Buried Secrets Page 4

“That would be my take from the couple of times I’ve seen her in action.”

  “On the prickly side, though.”

  Mitch arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

  He shifted his weight. Careful, McGregor. “Sensitive might be a better word.”

  “Sensitive.” His buddy considered that. “Nope. Doesn’t fit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she has a softer side, but in my professional encounters with her, she came across as cool, composed, and thick-skinned. I was at County jail when she hauled in a meth tweaker. Guy had a lab in his basement and was not thrilled to be busted in the middle of a cook. He called her every name in the book, and she never flinched.” Mitch cocked his head. “What did she get prickly—excuse me—sensitive about?”

  He was in too deep to change course now.

  “I, uh, mistook the male officer on the scene for the chief.”

  Mitch winced. “Ouch.”

  “Then she took offense at a comment I made about crime scene protocol.”

  “Let’s see. You assumed the chief was a man and questioned her professionalism.” He shook his head. “Buddy, you have a lot of ground to make up.”

  Mac’s neck warmed. “Look, the officer was uniformed. She wasn’t. The crime scene comment was nothing more than that—a comment, not a criticism. I don’t know why she got bent out of shape.”

  “Maybe she was having a bad day.” Mitch lifted one shoulder. “Besides, what does it matter? You won’t be crossing paths with her much once this situation is resolved.”

  True . . . professionally speaking. On the personal side, however . . . could be a different story. And he wanted more info, just in case.

  “In the meantime, though, we have to work together. What do you know about her background?”

  “Only what I’ve heard through the grapevine. She’s been here about a year. Came from Chicago when Carson started its own PD.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I already know all that.”

  “So you two did talk.”

  “Not much. What did she do in Chicago?”

  “Started out as a cop, worked her way into the detective ranks.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “I have no idea. I heard she has family here. That might have been part of the reason.”

  “But why didn’t she get a job in a bigger municipality? Or even County?”

  “How should I know?” Mitch gave him a speculative look. “And why are you interested, anyway?”

  Time to back off.

  He shrugged. “I like to be fully briefed on the players—especially when I may be dealing with them for a while. My guess is we’re looking at a crime scene out there. A shallow, unmarked grave in a wooded area? More than suspicious.”

  “How recent is the grave?”

  “That’s for Barbara and the ME’s office to estimate. I’d say it’s a year old, minimum. Maybe a lot older than that. The part of the skull I saw was completely skeletonized.”

  “The ID could be a challenge.”

  “No kidding.”

  Mitch propped a shoulder against the stone retaining wall behind him. “Any other questions about Chief Grant?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you the answer, anyway. No, she’s not married.”

  Since her ring finger was bare, he’d already guessed that—but it was nice to have it confirmed.

  Not that he intended to share that with his buddy.

  “I didn’t ask about her marital status.”

  “You wanted to.” Mitch’s smirk was back.

  “I don’t date colleagues.”

  “She works for a different municipality—and this case won’t last forever.”

  “For an ace detective, you’re jumping to a lot of shaky conclusions.”

  “Yeah? Are you saying you’re not interested in getting to know her better?”

  He would ask that.

  Mac turned away. “Let’s work this burglary.”

  His buddy’s chuckle followed him. “That’s what I thought.”

  Beating back the impulse to refute Mitch’s conclusion, he kept walking. Better not protest too much, as Shakespeare once noted.

  Besides, he didn’t lie.

  And even if he did, Mitch would see right through it.

  “Looks like Barbara’s made a lot of progress in the past twenty-four hours.”

  As the baritone voice spoke behind her, Lisa jerked around.

  Mac McGregor stood less than three feet away.

  How had he done that? She might once again be operating on too few hours of sleep, but her ears worked fine.

  On the other hand, the man was a former Navy SEAL. Trained in stealth. Approaching undetected was his stock-in-trade. And he’d parked quite a distance away too, masking the sound of his tires.

  “Sorry.” Remorse softened his eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No problem.” She put the brakes on her pulse and stepped aside. “Take a look.”

  He moved closer. Close enough to tease her nostrils with a faint whiff of some rugged, masculine—and oh-so-appealing—aftershave.

  Her pulse surged again . . . and this time it was a lot harder to rein in.

  “Hi, Barbara.”

  The anthropologist didn’t respond to his greeting.

  “She likes to listen to music while she works. Grateful Dead.” At Mac’s double take, Lisa smiled. “I had the same reaction when she told me yesterday.”

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest, deep and pleasing, and faint crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You couldn’t make that one up.”

  The guy was dangerously handsome when he was serious, but that smile—not to mention a killer dimple—whoa!

  How many women had melted into a little puddle at his feet once he’d turned those weapons on them?

  Probably too many to count.

  “I agree.” She swallowed, transferring her attention back to the depression and the intact skeleton that had emerged from the ground. “She’s getting ready to do one more set of photos before she removes and packages the bones.” She indicated the bags and acid-free boxes waiting off to the side. “One of the graduate interns she works with should be arriving any minute to help with that job.”

  Mac squinted at the western horizon, where dark clouds were massing. “I hope so. This could be a race to the finish.”

  “She seems confident she’ll beat the storm. The only other thing she wants to do is take some soil samples.”

  “Did she find any clothing remnants that might help date the grave?”

  “Not yet. Based on the intrusion of tree roots into the skeleton, though, she’s guessing the body’s been there a while. I’ve got a call into the Botanical Garden—they’re sending out a tree specialist to take a look at the roots. That was Barbara’s idea, actually. She thought a horticulturist might be able to give us a potential window of time on burial based on root growth.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “I thought so.”

  “If that doesn't work, though, making an ID will be hard, if not impossible.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  He sent her a cautious look. “I didn’t mean to suggest you—”

  “Wait.” She put up a hand. “That wasn’t a smart-aleck response.” She met his careful gaze, her own steady. “It was just a comment. I overreacted yesterday, and I’m sorry. People don’t usually have to walk on eggshells around me. Okay?”

  As he appraised her, she resisted the urge to break eye contact. “Okay.”

  “Good.” She eased a few inches back from that appealing aftershave. “For the record, I was agreeing with you. There are more than 85,000 missing persons listed with the National Crime Information Center.”

  “Except most people who go missing locally get found locally.”

  “True. But according to the FBI database, there are 2,200 listed in Missouri and Illinois. Even after narrowing that number down based on whatever identifying criteria Barbara finds,
it will still be like looking for a needle in a haystack.” She sighed and pushed back the hair sticking to her damp forehead. “We can try to find a match in the National Missing Persons DNA Database, but that won’t help if the bones predate that.”

  “The database goes back to . . . what? 2000, 2001?”

  “2000. We’ll have to cross our fingers and hope Barbara or the ME or the tree expert comes up with some clues that narrow the window.”

  “Prayer might be a better option.”

  At Barbara’s comment, Lisa turned toward her. The anthropologist had removed the buds from her ears and was sitting back on her heels.

  “I’m not liking the sound of that.” Lisa rested one hand on her holster.

  “I don’t want to be pessimistic, but I’m not seeing a thing here other than bones. No jewelry, no buttons, no shoe buckles or synthetic soles. I’m going to sift through the dirt under and around the body, but this appears to be clean.”

  “I wonder if the body was stripped before it was buried.”

  Mac voiced the very thing she was thinking.

  “That’s possible.” Barbara swiped a bead of sweat off her temple and readjusted her surgical mask. “Or it may have been here for a very long time. The tree expert might offer some insights on that. Here’s something a bit strange, though.” She scooted down the length of the right arm, which was lying flat, and pointed to the hand. “Notice that the fourth finger is missing above the metacarpal joint.”

  “Sorry . . . can you say that in plain English? I need to bone up on my anatomy.” A flash of humor twinkled in Mac’s brown irises. “Pardon the pun.”

  A man who wasn’t afraid to admit what he didn’t know.

  Admirable.

  Barbara rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard all the jokes, believe me. In plain English, it’s the joint that attaches the finger to the hand. And it’s not really missing. I’ve already bagged it. But I found it here, on the ground, between these ribs.” She indicated the spot.

  “That’s weird.” Lisa frowned. “Could the finger have been broken when the body was put in the grave?”

  “Yes, but in that case it should still be in the correct anatomical position.”

  Right. That was a dumb question. The lack of sleep two nights in a row was taking a toll.

  She peeked at Mac. If he noticed her gaffe, he was kind enough to keep it to himself.

  “Do you want my take?”

  Lisa looked back at Barbara. “Yes.”

  “I suspect this finger was severed and thrown in before or after the body was put in the ground. If it was tossed on the chest afterward, it would have fallen through the rib cage once the body decomposed.”

  “Hmm.” Mac inspected the skeleton. “Assuming the perpetrator did strip the body to eliminate clues, what would he do about jewelry that wouldn’t come off?”

  Of course.

  “You’re thinking this person was wearing a ring.” Lisa angled toward him, shading her eyes from the sun.

  “That crossed my mind too,” Barbara said. “And now that the bones are fully exposed, I think it’s safe to conclude this was a woman. The wide pelvic girdle and gracile appearance of the skull—brow ridges that aren’t robust and muscle-attachment sites that aren’t pronounced—are obvious indicators. I’ll verify that in the lab, but it fits with the ring theory, since women are more likely than men to wear rings.” She glanced at the ominous sky. “My assistant has arrived just in time.” She gestured toward a blue car that had turned off the main drag and was bumping along the dirt construction road.

  “We’ll get out of your hair and sign him in.” Lisa headed for the shade of the oak tree to retrieve the scene log.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back last night or earlier today.” Mac fell into step beside her. “The robbery had us scrambling.”

  “No problem. Maintaining security here wasn’t that difficult—except when my favorite reporter showed up earlier.”

  “Did you give him anything?”

  “No—and he was not a happy camper. Until I get the official report from Barbara and the ME, though, I’m going to stick with my no-further-developments script.”

  “Makes sense. Did you manage to track down the previous owners of this land?”

  “Yes. Ron and Marjorie Wright. Ron died three years ago and Marjorie is in a nursing home, in declining health. She and her first husband bought the property years ago as an investment, and with her rising medical bills she thought this was a prudent time to sell. They never used the property, or even visited it much beyond an annual summer picnic they always hosted for friends and neighbors. She was beyond shocked to hear the construction crew had unearthed a skeleton.”

  “Any family who might be able to offer a few more insights?”

  “No children, and all the other relatives are distant and living in other parts of the country. Their estate is earmarked for charity.”

  “In other words, a dead end—pardon the second pun—in terms of IDing our victim.”

  “That’s my conclusion.” Lisa retrieved a clipboard off the Bobcat. “Any idea how long it will take to get Barbara’s report? I haven’t had to use the County forensic anthropologist until now.”

  “We should have a preliminary analysis back in a day or two. The full report takes about a week. If we need to extract DNA from the bones, we’ll have to send samples to the University of North Texas. They’re the best on skeletal remains.”

  “I know. We used them in Chicago on occasion. Never on one of my cases, though.” A yawn crept up on her. “Sorry.”

  “Another long night?”

  Did she detect a nuance that was more personal than polite—or was her overtired mind playing tricks on her?

  Must be the latter. Why should he care how many hours she put in on the job?

  “Not as long as two nights ago, when I was dealing with the burglary. But one of the guys on security here last night is an expectant father—or was. His wife called him while he was on duty, and I relieved him so he could take her to the hospital. I’m happy to report mother, father, and daughter are all doing well.”

  “How long were you here?”

  “Does it matter?” The question was out before she could stop it.

  For a moment, he seemed taken aback, but he recovered fast. “I was wondering if I should send out for coffee.”

  “I appreciate the thought.” She dredged up a weary smile. “But I can last until Barbara and her assistant finish. Speaking of that . . .” She motioned toward the young man approaching the police tape. “Let me log him in.”

  “I need to log in too. Leave a line for me.”

  “That was my plan.”

  She dispensed with the protocol quickly for the new visitor, and as soon as she rejoined Mac, he took the clipboard from her and checked his watch.

  “I can’t believe it’s already time for lunch.” He scribbled his signature.

  “I can. The hours have been dragging by out here. Carson may be a lot quieter than Chicago, but I’m used to more action than guard duty.” She took the clipboard when he held it out. “It’s hardly worth signing in for such a short visit if lunch is on your agenda.”

  “I like to follow procedures, and I suspect you do too.”

  “Always.” She tucked the clipboard back into a nook of the Bobcat.

  Silence fell between them, and she snuck a peek at his strong profile as he watched the new arrival pull on a pair of gloves. He’d inferred he was hungry, yet he was lingering.

  Why?

  “You know, I appreciate you stopping by, but you don’t have to hang around. I’m sure you have more interesting things to do on your lunch break than watch Barbara disassemble a skeleton.”

  He regarded her for a moment, as if he was waging an internal debate. “Nope. I’m too new in town to have any friends to meet up with for lunch, other than a fellow detective I’ve known for years. But he always meets his wife if they can coordinate their schedules.” He gestured toward his car.
“I picked up some food on my way here, so lunch is at hand. In fact, there’s enough to share if you’re interested. Consider it a peace offering after my foot-in-the-mouth performance yesterday.”

  Despite her best effort to suppress it, a tiny shiver of pleasure rippled through her.

  He wanted to have lunch with her.

  What a perfect way to spice up her otherwise dull day.

  Still . . . mixing business and pleasure wasn’t smart.

  Wasn’t this business, though . . . sort of? It certainly wasn’t a date. Besides, what harm could come from enjoying the man’s company for twenty or thirty minutes?

  Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she took the plunge. “I’ll tell you what—I brought some lunch stuff too. Why don’t we pool our resources? We can spread everything out on the hood of my car and have a buffet.”

  “I like that idea. I’ll grab my food and meet you there.”

  As they moved toward their respective cars, Lisa’s exhaustion evaporated—but her renewed vigor had nothing to do with the anticipation of an energy-boosting meal. The explanation was much simpler: a handsome man had dropped in for lunch.

  Pulling her small cooler from the trunk of the car, she regarded the hot, dusty terrain.

  The setting wasn’t ideal.

  The ambiance wasn’t perfect.

  The table wouldn’t be set with fine china or crystal.

  But on this sunny June day, she’d rather eat sandwiches from the hood of a car with Mac McGregor than dine at the finest restaurant in the city with any other man she’d ever met.

  As for what that said about her—or him—she’d leave that analysis for another day.

  Because for once, she was just going to enjoy the moment.

  4

  She’d agreed to share lunch with him.

  As Mac opened the back door of his car, shed his jacket, and loosened his tie, he couldn’t rein in his smile.

  In town barely a month, and already he’d met an interesting woman.

  An interesting, appealing woman.

  Of course, if he did get serious about someone in St. Louis, Mitch would claim a lion’s share of the credit for nudging him to relocate.

  But for the right woman, he could put up with a healthy dose of ribbing.