Cold Shot (4 page)

Finley’s hand tensed in his.

An owl hooted, and a small critter scampered through the underbrush behind them. Perhaps what he’d heard had just been an animal after all, but the sense of a threat wouldn’t release its hold.

Clicking his flashlight on, he reswept the area.
Nothing
.

Hmm.
Maybe it was time to move on. He was just about to turn around when something scraped on their right, the sound of a jacket sleeve raking along a tree limb.

His vision narrowing, heart thudding, he tugged Finley into a full-out run. The beam of his flashlight bounced off the trunks surrounding them as they jumped over tangled roots and through sloshy ground cover.

Trees whizzed by, inches from his face. He ducked and swayed, praying Finley followed his lead.

A small yelp escaped her lips as she flailed forward. He tugged her hand upward, righting her.

He paused, his breath deep but even. “Are you okay?”

“Just caught my ankle on a root. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you okay to keep going?” He wouldn’t leave her behind. Not with the current unknowns. Who was out there? They clearly weren’t alone.

“Yes.” She rested her full weight on her ankle and winced. “I’ll be fine.”

No she wouldn’t. Not at the clip he needed. “Let’s get you back to the site.”

“Please, it’s a minor twist, if anything. I’m good. Let’s go.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” She started moving at a decent clip.

Impressive.

They tracked back through the woods, reaching the nearest road in time to see taillights disappearing in the distance.

Someone
had
been there. He knew it. But who, and why?

5

G
riffin watched the strobe of Parker’s flash reflecting off the red-hued sky.
Bad day to be on the water
.

He shook his head, the nautical knowledge as much a part of him as the blood flowing through his veins. He glanced at Parker, and then to the parking lot at the black Expedition pulling into a slot. Declan climbed out, slipping his aviator sunglasses in place. Maritime culture flowed through them all, binding them in yet one more unbreakable way.

He glanced at Finley still moving gingerly on her ankle. He should have made her stop. Their nighttime observer might simply have been somebody curious to check out the rumors no doubt swirling around town about a body being found, but the restlessness in his gut wouldn’t cease.

Finley had grown quieter after the incident, uneasy. Perhaps it had shaken her more than he realized. He felt bad about that. He hadn’t meant to startle her. He’d just followed his gut, which usually ended badly. Would he never learn?

“Griffin,” Declan said, approaching. Dressed in a white dress shirt and grey dress pants, his light brown hair short and closely trimmed around the ears, he looked every bit a Fed—even on a Sunday.

“Thanks for coming.” He shook his friend’s hand.

Parker paused his work. “Hey, man.” He gave Declan a man hug—straight arm—pat on the back—more chest bump than actual hug, but still far too touchy-feely for Griffin’s taste. “Glad you could make it.”

“Griff said dawn, but I’m sure you were here hours ago.” He lowered his glasses, shifting his attention to Finley. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

Griffin made the introduction. “Declan Grey, Dr. Finley Scott.”

“Glad to meet you.” She shook Declan’s hand, and Griffin tried to ignore the irritation Declan’s overly pleasant smile at Finley had on him. It was no wonder both he and Parker were flirtatious—Finley was gorgeous—but he didn’t have to like it.

“I hear you three go back quite a ways,” she said.

Declan glanced at Parker, his brown eyes filling with pleasure, or at least nostalgia. “You telling stories out of school again?”

“Just the good ones.” He winked.

“Actually,” Finley said, “all I’ve heard is that you used to play Little League together.”

“Which is more than enough background on us,” Griff said, needing to nip any further conversation on that topic in the bud. “We need to focus on the job at hand.”

Parker chuckled. “There’s the Griff we all know. Work. Work. Work.”

“Work is how stuff gets done.” Adherence to rules. Integrity. Focus. Not allowing feelings to intervene or emotions to distract. That’s how people got hurt.

“Speaking of work . . .” Declan said, stepping to the grave’s edge. At least one of his friends knew how to take work seriously, life seriously. “What do we have here, Dr. Scott?”

“A lot of work ahead of us. I’ve set up and mapped the grid. Parker will assist with collecting samples as well as photographing the scene.”

Declan arched his brow at Parker. “Don’t you usually have an assistant?”

“She’s out of town right now. Could have mustered someone up, but not the best on such late notice. Don’t worry, I know how to photograph a scene, and I’ll have my photographer run through all the shots when she returns tomorrow morning.”

“No problem,” Finley said. “Griffin, would you mind taking notes as we go? Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

Parker knelt by the grave. “He won’t have a problem.”

Griffin gave him a death glare. If he brought up his job with the Baltimore PD or his sniper expertise . . . it would only fuel questions on Finley’s part—ones he most definitely did
not
want to answer.

Reaching for the sketchpad and pencil she held out, he flipped to a fresh page.

“Let’s get started.” She shifted naturally into her concentrated work mode that was such a pleasure to watch. “Let’s begin with surface surveying and recovery, then we’ll remove the top layer of soil and vegetation and progress to a bisection from there.”

“What kind of bullet caused that?” Parker asked, snapping a close-up of the victim’s head. He turned to Griffin at the same time Declan did.

Finley’s brows pinched. “Why are you both looking at Griffin?” What was the deal with him? His mastery over the situation in the woods—hearing something she never would have if he hadn’t stilled her, zeroing in on whomever was watching, which still had her shaken—and now everyone’s deference to his apparent ballistics knowledge. Clearly there was more to Ranger McCray than met the eye. She just wished he didn’t intrigue her so. He was not where her thoughts ought to be focused.

“Because Griffin is—” Declan said.

“I know something about bullets,” Griffin cut him off, kneeling to examine the wound. “My initial guess would be a 7.62 millimeter.”

Finley pursed her lips to speak, but Declan jumped in, interrupting her. “Any way to tell the distance?”

Griffin shook his head. “Not enough information. I mean, I can tell you it wasn’t at close range—that would have caused significantly more damage—but I’m sure Dr. Scott will be able to confirm specifics with her exam.”

What was it about Griffin that he or they didn’t want her to know? Uneasiness sloshed in her gut. She needed to be able to trust the people around her. It was essential.

“I’m done with this round,” Parker said, lowering the camera to his side, clearing them to move forward with the next level of samples and evidence collection.

Thankful for the need to focus, she shifted her attention to what they’d found so far—remnants of a battered Las Vegas 51s baseball hat and hair fibers.

She moved on to measuring the bullet wound, and Griffin was correct. The victim had been shot dead center of the forehead with a 7.62 mm bullet, but she still wouldn’t make any official declarations or rulings until her full exam had been performed at
the lab. She had worked enough cases to know when to remain silent. Reporters were already lining the parking lots below; news spread like lightning these days.

Taking into account the graduation ring—with no obvious identifying details—baseball hat, and the minor root etching on the bones, there was no doubt they were dealing with a modern body dump. Based on the initial analysis, she’d guess sometime in the last year.

“How long has he or she been in the ground?” Declan asked.

“I can’t comment until I perform my exam,” she said.

“Are we dealing with male or female?”

“Again, I can’t comment until I perform my exam.”

“Can you estimate?” Griffin asked.

Of course Griffin felt a stake in this. The victim had been found on his grounds, his watch.

“I’d prefer not to. An incorrect estimation can start the investigation out on the wrong foot. Once astray it’s much harder to redirect to the right path.”

Griffin nodded. “I can respect that.”

“How soon can you start getting me results?” Declan asked.

“One step at a time. The first is to get the remains transported to the lab.”

A flurry of reporters had set up camp at the edge of the crime scene tape—they’d been able to secure a wide perimeter, but the reporters had flocked all the same. They always did.

And he’d blended in perfectly. Even asked a question or two. Just enough to get the necessary information.

They’d found her. He was sure of it.

Time to make the call.

6

F
inley settled back for the ride to the lab, still surprised Griffin had offered to drive her. She shifted her focus to her surroundings, trying to both distract herself from the fact that she was alone with a man in his vehicle and to also learn as much as she could about said man, since a talker he was not.

She took mental inventory of the contents of his truck. A pack of sunflower seeds sat in the center console, a coffee tumbler in the cup holder, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses in the pocket of the overhead visor. An O’s decal decorated the glove box. So he was an Orioles fan.

She let the contents sink in, imagining what sort of person the owner would be if he weren’t present. It matched the picture she had in her mind of the man beside her, but after his interaction with Parker and Declan, it was clear he was hiding something. Question was, what?

Start subtle
.

“Have you always been a park ranger?”

He glanced over without fully turning his head, his gaze on the road. “No.”

“What’d you do before?”

“Something different.”

“I figured as much.” She stared at his silence. Was he seriously going to ignore her question? “Such as?” she prodded. Clearly it involved ballistics knowledge.

He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “How well do you know Parker?”

Was this his way of answering or avoiding her question? “We’ve worked together off and on for a year.”

“Just worked together?” His posture was relaxed, his left arm casually extended, his hand draped over the wheel, but something told her this was no casual question. She studied the tightness of his jaw. Was he jealous? No way, this was Ranger McCray. Strong, stalwart, confident. Certainly not interested in her.

“Is it a complicated question?” he ventured.

He still hadn’t answered hers. “Was mine?”

His lips cracked into a smile, but infuriatingly, he still said nothing, so she returned the favor.

“Well?” Tightness edged the man’s voice.