Waking the Dead (18 page)
“So what do you think?” The man never shifted his gaze from the scene and the pad before him, but Cait was the only one in the vicinity. Obviously she wasn’t as practiced as Sharper at moving silently.
“I don’t know anything about art.”
“That, my dear, is a cop out. I asked for your opinion, not what you know. They come from two different places.” His hand moved expertly over the page as he added more shading. “One from the gut and the other from the head. Listen to your gut.”
“It’s . . .” She searched for a description that wouldn’t offend him. “Sort of creepy.”
He looked up then and sent her a quick satisfied smile over his shoulder. “Exactly. Not the kind of scene to grace the front of postcards. But evocative in an altogether different way, hopefully.” He lowered his pencil and turned toward her. “I’m Jeffrey Russo, by the way. And you are the young lady hired by the sheriff’s department to help investigate those bones pulled out of Castle Rock. Caitlin Fleming.”
The statement caught her off guard. “A psychic as well as an artist. A man of many talents.”
He gave her a self-deprecating smile, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I wish I could claim to be either one. What I am is a professor of art history, recently retired from the University of Oregon in Eugene. And a conduit for local gossip. Your name and description have been bandied about by some around here in the know.”
Cait studied him. If he was retired, he must have done so at a fairly early age because he looked shy of sixty. His hair was gray, as was the short neat mustache whose fullness Deputy Barnes would envy. She wondered if the long ponytail he wore had been grown since his retirement. He was dressed a shade more formally than other locals she’d come into contact with, in crisp khaki pants and a button-down shirt and sandals. She had no trouble picturing him in a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows, lecturing in front of a class of two hundred.
Although she’d very much like to follow up on the source of the information about her, she figured she’d discover that on her own. She had more pressing questions for the professor.
Nodding toward his sketchpad, she said, “If you live around here, I’m sure you have plenty of sketches of the bridge. It seems to be a focal point in the area.”
Flipping his sketchbook shut, he inclined his head. “You’re right, of course. The trick is to look at a familiar scene in a whole new light. Isn’t that what an investigator does when he or she looks at evidence?”
“We try to.” It was a bit disconcerting to be greeted with such familiarity by a stranger. “Do you live here in town?”
“Blue River.” He crouched to stow his sketching pencil in a leather bag at his feet. “A recent transplant, actually. I promised Candi—my fiancée—a retirement retreat once I stopped teaching. We found a place on the McKenzie that suited us and bought it the day after I handed in my resignation. We’re still getting acquainted with the area. She has the idea that she’d like to open a little shop, with unique pieces from local artisans, but that’s in the consideration stage at this point.” He rose, slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “I can’t see the point of retiring only to immediately jump into something else that’s going to tie us down.”
“Well, McKenzie Bridge certainly seems to have several similar stores, so if sheer number means anything, it may well succeed.” She nodded to his sketchpad. “Would I find any of your work in the local shops?”
He gave a wide smile that managed to be amused and charming at the same time. “Doubtful. But there is a gallery in Portland that does quite a nice little business for me selling my works. As a matter of fact, I have a showing midfall.” He cocked his head, studying her dispassionately. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to pose for me.”
God, no. She managed, barely, to keep the instinctive response from her lips. “Sorry.”
There was a glimmer of regret in his eyes. “That’s a pity. Here.” He dug in the bag for a few moments until he withdrew a business card and handed it to her. “In case you change your mind.”
Although she had no intention on doing so, she took it and slipped it into her jeans pocket. “Are you familiar with any of the artists in the area?”
“A few.” He raised a casual hand as a red BMW convertible slowed to a stop near them. “Many of them also display their work at country fairs in the area. We have some quite good amateurs around. A few even better than that, waiting to be discovered. If you’re interested in purchasing some artwork, I’d be glad to advise you.”
The blonde woman getting out of the car was a good fifteen years Russo’s junior. Pretty in a polished sort of way that Cait used to be all too familiar with.
“Darling, I hope I didn’t leave you too long.” Although her words were directed at her fiancé, her gaze was on Cait as she rounded the hood of the car toward them. “Natasha called and had to tell me all about the summer reading program Maya enrolled her in.”
Russo’s expression lightened. “Candi, this is Caitlin Fleming.” To Cait he explained, “Natasha is my oldest granddaugh ter. I have three, ages six, four, and two. As a matter of fact, we just finished spending several days with them while their parents were on a business trip. We’re still recuperating.”
“I can imagine.” But truthfully she couldn’t. She’d never spent much time around kids. Hadn’t been one herself since she’d been eight.
A more pressing thought occurred to her. “How difficult is it to look at a piece of art and identify the artist? Or at least match an artist to another piece of work he or she has created?”
Russo scratched his jaw. “Well, there are experts in the art world whose only job is to authenticate artwork, of course. But it’s quite an involved process, from what I gather. There are excellent forgeries floating around. It’s always an embarrassment when a well-known auction house gets caught selling one, although that’s increasingly rare these days.”
Her mind was racing. “But it’s possible to find a painting and link the artist to another piece of work he did, isn’t it?”
“Oh, of course. There’s a body of experts who do nothing else.”
“Darling, I so hate to interrupt you . . .” Candi gave Cait a regretful smile. “But we are expected at the Meechums for drinks shortly.”
The professor looked at his watch and said with a note of surprise in his voice, “So we are.” He looked at Cait and his smile lit up his eyes. “It was a pleasure, Ms. Fleming. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”
Accepting the hand he held out, Cait shook it. “I hope we do.”
He walked to the car then paused, hand on the door handle, to ask, “Can we drop you anywhere?”
She shook her head. “My vehicle is parked down the street, thanks.”
Absently she returned his wave as the car pulled away, but her mind was racing furiously. Raiker would have access to forensic art experts, if she happened upon another piece of work done by the UNSUB. Of course, first she’d have to recognize similarities in the work if she discovered it.
It seemed a long shot. But no more so than some of the other leads she was following in this case.
Walking briskly in the direction of her SUV, Cait pulled out her cell and placed a call to Barnes. When she got his voice mail, she left him a message to call her back. It would be nice to find out that his day had been more productive than hers had been.
In the end she chose JD’s over either of the other two restaurants because of the throng of cars parked around it. Cait pushed open the front door of the low brick building, looking around curiously.
She was in a small lobby of sorts, with an empty hostess desk. The Internet café was on her right and a bar was on the left. The decorator had relied on a plentitude of polished pine planks, both for the floors and the walls. But the place was well lit, and the noise level wasn’t deafening. After a cursory glance at the half-dozen people on the computer stations, she turned into the bar area.
The clack of balls sounded from an unseen pool table in the back corner. A large horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room. Small tables were scattered in the rest of the available space, with about half of the seats filled. A harried-looking brunette was moving from table to table at a good clip, practiced smile firmly in place as she took orders, cleared away dishes, and mopped tabletops.
Bypassing the tables, Cait headed up to the bar, which was manned by a slight man with blond hair.
“Evening.” He left the group of men clustered at the other end of the bar and headed toward her, swiping at the bar top as he went. “What can I get for you?”
“A Coors Light bottle and a menu.” She pulled out a stool and sat, ignoring the group of men at the end of the bar who had stopped their conversation and swiveled in her direction.
“Easy enough.” His pale blue gaze was friendly and flirtatious as he handed her a menu from beneath the bar and grabbed a bottle, expertly unscrewing it and sliding it across to her. “Kitchen’s open until ten, so you have plenty of time to order.”
He moved away and she flipped open the plastic menu. A loud burst of masculine laughter sounded from the area where some men were playing pool. She flicked them an absent glance over the top of her menu.
And then froze, when she caught sight of an all too familiar figure bent over the table, lining up his shot.
Chapter 9
Shit. Cait’s eyelids slid closed in disgust. True, Sharper hadn’t irritated her as much as usual today, but somehow she didn’t think it paid to push the issue. With a sense of resignation, she opened her eyes and surveyed him, a bit bemused to find him here. Somehow she hadn’t pegged him as a social creature.
He stood out in the cluster of men around the table. Although all were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, a newcomer’s eyes would immediately be drawn to him. It was that hardened edge that gilded his appearance, she decided. The one honed to razor sharpness by experiences others couldn’t contemplate.
When her gaze would have lingered, she firmly looked away. Unlike her diminutive lab tech, she
was
discriminating when it came to men, although that trait had been acquired the hard way. She didn’t date these days unless she met a man who didn’t see her as a mirror, someone who only reflected his taste, his position, his social standing. And although Sharper didn’t strike her as that sort of man, neither was he the safe, civilized sort she occasionally went out with.
was
discriminating when it came to men, although that trait had been acquired the hard way. She didn’t date these days unless she met a man who didn’t see her as a mirror, someone who only reflected his taste, his position, his social standing. And although Sharper didn’t strike her as that sort of man, neither was he the safe, civilized sort she occasionally went out with.
There was something more than a little untamed about him, much like the wilderness he seemed so at home in. Something unpredictable and not quite civilized. He was the kind of man that raised every ounce of self-preservation instincts a woman had, even while he ignited interest of a different sort.
Cait had quite a healthy streak of self-preservation. She might have been a slow learner, but she’d discovered that touching fire invariably led to a singe, at the very least.
Sharper was definitely scorcher material.
Menu forgotten for the moment, she cast a thoughtful eye around the bar. Even if the UNSUB was a local, that didn’t mean he’d live in McKenzie Bridge. He could be from Rainbow or Blue River. He could, she thought fatalistically, be from any one of a number of small towns dotting Highway 126.
It all kept circling around to one thing, though. The trouble he’d gone to stash those bones. Sharper had nailed it correctly. Why go to so much trouble if you didn’t live in the immediate area?
The perp would be outdoorsy, she mused. In decent shape. The sets of remains ranged in weight from eighteen to twenty-five pounds. Not a particularly heavy bag to carry, but certainly unwieldy, especially when scaling Castle Rock at night. Her gaze traveled slowly around the space. The description would match most of the occupants in the bar. Certainly the group of men playing pool would qualify.
As would Sharper himself.
A shiver skittered down Cait’s spine. She knew more about the man than she did anyone else in the area, including the sheriff and deputy she was working with. Knew he had familiarity with the surroundings. That he had knowledge of the cave prior to the discovery of the bodies. That he had acidic soil and hot springs on his property.
And that he very likely had the skills to break a person’s neck, thanks to his time spent in the Rangers.
She tried—and failed—to picture him bent over a workspace for hours, patiently painting tiny pictures on a human scapula. It wasn’t that she couldn’t envision him as an artist, she thought darkly, though it would be a stretch. But she couldn’t imagine him possessing the patience necessary for such detail. She’d seen little evidence of that particular trait in the time she’d spent with him.
She continued to scan the room. The two men playing darts in the corner would fit. As would three of the men still stealing surreptitious looks at her from the corner of the bar. Given the girth of one of them, though, he could be eliminated from consideration.
The waitress was slender. Not a likely candidate. Though from the occasional look she threw the bartender, she had the internal fortitude necessary to maim, if not kill.
“Made your decision yet?”
Cait glanced around to find the bartender leaning on the bar addressing her. And realized with a start that she hadn’t more than glanced at the menu. “Sorry.” She turned on her stool to face him. “What do you recommend?”
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