” Liam told him. “How’s it running?”

“Right as planned.”

L
iam was right about the press, and by seven
A.M.,
the parking lot of the motel was crowded with media vans. Teams of reporters staked out the Waffle Stop, too, collecting quotes from locals for their morning broadcasts. Tara and M.J. got their coffee to go and navigated through traffic to pick up U.S. 59 down to Silver Springs.

Compared with Cypress County, the administrative offices for Silver Springs were brand spanking new, housed in a two-story building with a facade of Texas limestone. Silver Springs was in transition. What had once been a sleepy logging town was now an affluent bedroom community on the outskirts of Houston. As they pulled into the parking lot, Tara wondered if the people who ran the town were modern like their headquarters or still mired in the past.

“Nice,” M.J. said, as Tara whipped into a space beside the slot reserved for the police chief. It looked like he was already in, and Tara checked her watch to make sure they weren’t late.

“Who’s here again?” Tara asked as they got out.

“Chief Milt Becker and I think one of his officers.”

They entered the building and were immediately approached by a rail-thin police officer in a blue uniform. “Special Agent Rushing?”

He’d been expecting a man, Tara could tell. They shook hands, and Tara introduced him to M.J.

“I been hearing about that raid the other day,” he said. “What’d they call it, Operation Froyo? There ought to be a special place in hell.” He shook his head. “Anyway, your guys down there, they did a good job.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Tara said drily.

“Y’all come on back.” He motioned them down a corridor. “Everyone’s in the conference room.”

“Everyone?” M.J. asked.

“The sheriff wanted to sit in. Him and Chief Becker go way back, so . . .”

He let the thought trail off as he opened a glass door to a room where half a dozen men crowded around a table, including Sheriff Ingram and his deputy, Jason Moore. They went through introductions, and Tara took a seat beside Chief Becker, a heavyset man with a silver buzz cut.

“You ladies want some coffee?” The chief nodded at a carafe on the table beside a half-empty box of fruit kolaches.

“No, thanks.” Tara pulled out a notebook. “I assume everyone’s had a chance to read the ME’s report,” she said, trying to set the tone. Jacobs was still pushing cooperation with the locals, and she was determined to try. “Dr. Greenwood concluded manual strangulation, and the forensic anthropologist at the Delphi Center backs that up. Greenwood’s report also includes the tox results. She’s negative for drugs and alcohol.”

Becker whistled. “That came back in a hurry.”

She assumed he meant the toxicology labs, and he was right. Typically, they could take a few weeks.

“You been to Delphi?” Ingram was frowning at her now.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Tara said. “While I was there, I had a chance to talk to the forensic anthropologist about the Jane Doe case from November.”

He bristled. “What about it?”

“It’s been classified as a homicide.” Tara glanced at the blank faces around the table. “A woman’s body was recovered in Cypress County near the Trinity River, back in the fall.”

“Opening weekend.” Becker nodded. “I remember that.”

“The victim has some broken bones and knife injuries,” Tara said. “The tool-marks expert at the Delphi Center is analyzing the case now to see if there’s a link.”

Ingram looked irritated.

“I’m surprised you didn’t think to mention it,” Tara said pointedly.

“What’s to mention? It’s a dumped-body case, three months old. We don’t even have an ID on her.”

Dumped-body cases were among the toughest to solve. No witnesses, no murder weapon. And whatever biological evidence there was had been exposed to the elements. Tara sympathized with the challenges, but the sheriff didn’t sound challenged so much as lazy.

“Did Delphi get my package, do you know?”

Tara looked across the table. The question was from the Silver Springs fire chief, Alex Sears, whose presence at the meeting hadn’t yet been explained.

“What package is that?” she asked.

“Their lab out there—I sent in the lock and chain off the gate from the fire break,” he said. “They were supposed to run it for prints.”

Becker waved a hand at him. “Hold on a minute. Let’s catch these gals up.” He looked at Tara. “Alex here found evidence our perpetrator used the fire break north of the park. It’s an access road, but it’s gated off.”

“Tire tracks match the ones y’all found,” the fire chief said, although Tara wasn’t sure how he could know that. “Looks like he used bolt cutters on the lock, then threw it in the bushes.”