by Rachel Grant
A Native American stepped forward and picked up a wooden box that rested near the pit. He pulled out something from the box and handed it to Libby. “I’m leaving now, Libby. The tribe doesn’t need to be involved with this. I’ll take the box. You don’t need it.”
She smiled and nodded to the man. “Thanks, Lou.”
Mark caught Sara’s eye and inclined his head toward the man. Sara chased after him. Mark heard her say, “I need to ask you a few questions before you can leave.”
“I need copies of all your excavation notes and everything you can give us that came out of this pit. As of now, we’re considering this site a crime scene.”
Libby turned to her crew, who had been watching their exchange with interest. “Let’s get out of their way. Finish up your excavation notes under the canopy.” To Mark she said, “I’ll be in the RV if you need me.”
“No one leaves the site until after we’ve gotten their statement,” Mark said as Libby headed to the RV and her crew crossed to worktables covered by a large tent.
A few minutes later, Sara returned. “What did you find out?” Mark asked.
“His name is Lou Warren. He was here to monitor the burial removal,” Sara said. “If he believed the bones were Indian, he wouldn’t have left. He’s no fan of Maitland, but he admitted she followed the tribe’s protocol to the letter—at least until she found the dirt under the skull. He said he could’ve had the whole company fired from the project when she allowed her field director to examine the skull, but he permitted it because he knew she must’ve had a damn good reason for breaking protocol.”
“If he knew about her three bogus police reports, he wouldn’t be so quick to trust her judgment,” Luke said.
“I handled all three of those reports,” Mark said. “She’s credible.”
Luke’s face showed his disbelief.
“You’ll need to develop a better poker face if you want to make detective,” Mark said.
“Am I allowed to speak freely?” Luke asked, a slight edge to his voice.
“Go for it.”
“This is a load of crap. It’s just a little yellow dirt. As far as Maitland goes, it’s three up, three down, end of an inning, time for a psych exam.”
“Good thing I’m in charge, not you,” Mark said.
“Luke,” Sara said, “none of us knows about skulls and shovel-shaped incisors.”
“Okay, say she’s right about the teeth,” Luke said. “Those bones could have been buried here in the ’40s or ’50s and the headstone removed when the area was paved. Then all she would have to do to create suspicion is dump a little yellow dirt under the skull.”
“Yes, and finding out the truth is our job. It’s time we got started. You both grew up in Coho. Did anyone disappear from around here in 1984?”
“Not that I can remember,” Luke said.
“Jack Caruthers’ wife disappeared a long time ago,” Sara said. “She was never found.”
“Angela Caruthers disappeared in the late seventies. This can’t be her,” Luke said.
Mark considered Sara’s statement. Angela Caruthers. Jason’s mom. He hadn’t heard of Angela or her disappearance until two days ago, when Libby explained why she needed Angela’s research for the historical background report. He looked at the bones lying at the base of the pit and wondered what Libby could tell him about Jack. This was Caruthers’ property. Had he balked at funding the excavation, knowing his wife’s remains might be found? Did he have reason to believe the bones might be missed, or, as almost happened, been mistaken for a prehistoric burial and turned over to the tribe?
“Luke, call the coroner then start taking photos. No one goes in the pit until the coroner gets here. Sara, I want you to begin questioning the crew. I’m going to question Libby.”
The door to the RV was open, so he stepped inside. The space was crowded with plastic bags, papers, and office equipment. Everywhere he looked were more archive boxes, including a tower of them that reached the ceiling just inside the door.
Libby sat across from a blonde woman, who was looking at a map that covered the booth table. Libby glanced up.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you,” Mark said.
“Sure. Mark, this is Simone Atherton, my field director and right arm.”
The blonde stood. “That would be a compliment if she weren’t left-handed.” Simone shook his hand.
He laughed. So this was Bobby’s Simone. “Glad to meet you.”
She held his gaze for a moment and Mark knew she was assessing him. He knew from both Bobby and Libby the two women were close, and Simone was extremely protective of Libby. He must have passed because Simone gave him a knowing smile and said, “I’ll leave you two alone.”
The door clicked shut behind her. He was alone with Libby for the first time since last night. She stood and looked flustered. “Coffee?” she said, brushing past him to reach the coffee pot on the counter.
“Thanks,” he said. It took her a moment to recover her composure and resume her professional demeanor. He, too, needed to be professional and slid into the booth seat instead of doing what he really wanted and press close to her in the confined space.
She handed him a mug of coffee and sat opposite him.
“You’ve told me why you’re digging here—Jack won’t get his Corps permit unless you excavate and get all the information from the site before it’s destroyed. Do I have that right?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Could Jack have changed the plans for the Cultural Center so he wouldn’t need that Corps permit and wouldn’t need your excavation?”
“No. The issue here is a wetland smack dab in the middle of the construction site. He’d have to avoid the wetland and that isn’t possible. Besides, Jack could hardly call it a Cultural Center and not fund excavation of a site that’s important to the local tribe.”
“Did Jack ever consider dumping the project altogether?”
“No way. He’d already spent hundreds of thousands on the project before he learned he’d need to fund this data recovery excavation.”
Jack would be a fool to build on the property where he’d buried his wife. Mark knew Jack wasn’t stupid, unless he assumed the body wouldn’t be found. “Let’s say you missed the burial during excavation. The site will be dug up during construction, right? The bones would have been found then.”
“Not necessarily. It’s easy to miss a few bones in a large construction project, especially if the equipment operator looks the other way—which happens, even with an archaeologist monitoring construction.” She smiled. “It could be a honest mistake or incompetence.”
He smiled at her reference to their conversation Saturday. So it was possible Jack had played the odds, but lost. “I want a copy of your proposal.”
She paused longer than he expected for the simple request. “I can give you the scope of work.”
He recognized evasion when he heard it and wondered why. “What is the difference between the proposal and the scope of work?”
“The proposal includes my overhead and budget.”
“I might need that information.”
“Then I would give it to you, but frankly, I’d rather not.”
He wanted to follow that line of questioning but her reason for being protective of her finances wasn’t pertinent to this investigation. “Tell me how you choose where to dig.”
“Before we began excavating, I had a geomorphologist come out to the site with a ground penetrating radar. The radar shows anomalies, like how loose or compact the soil is, which can indicate a pit, or something structural like longhouse remains, all without the destructive process of digging.” She pointed to the map on the table. “This is the map my geomorphologist made with the GPR readings. This star is the symbol he used to label anomalies that could be archaeologically significant. So we’ve placed at least one excavation unit wherever there’s a star. This cluster of stars is where the burial is located.”
Mark st
udied the map. Several places on the map were marked with one star; a few were marked with two stars. There was only one cluster. “Did Jack know you’d be using ground penetrating radar?”
“Yes. GPR is expensive. I explained how it would save money in the long run—with more focused excavation, we’d have less fruitless digging. He agreed.”
“Has he seen this map?”
“He has.” She met his gaze. “You think we found Angela Caruthers.”
“I have to look at all possibilities.”
“The dates don’t match. Angela disappeared in ’79.”
“That’s when she disappeared. We don’t know when she died or even if she’s dead.”
“Good point.”
He stood. He had one last question for her. The fact he hadn’t asked this question first was a sign he wasn’t treating her like a regular witness, a mistake on his part. “Libby.” He paused. “Is there any chance this is just a normal grave?”
She stiffened. From the set of her shoulders and the tightness of her mouth, he could see she was angry, more than he would have expected from the implication she could have made a mistake.
“So we’re back to that again. You don’t believe me. You think I’m making this up for attention.”
Caught off-guard by her interpretation, he threw up his hands and stepped backward. “No. No way. I’m just asking if you’re certain, if there’s any chance you could be wrong.”
She stood; her movements were sharp, angry. “So you think I’m crazy, not calculating.”
Damn, she was touchy. “Not that either. I have to ask this question. It’s my job. You’ve convinced me, but I’m no expert on teeth and soil. I need to know if it is possible this could be a burial from, say, the 1930s or ’40s, and not a murder victim at all.”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t know how the fill could have gotten beneath the skull if she was buried there before April 9, 1984. It would defy one of the most basic geological principles. Listen, if you don’t believe me, there are tests you can do. Strontium-90 is a radioactive marker found in anyone who was alive during the age of aboveground nuclear testing. If she was alive after 1945, there will be Strontium-90 in her bones.”
He reached out and pulled her to him, determined to break through her hard shell. She remained stiff in his arms but didn’t push him away. “I believe you. But it’s my job to ask for the test.”
“I can give you the number of a lab that does Strontium-90 testing.”
She smelled of earth and rain. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d reached up and traced her lip with his thumb, just like last night. “You’re awfully prickly about this.”
She relaxed by slow degrees. “I’m sick of having my credibility questioned.”
“I wasn’t questioning your credibility. Perhaps I should have asked this way: on a scale of one to a hundred, how certain are you you’re right?”
“One hund—” She stopped abruptly and sighed. She leaned her forehead against his chest. “Ninety-two,” she murmured.
He smiled. “So you’re not infallible.”
She looked up at him, her eyes no longer angry. “I make my share of mistakes. But this isn’t one of them.”
He smiled at that and then reluctantly let her go. He studied the map again. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s yours. I have more.”
He began to roll up the map, looking at the telltale cluster of stars. “That star cluster practically shouts ‘dig here.’”
“Which is why we placed an entire twenty-one unit block there. I was hoping we’d find a longhouse.” She shook her head. “Thursday was a bad day all around.”
“You found the burial on Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“The night your truck was stolen.”
“Yes. Because of the burial I was here late, trying to get everything approved by the tribe so we could continue excavating the next day. I was starving and barely made it to the restaurant before they closed the kitchen. You know the rest.”
“Yeah, I was an ass that night.” His own words surprised him. He never apologized for doing his job.
She smiled. “You’ve grown on me since then.”
At last, an opening. “You didn’t act that way last night.”
She raised her chin in a forthright manner. “That was instinct. Self-preservation. You’re a cop. That alone scares me. But I’m also afraid you think I’m attracted to you because you’re a cop, not in spite of it.”
He allowed a small victorious smile at her admission. “You pushed me away because you were afraid it was another test.”
“Yes.”
“I’m done testing you. It wasn’t fair.”
“How so?”
“Because I’m attracted to you, too.” He stepped closer to her. “You’re attracted to me but you still pushed me away when I kissed you. I must not have done it right. I should try again.”
She laughed. “And people think I’m crazy.”
“I suppose now isn’t the time. We’ll just have to go out on a date.”
“Is that really a good idea? I mean, with everything that’s going on?”
“Probably not. Let’s have dinner tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe I’m even considering going out with you.”
He smiled. She was on the verge of capitulating.
“It’s that damn dimple. I’m a sucker for them.”
He deliberately widened his smile, knowing it brought out a rarely seen dimple in his other cheek. “Any other weaknesses I should know about?”
“You’ll have to find them on your own.” Her eyes held a challenge.
“I intend to,” he said. He liked challenges. “So you’ll have dinner with me?”
“I’ve got an interview scheduled tomorrow. Sometimes they go on for hours. On Wednesday I’m giving a lecture at the library, but I should be done by eight thirty.”
“Okay. Wednesday. Eight thirty.”
The crunch of gravel signaled the arrival of the Jefferson County coroner’s dark gray panel van.
“Crap, it’s Kreegen,” Libby said. “The misogynistic, racist pig.”
Mark laughed and said, “You know the county coroner.”
“Whenever bones turn up that are more than a hundred years old, the coroner will call in an archaeologist to deal with it. His reputation precedes him. Have fun without me.”
“Speaking of, I need you and your crew to vacate the site.”
“Can we stay long enough to cover the pits and organize our equipment?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Do you have any idea when we can dig again?”
“You should be able to resume on Thursday or Friday.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you Wednesday night,” Mark said, heading for the door and feeling pretty good. By Libby’s own estimation, he had a ninety-two percent chance of winning the bet with Luke. But Mark had an ace in the hole, one that put him closer to one hundred percent: Libby could get into his pants without having to cry wolf. And she knew it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Libby served Simone dinner at the Shelby house. “I went to the site before coming here,” Simone said as she filled her plate with spaghetti. “The cops were still there. The police chief said they weren’t going to get the bones out of the ground today.”
Feeling like a foolish schoolgirl, Libby wanted to press Simone for every detail of her conversation with Mark. “What’s the delay?”
“Kreegen screwed up and the chief pulled some strings to arrange for a Seattle medical examiner to come out. The ME will be here tomorrow. They’re leaving a cop to guard the site overnight.” Simone twirled her spaghetti around her fork and looked Libby in the eye. “While I was there, the police chief questioned me about Aaron.”
“And?” Libby asked, wondering why Simone seemed nervous.
“He told me to tell you what I did this weekend.”
Alarm spread through Libby. “And what did you do this weekend?”
“It’s no big deal. I decided to check up on Aaron and went to his favorite cop bar.”
“Are you nuts? The guy’s a lunatic. You shouldn’t go near him.”
“I was in a bar surrounded by cops. I was safer than a lamb in a vegan restaurant.”
A small laugh escaped before Libby could stifle it, but the idea of Aaron fixating on Simone sobered her. “First, you shouldn’t have gone there. Second, you should have told me.”
“Listen, Lib, Aaron took a hefty chunk out of you, and the damage still hasn’t healed. I’m not about to let him hurt you again.” She paused. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d get upset.”
“Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
“You can’t, Simone. You’ll only make things worse.” Libby fixed her friend with a suspicious stare. “How did Mark know what you did?”
“Well, I had a little, teeny-tiny disagreement with Aaron in the bar…”
Libby didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “What did you do?”
“Nothing really, but another cop witnessed our argument. He questioned me about Aaron. Turns out the cop, Detective Johnson, was checking up on Aaron as a favor to Chief Colby.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t kid about this.”
“When was this?” Libby asked.
“Saturday night.”
“You mean you knew Mark had another cop checking Aaron out last Saturday night and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know or I would have told you. The detective didn’t tell me why he wanted to know about Aaron.”
“When did you find out?”
“Twenty minutes ago when I talked to the chief at the site.” Simone sipped her wine. “The good news is the police chief here is investigating Aaron. He’s looking out for you.” She smiled slyly. “You never mentioned that compared to him, George Clooney looks like a gorilla.”
“He asked me out.”
“George Clooney?”
“That ape? No.”