by Nora Roberts
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I talked to the rangers, gave them all the details.”
“Doesn’t look like it. You can pack out. There’ll be ground transportation for you at the trailhead.”
“Copy that.” What the hell, she thought, at least this way she’d get it all over with in one day.
SHE’D PLANNED on getting a shower first, but she’d no more than dumped her gear when the fed came looking for her.
“Rowan Tripp?”
“That’s right.”
“Special Agent Kimberly DiCicco. I have some questions.”
“The rangers already have my answers, but since we both work for a bureaucracy, I know how it goes.”
“Mr. Little Bear offered his office so we can speak in private.”
“I’m not stinking up L.B.’s office. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty ripe with smoke and sweat.”
She had to notice, Rowan thought. The agent’s compact body was tucked into a black suit of classic lines with a pristine white shirt. Without a hair out of place, her sleek nape-of-the-neck bun left her refinedboned, coffee-with-a-splash-of-cream face unframed.
DiCicco’s eyebrows arched over tawny eyes as she angled her head. “You’ve put in a long day. I’m aware. I’ll make it as brief as possible.”
“Then let’s walk and talk.” Rowan stripped down to her tank and trousers. “Maybe I’ll air out a little.”
“Heads up.”
She turned, caught the cold bottle of Coke Gull sent her in a smooth underhand pass. “Thanks. Save me some lasagna.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Okay, Agent DiCicco.” At Rowan’s gesture, they walked outside. “You ask, I’ll answer.”
“You could start by telling me how you came upon the body.”
Already covered, Rowan thought, but went through it again. “With the way the fire was running,” she continued, “I had to cut off the recon and make for a safe zone. I headed in, then hiked across the old burnout section and into the black. The area adjacent to where the fire had passed through. I was heading for Lolo Trail. I could take that most of the way back to my crew. And I found her.”
“Her?”
“I don’t know. The remains were on the small side for a grown man.”
“You’d be correct. The victim was female.”
“Oh. Well.” Rowan stopped, blew out a breath. “That’s better than the alternative.”
“Excuse me?”
“It could’ve been a kid. The size again.”
“You contacted your operations desk immediately on the discovery?”
“That’s right.”
“So, if I have this correct.” DiCicco read back Rowan’s movements, the times she’d radioed in her position and the situation through her recon to the report of the body. “That’s a considerable area in a short amount of time.”
“When you catch fire, you’re not out on a stroll or a nature hike. You move, and you move fast. It’s my job to assess the situation on the ground, strategize a plan and approach with Gibbons, the line boss on this one, to recon and to keep Ops apprised of the situation and any additional support we might need.”
“Understood. When you contacted Operations, you stated you believed the victim had been murdered and the fire started to cover up the crime.”
Should she have kept her mouth shut? Rowan wondered. Would this be done if she’d kept her speculations to herself?
Too late now, she reminded herself.
“I said what it looked like. I’ve been jumping fires for five years, and I worked with a hotshot crew for two before that. I’m not an arson expert, but I know when a fire looks suspicious. I’m not a doctor, but I know when a head’s twisted wrong on a neck.”
And now, damn it, damn it, that image carved in her brain again. “I acted on what I observed so the proper authorities could be contacted. Is that a problem?”
“I’m gathering facts, Ms. Tripp.” DiCicco’s tone made a mild counterpoint to Rowan’s snap. “The medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate the victim’s neck had been broken.”
“She was murdered.” Better or worse? Rowan wondered.
“The ME will determine if this is homicide, accidental, whether the neck injury was cause of death or postmortem.”
“Have you checked with the campground? Lolo Campground isn’t far from where I found her, not for a day hike.”
“We’re working on identifying her. You had some trouble here recently?”
“What?” Rowan pulled her mind back from speculating on just how much force it took to break a neck. “The vandalism?”
“That’s plural, isn’t it?” DiCicco kept unreadable eyes on Rowan’s face. “According to my information, one Dolly Brakeman, employed at that time as a cook here, vandalized your room. You caught her in the act and had to be physically restrained from assaulting her.”
Temper burned through fatigue like a brushfire. “You walk into your quarters, DiCicco, and find somebody pouring animal blood on your bed. See how you react. If you want to call my reaction ‘attempted assault,’ you go right ahead.”
“Ms. Brakeman was also questioned by the police regarding the vandalism of the ready room here on base.”
“That’s right. That little number cost us hours of time and could have cost more if we’d gotten a call out before we’d repaired the damage.”
“You and Ms. Brakeman have a history.”
“Since you already know that, I’m not going over the ground again. She’s a pain in the ass, a vindictive one, and an unstable one. If the locals turned over the vandalism here to your agency, good. I hope it scares the shit out of her. Now look, I’m tired, I’m hungry and I want a goddamn shower.”
“Nearly done. When did you last see Dolly Brakeman?”
“Jesus, when she trashed my room.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken with her since?”
“No, I haven’t, and I’d be thrilled if I can keep that record. What the hell does Dolly have to do with me finding a dead woman burned to a crisp in Lolo?”
“We’ll need to wait for confirmation of identification, but as Dolly Brakeman failed to return home last night—a home she shares with her parents and her infant daughter—as the victim and Ms. Brakeman are the same height, and thus far the investigation has turned up no other female missing, it’s a strong possibility the victim is Dolly Brakeman.”
“That’s . . .” Rowan felt her belly drop, the blood just drain out of her head while those unreadable eyes never shifted off her face. “A lot of women are Dolly’s height.”
“But none of them has been reported missing in this area.”
“She’s probably hooked up with some guy. Take a look at that part of her history.” But she had a baby now, Rowan thought. Jim’s baby. “Dolly wouldn’t be on the trail, in the forest. She likes town.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts last night, from eight P.M. until you reported to the ready room this morning?”
“I’m a suspect?” Anger and shock warred—a short, bloody battle before anger won. “You actually think I snapped her neck, hauled her into the forest, then started a fire? A fire men and women I work with, live with, eat with every day would have to jump. Would have to risk their lives, their lives, to beat down?”
“You tried to assault her. Threatened to kill her.”
“Fucking A right I did. I was pissed. Who wouldn’t be pissed? I wish I’d gotten a punch in, and that’s a hell of a long way from killing somebody.”
“It’d be easier if you could tell me where you were last night between—”
“I’ll make it real easy,” Rowan interrupted. “I had dinner in the cookhouse about seven, maybe seven-thirty. About thirty of the crew were in there at the same time, and the kitchen staff. We hung out, bullshitting until close to ten. Then I went to my quarters, where I stayed until the siren went off this morning. Squeezed into bed with the hottie you saw toss me this Coke.”
“And his na
me?” DiCicco asked without a blink of reaction.
“Gulliver Curry. He’s probably in the cookhouse by now. Go ask him. I’m getting a goddamn shower.”
She stormed off, outrage burning a storm in her belly, slammed into the barracks.
Trigger had the misfortune of getting in her way. “Hey, Ro, are you—”
“Shut up and move.” She shoved him aside, then slammed into her quarters. She kicked the door, then the dresser, causing the little dish she tossed loose change into to jump off and crash onto the floor.
Her boots stamped the shards.
“Stiff-necked, tight-assed bitch! And it wasn’t Dolly!” Fuming, she tore at the laces of her jump boots, then hurled them.
Dolly was the type who just kept rolling, she thought as she yanked off her clothes, balled them up and threw them. She made people feel sorry for her, or—if they were men—sweetened the pot with sex or the promise of it. She was the type who did whatever the hell she wanted, then blamed somebody else if it didn’t work out.
Her mother’s type, Rowan decided, and maybe that was just one more reason she’d never liked Dolly Brakeman. Selfish, scheming, whining . . .
Her mother’s type, she thought again. Her mother had died bleeding on the floor. Murdered.
Not the same, she told herself firmly. Absolutely not the same.
In the shower, she turned the water on full, braced her hands on the wall and let it run over her. Watched it run black, then sooty gray.
She’d had enough of this shit, enough of the sucker punches.
What right did that federal bitch have to accuse her? She was the reason the body was found so quickly, the reason the feds had been called in the first damn place.
By the time she’d all but scrubbed herself raw, the leading edge of temper had dulled into a sick fear.
Her hands shook as she dressed, but she told herself it was hunger. She hadn’t eaten in hours and had burned thousands of calories. So she was shaky. That’s all it was.
When the door opened, she whirled, felt the shaking increase as Gull closed it quietly behind him.
“Did you tell that bitch you spent the night nailing me?”
“I told her we spent the night in here, in a bed small enough if you’d managed to roll over I’d’ve known it.”
“Good. Good. She can stick that up her federal ass.” She pushed him back when he came to her. “I don’t want to be coddled. Appreciate the alibi and all that. It looks like breaking my rule just keeps paying off. Whoopee.”
She pushed at him again, but this time he got his arms around her, hard and tight, and just held on while she struggled against him.
“I said I didn’t want to be coddled. I’ve got a right to blow off some steam after being questioned as a killer, an arsonist, as somebody who’d betray everything that matters to squash some little pissant—”
She broke off, broke down. “Oh, God, oh, God, they think it’s Dolly. They think Dolly’s dead and I killed her.”
“Listen to me.” His hands firm on her shoulders, he eased her back until he could see her eyes. “They don’t know who it is at this point. Maybe it is Dolly.”
“Oh, Jesus, Gull. Oh, God.”
“There’s nothing anybody can do about that if it is. If it is, nobody thinks you had anything to do with it.”
“DiCicco—”
“Was just informed you and I were together all night. There are plenty of people in the barracks who know we came in here together, and we came out together. So, if you’re a suspect, I’m one, too. I don’t think that’s going to play for DiCicco or anyone else. She had a job to do. She did it, and now that part’s over.”
He ran his hands down her arms until he could link them with hers. “You’re beat, you’re shaky. She wouldn’t have gotten to you like this if you’d been in top form.”
“Maybe not, but boy, did she.”
“Screw her.” He kissed Rowan’s forehead, then her lips. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go get dinner. You can listen to the rest of the unit express their pithy and colorful opinions over the fed asking you for an alibi.”
“Pithy.” That nearly got a smirk out of her. “I guess that would feel good.”
“Nothing like solidarity. Then, we’re going to come back here so I can give you an alibi for tonight.”
Now the smirk formed, quick and cocky. “Maybe I’ll be the one giving you an alibi.”
“Either way works. Let’s go before those hogs suck down all the lasagna.” He gave her ass a light pat as they started out. “And, Ro? Don’t worry. If they arrest you, I’ll make your bail.”
The laugh surprised her. And smoothed out some of the jitters in her belly.
15
After her morning PT, Rowan made a point of going to the cookhouse kitchen. If there was one person who knew something about everything, and most everything about something, it was Marg.
“Lynn’s reloading the buffet now,” Marg told her. “Or are you looking for a handout?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
With silver hoops dancing at the sides of her do-rag—yellow smiley faces over bright blue today—Marg reached for a pitcher. “You don’t want to have breakfast with your boyfriend?”
Rowan answered Marg’s smirk with an eye roll. “I don’t have boyfriends, I have lovers. And I take them and cast them off at my will.”
“Ha.” Marg poured a glass of juice. “That one won’t cast off so easy. Drink this.”
Obliging, Rowan pursed her lips. “Your carrot base, some cranberry, and . . .” She sipped again. “It’s not really orange. Tangerine?”
“Blood orange. Gotcha.”
“Sounds disgusting, and yet it’s not. Any word on Dolly?”
Marg shook her head as she whisked eggs. Not a negative gesture, Rowan recognized, but a pitying one.
“They found her car, down one of the service roads in the woods off of Twelve, with a flat tire.”
“Just her car?”
“What I heard is her keys were still in it, but not her purse. Like maybe she had some car trouble, pulled off.”
“Why would she pull off the main highway if she had a flat?”
“I’m just saying what I heard.” After pouring the eggs into an omelet pan, Marg added chunks of ham, cheese, tomatoes, some spinach. “Some of the thinking is maybe she walked on back to the highway, or somebody followed her onto the service road. And they took her.”
“They still don’t know if the remains in the fire . . . they can’t know that for sure.”
“Then there’s no point in worrying about it.”
Marg tried for brisk, but Rowan heard the hitch in her voice that told her Marg worried plenty.
“I wanted to hurt her, and seriously regretted not getting my fist in her face at least once. Now, knowing somebody might’ve hurt her, or worse? I don’t want to feel guilty about Dolly. I hate feeling guilty about anything, but I hate feeling guilty about Dolly.”
“I’ve never known anybody better at bringing trouble and drama onto herself than Dolly Brakeman. And if L.B. hadn’t fired her, I’d have told him flat he’d have to choose between her and me. I don’t feel guilty about that. I can be sorry if something’s happened to her without feeling guilty I wanted to give her the back of my hand more than once.”
Marg set the omelet and the wheat toast with plum preserves she’d prepared in front of Rowan. “Eat. You’ve shed a few pounds, and it’s too early in the season for that.”
“It’s the first season I’ve needed an alibi for a murder investigation.”
“I wouldn’t mind having an alibi like yours.”
Rowan dug into the omelet. “Do you want him when I’m done with him? Ow.” Rowan laughed when Marg cuffed the side of her head. “And after I offer you such a studly guy.” She smiled, shooting for winsome.
“When do you think you’ll be done with him? In case I’m in the market for a stud.”
“Can’t say. So far he’s
playing my tune, but I’ll let you know.”
When Marg set a Coke down by her plate, Rowan leaned into her just a little. “Thanks, Marg. Really.”
In acknowledgment, Marg gave her a hard one-armed hug. “Clean your plate,” she ordered.
After breakfast, she tracked down L.B. in the gym where he’d worked up a sweat with bench presses.
“I’m on the bottom of the jump list,” she said without preamble.
He sat up, wiped his face with his towel. His long braid trailed down his sweaty, sleeveless workout shirt. “That’s right.” He picked up a twenty-pound free weight and started smooth, two-count bicep curls.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where I put you. I’d have taken you off completely for a day or two, but they’ve caught one down in Payette, and Idaho might need some Zulies in there.”
“I’m fit and I’m fine. Move me up. Christ, L.B., you’ve got Stovic ahead of me, and he’s still limping a little.”
“You’ve been on nearly every jump we’ve had this month. You need a breather.”
“I don’t—”
“I say you do,” he interrupted, and switched the weight to his other arm while he studied her face. “It’s my job to decide that.”
“This is about what happened yesterday, and that’s not right. I need the work, I need the pay. I’m not injured, I’m not sick.”
“You need a breather,” he repeated. “Put some time in the loft. We’re still catching up there. I’ll take a look at the list tomorrow.”
“I find remains, which I dutifully report, and I get grounded.”
“You’re still on the list,” he reminded her. “And you know jumping fire’s not all we do here.”
She also knew that when Michael Little Bear used that mild, reasonable tone, she’d have better luck arguing with smoke. She could sulk, she could steam, but she wouldn’t change his mind.
“Maybe I’ll go down and see my father for a bit.”
“That’s a good idea. Let me know if you decide you want to go farther off base.”
“I know the drill,” she grumbled. She started to shove her hands in her pockets, then went stiff when Lieutenant Quinniock walked in. “Cops are here,” she said quietly.