He slapped at a mosquito, brought his hand away from his neck with a smear of blood on his palm.
Murder. It came in all forms.
But this, who would kill a man this way? Tying him to a stake in a river, leaving him to drown? Had the killer watched as the tide slowly rose, waiting to see the results of his handiwork? Watched the terror of his victim, the dawning knowledge that death was coming for him? The boy’s eyes were open, caked in mud, as if he’d looked at someone in his last moment. The water had spilled over his head, then receded, leaving its filthy, choking mark.
Fletcher shook off a chill, glanced around for cameras and saw none.
Lonnie Hart, his longtime partner, came down the path to the water. He gave a sharp, clear whistle.
Fletcher’s head snapped up. “What’s the matter?”
Lonnie waved for him to come back onto dry land. He headed off, not unhappy to have to get out of the marshy water. It smelled, fecund and ripe, and the body’s bloated rawness wasn’t helping.
When he got closer, Hart said, “We’re in luck. Another five feet out and it would belong to us, but you’re standing on federal land. I called the Fibbies, told them to get their pretty little behinds over here. National park, it’s their jurisdiction. We’ll let them take over.”
“Thank God for small mercies, eh, Lonnie?” And to the body: “Sorry, dude. Red ties are coming. They’ll treat you right.”
He squished up the bank, climbed out of the muck. Hart stuck out a hand and helped tow him onto the small wooden dock. Once on dry land, he shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water on Hart, who punched him on the shoulder and nearly toppled him back into the river.
“Ugh. Come on, man. That’s gross.”
Fletcher grinned at him, then stripped off his socks and wadded them up, stowed them in the pocket of his gym shorts and slid his dry loafers back on his feet. It was a stroke of luck his gym bag was still in the car, sheer laziness on his part not taking it into the house after his workout last night. He hardly wanted to ruin his good pants getting into the nasty water.
“Not sure if I’m happy about this being a Fed case. Haven’t seen one of the strange ones lately. I could have used a challenge.”
“Fletch, you’ve seen enough weird for two lifetimes.”
“True that.”
He cast a last look toward the boy, shrugged and started back up the hill into the park. There were two patrol officers guarding the scene, both sweating in the steamy August heat, plus several others milling about, waiting for Fletcher and Hart to tell them what was what. It might rain this afternoon, a welcome storm to cool things off for the evening, but now the air was still, hot and sticky, and Fletch was thankful he wasn’t in uniform.
Hart grabbed the logbook and signed out of the scene. Fletcher followed suit, then said, “Heads up, kids. The Feds will be coming. Once they’re here, you can release the scene to them.”
The patrols nodded miserably, the lights from their patrol cars flashing red-and-blue streaks across their faces.
He ignored the rest of the masses, went to his car and stripped off his gym shorts. Splashed some warm water from a bottle in his console across his skin and wiped his legs down with a dirty towel. Got back into his lightweight summer slacks. He debated about the shorts, just trashing them, but ended up wringing them out and stowing them with the socks in the trunk of his vehicle.
Fletcher heard a woman calling his name, hurriedly buttoned his fly. No privacy left in the world, especially for a cop.
He turned and saw Lisa Schumann, a crime reporter from The Washington Post who was too pretty for her own good, and not afraid to use that to her advantage, making a beeline across the gardens toward him, determined as a bull facing a red cape. He stifled a groan. Hart took one look at her and peeled off, back toward the patrols.
“Ass,” Fletcher said after him, then squared his shoulders to meet Schumann, who looked as fresh and frisky as ever despite the heat. He didn’t know how she managed; all of his people looked like puddles.
“Detective Fletcher, can I get a statement?”
Fletch shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to the Feds, Schumann. This one’s not ours.”
Her eyes were practically glowing. “Come on. Give me a little something. I won’t attribute it.”
“Yeah. Nice try.”
“Fletcher.” Her voice dropped an octave, and she shifted so he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra under her white button-down. She licked her lips and cocked her head to the side like a puppy. “I heard it was gruesome. If you’d just let me get a peek, I could be convinced to let you buy me dinner.”
He resisted pulling his best Scottish accent and saying, Keep looking at my crotch like that, you man-eater, and it will gruesome more, and shrugged instead.
“Is it true that she’s staked to the dock naked?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the victim is male, and he is not staked to the dock naked. Sorry, but I’ve got to run. You take care.”
“Oh.” She actually sounded disappointed, and then her fervent grin returned. The audacity of youth and ambition. She flipped a page in her notebook and stared at him expectantly, her water-blue eyes locked on his. He could see the thoughts scrolling by on her face. Naughty thoughts. She was going to get herself in trouble one of these days, telegraphing like that.
“So, see ya,” he said, and deliberately jangled his keys.
“Oh,” she said again, this time truly surprised. She dropped the notebook to her waist. “Yeah. Call me if you hear anything, okay, Fletch? Thanks.”
He watched her cross to the patrols, which sent Hart scurrying back to him. He didn’t like Lisa Schumann at all, not after she’d attributed a deep background quote to Hart in the paper. Not smart. Never screw your sources. Hart wouldn’t get within twenty feet of her now, and Fletch had to admit, he wasn’t keen on giving the girl any information, either. He had plenty of reporters he could trust, and an oversexed coed with a byline wasn’t one of them.
“Did you hear what she said?” Fletch asked.
“No, too busy humming the theme to Jaws. What’s the scoop?”
“She flat-out propositioned me.”
Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Well, you’re a handsome lad, and she’s pretty, if you can get past the bubble gum. Why not? A weeklong course of penicillin would clear things up quick.”
Fletcher snorted. “Penicillin and a million dollars. I wouldn’t get near her with your—”
“Hey, now. Overtime for everyone.”
“Ever the optimist.”
Fletcher’s cell phone rang. “That’s Sam. Hang on a sec.” He put the phone to his ear. “What up, buttercup?”
She laughed, and a tiny piece of him, the piece he’d shoved away into the darkest corners of his heart, constricted. He really liked that laugh, and liked to be the one who brought it forth. She laughed more and more lately; she was very different from the hard, closed-off woman he’d first met in the spring. She’d come back to life, it seemed, and Fletcher liked to think he had something to do with that.
“Heya,” Sam said. “You got a minute?”
“You know me, I’m just standing around with my, um, twiddling my thumbs.”
She laughed again, deeper this time. But he heard the strain in her voice; she was putting up a good front. He immediately went on alert. “What’s the matter, Doc?”
“I received a letter from a man who claims to have been murdered. He wants me to look into his death.”
“Creepy. You think it’s for real, or someone pulling your chain?”
She sighed. “It may be real, Fletch. There’s definitely a man with the same name who’s recently dead. I found an obituary for him. Matches the return address on the envelope. Out of Lynchburg.”
“Are you at home?”
“No, at my office in Georgetown. The letter came here.”
“Good. If it had come to your house, we might be dealing with a nut job.”
“We might be, anyway.” Her voice was soft, the voice of a woman who shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things.
Sam, you’re gaining quite a reputation. He stopped himself from saying it aloud; she knew that, and didn’t need to hear it from him.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang tight.”
“Thank you, Fletch.”
He hung up and looked at Hart. “I’m gonna take a ride. I’ll call Armstrong from the car, tell him what we found down here. Have fun with the Feds.”
Chapter
3
Georgetown University School of Medicine
Washington, D.C.
SAM HUNG UP the phone. “Fletch is on his way,” she said.
“Good,” Xander said. “There’s no sense in you becoming involved with this. Even though the letter was sent to you, this is a job for law enforcement. Shall we eat something before he comes? I did bring you a tuna sandwich.”
A job for law enforcement. Which she most decidedly was not. She had to admit, the casual reference stung.
Stop it, Sam. You made your bed.
“Considering what seems to happen anytime Fletcher comes around? Yes, let’s eat something now, in case he bundles me off to give an official statement and I never come back.”
They settled in to their lunch. She took a bite of the sandwich, realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. Her eyes drifted to the letter—she couldn’t help herself. It was disconcerting to have a stranger say he knew her determination. Yes, she’d managed to land herself in the papers on more than one occasion, being quoted regarding a case, and recently, the whole incident with the Metro terrorist, but the familiar tone of Savage’s missive freaked her out.
Not to mention the warning accompanying the request. I fear your life may be in danger....
Why her? Why did these bizarre situations keep finding her? Was it some sort of psychic retribution for getting on with her life? Karma, pissed off and wanting her pound of flesh?
You’ve already taken everything from me. What more do you need?
She glanced at Xander, who was staring out her windows with a look of private joy on his face. The view clearly pleased him; he loved anything to do with nature, the outdoors. She took advantage of his distraction to admire his dark eyes and dark hair, broad shoulders, capable hands. A man who could build a cabin with just an ax and his time, shoot a deer and skin it for dinner and love her in the darkness—she put down the sandwich and cleared her throat, suddenly both embarrassed and exceptionally turned on.
She loved the man. There was no question. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d managed to put him off, citing the fact that he was under the painful influence of a gunshot wound and thought he might die.
But Xander wasn’t a man who would wait for long. What he wanted, he got. And for some odd reason, he’d decided he wanted her. Problem was, just the idea of marriage, after what she’d been through, was enough to make her lace up her running shoes and take off for parts unknown. But this was Xander. He was different. Everything was different now.
Quick as a rabbit in the brush, he turned to her. “Are you eyeing me, or coveting my sandwich?”
She dropped her gaze and smiled. “Eyeing your sandwich, coveting you.”
His voice was husky. “How late are you planning to work today?”
“I could be convinced to knock off early.”
His eyes locked on hers, the sandwich forgotten. “What shall I do to convince you?”
A throat cleared. “Would you two get a room, already?”
Fletcher was standing in her doorway, half-exasperated and half-amused.
Sam got up and gave him a hug. “Hey, Fletch. Thanks for coming over.”
“No worries. You saved me from a nasty crime scene. I left Hart there, waiting for the feds to show. What’s this about a letter?”
Xander shook Fletcher’s hand and handed him the letter. “Thanks for coming. Here it is.”
Sam watched Fletcher read the letter, a couple of times if his eye movements were to be trusted, and when he finished, he set it gently on her desk as if it might explode.
“Weird, huh? Do you think it’s for real?” she asked.
Fletcher frowned, making a deep groove between his eyebrows. “Threatening is more like it. Who the hell is this Savage character?”
“Here’s the obituary, it was in the Lynchburg News and Advance, the local paper.” She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “It’s not comprehensive at all.”
Fletcher read the obit aloud. “Timothy R. Savage, 45, resident of Lynchburg, died Tuesday. A memorial service will be scheduled later in the month. In lieu of flowers, please direct donations to the Wounded Warrior Project, a cause near and dear to Timothy’s heart. You’re right, there’s not much to go on. It doesn’t say how he died, either.”
“We thought it best to let you handle this,” Xander said.
Fletcher shot him a look. “Gee, thanks.”
“Better you than me, friend. Or Sam.”
Fletcher stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I’ll take the letter to the lab. It’s probably a hoax. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Not worry about it?” Sam said. “You’re joking, right?”
Fletcher folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “Sam, you’re going to get this kind of attention for a while. Your name was plastered all over the papers and the web after your stunt in Colorado, so of course, some crazies are going to come out of the woodwork. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know. Okay?”
She watched him for clues that there might be more going on here, something he might be hiding from her. Both Fletcher and Xander had a default overprotective mode toward her that could sometimes be stifling. But she didn’t see any ripplings below the surface.
“Fine,” she said finally. “You want to come over for dinner Friday?”
“What are you making?”
“Lasagna. Lots of it. Bring Andrea. We’ll open some wine and catch up.”
Fletch smiled. “Assuming my week isn’t shot to hell, and she’s actually in town, will do. I’ll call you when I know something about this, all right? In the meantime, enjoy your new gig. I like the digs. Very professorial.”
“You should see the classrooms.”
“Yeah, think I’ll pass. I can head down to the morgue any time of day for that particular brand of excitement.”
Sam hugged him again. He nodded at Xander and left, and the tension left with him.
Sam waited until she was sure Fletch was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t poke at him, Xander.”
He mocked surprise. “What? Me? I didn’t do a thing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. And now that he’s back to D.C. Homicide and off the Joint Terrorism Task Force, he and Andrea Bianco have started dating. Sort of. I think they’re a good match.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t be making eyes at you anymore.”
“Quit grumbling. Fletcher does not make eyes at me, Xander. He’s a friend. A good one. I don’t have a lot of people I trust in my life—he’s up there. Okay?”
He kissed her, softly, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Okay. Listen, I have to run. I’ll see you back at the town house, okay? I thought we could head to the cabin early tomorrow morning, get some fresh air over the weekend, before classes start. Sound good?”
It did. Nestled in the Savage River Forest, his cabin was more than an escape. It was nirvana.
“Thor must be homesick,” Sam said. The gorgeous German shepherd seemed content, but he was used to running the hills and chasing squirrels, something severely l
acking from her renovated Georgetown town house where they’d set up base camp. The look on Xander’s face made her wonder if he, too, was missing his undomesticated life on the mountain.
“Better missing home than missing Daddy. He’s fine, he’s a tough dog. I’ll take him for a run along the canal this afternoon. That will cheer him up.”
“See you at six, then.”
When he left, Sam waited until she saw him striding across the quad toward the city. She admired the view for a moment, then went to her laptop and looked up the name Timothy Savage again. She glanced at her watch—2:00 p.m. She knew she needed to leave it alone, let Fletcher handle things, but maybe a quick phone call wouldn’t hurt.
She had a friend who was an assistant M.E. in the Virginia Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. If there was anything interesting to hear about how Timothy Savage died, Dr. Meg Foreman would be all over it.
Chapter
4
MEG FOREMAN ANSWERED her phone on the first ring.
“Sam Owens, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? How long’s it been, three years?”
“Too long, that’s for sure. I’m good, Meg. Working in D.C. now, running the new Forensic Pathology department at Georgetown.”
“You left Nashville? I can’t believe it. How’d you convince Simon to move?”
Sam stopped short. Meg didn’t know. The huge, oppressive weight of sorrow smashed her in the chest, taking her breath away. As she struggled for air, her mind scrambled to think how long it had been since she and Meg had talked—yes, it had been three years ago, at the annual conference for forensic pathologists.
Before.
She reached for the bottle of Purell in her purse without even thinking about it, poured out a huge dollop and started rubbing her hands together. The old words marched through her head, at once comforting and embarrassing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Simon, Matthew, Madeline.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.
“Sam? Are you still there? Is everything all right?”
When Shadows Fall Page 2