Part 12 (1/2)

The sheriff rubbed a hand across his mouth. ”The woman. Elena. They never married. That's no big deal, and having a kid while not wed wasn't a big deal to most around here. They looked happy whenever I saw them. Can't say I've ever seen him smile since she died-”

”What's his name? The boy?” Jamie interrupted again.

The sheriff's eyes widened. ”You don't know his name? Jesus H. Christ. That's a h.e.l.l of a brother you've got there. The boy is Brian.”

Michael watched Jamie's lips move as she silently spoke the name. Her eyes grew wet.

”I can't believe he wouldn't tell you,” Sheriff Spencer snorted. ”Why in the world would he refuse to tell you Brian's name?”

”I didn't know about him. Brian. I didn't even know he existed.” Jamie's voice drifted off.

”That's even worse.” The sheriff shook his head, wonder in his eyes.

”What were you about to say about Jacobs?” Michael brought the sheriff's focus back to the matter at hand.

A blank look crossed his face for a split second. ”c.r.a.p. Lost my train of thought. I was about to say people think Chris was in the car with Elena when it crashed. Maybe somehow caused the crash. He had a big bruise on his face that day, but claims he'd accidentally whacked himself with something...I don't remember what. It was enough to make people talk, wonder why he'd not admit to being at the scene of the accident. Made him look guilty in some way.”

”He said he wasn't there?” Michael asked.

”He said he was home.”

”Why would he want to cause an accident? You said they seemed happy.”

The sheriff shrugged. ”Elena was a Mexican gal. Probably illegal. I figure that's why they never married. She just appeared around town one day, no family, looking for work. I'm not certain how she hooked up with your brother. Anyway, some stuff didn't make sense at the accident. The pa.s.senger door was open. Elena's blood was on the outside of her door, but her door and window were shut. Someone had been there after the accident. Jacobs seemed the most likely. The accident happened close enough to their home. He could have easily walked home.”

”Who found her?” whispered Jamie.

”Dean Schmidt. Driving by. Swears he didn't touch the driver's door. He'd noticed it was b.l.o.o.d.y when he got there. He checked Elena from the pa.s.senger side and said that door was open. He had to drive a few miles to get a cell signal to call it in.”

”He could have messed up the scene,” stated Michael.

”He could have,” the sheriff agreed. ”Dean is eighty-eight years old and sharp as a whip. I guess he watches CSI all the time, said he knew not to touch anything. He checked for a pulse and that was it. A lot of the blood had already dried, and she was nearly cold by the time he found her.”

”So anyone pa.s.sing by could have tampered with the scene.”

”I'd usually agree with that statement, but that road only goes to the Schmidt place or your brother's place. The chances of anyone else driving by are slim to none.”

”Chris was never arrested for anything, right?” Jamie asked.

”Nope. I was the one to deliver the news. I saw the look on his face. That was the look of a man who'd just lost the love of his life.” The sheriff blinked hard. ”I asked some questions and was satisfied he knew nothing of the accident. I'm not sure who first spread the story of him causing the accident-I'd like to kick their a.s.s. d.a.m.n town loves gossip.”

”And telling us? That's not spreading gossip?” Michael raised a brow.

”I've never repeated the story to another person, and I've told plenty of people to shut up about it. I'm just giving you some background on what your brother's experienced here because you're related. I'd say he's rather bitter. Now you know why.”

A waitress set two huge platters of food on the table. Michael inhaled. Christ. It was heaven. He didn't even look at Jamie as he dug in. ”Holy s.h.i.+t. That's good.”

Jamie nodded, her mouth full.

Sheriff Spencer grinned and pulled a piece of paper out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket. ”Here's your directions. Like I said, watch the odometer, otherwise you'll never know which road to turn on.” He stood, picked up his hat, and glanced at his watch. ”Kinda late to drive out there tonight. You're gonna want better light. I'd wait till morning. It's up to you. Hotel's just down the street.”

Michael stood to shake his hand. ”Thanks for your help.”

The sheriff touched the brim of his hat at Jamie. ”Good luck.”

Michael sat back down with a sigh and picked up his fork. Tomorrow morning was fine with him. He wanted to eat and then sleep. Nothing else.

”All this cheese,” Jamie said, focusing on her plate. ”I'm gonna have a ton of calories to work off.”

Michael suddenly lost his need for sleep.

Mason Callahan did not like autopsies. He sat in his car outside the medical examiner's office, air conditioner blasting, and wished for a cigarette. His partner, Ray, was home with a nasty flu bug, so Mason was on his own today. It was easier when Ray came along. It gave him someone to man up to. By himself, it was too easy to wimp out, stalling by sitting in his car, no peer pressure to get his a.s.s inside and listen to what the ME had to say.

He tried to attend the autopsies related to his cases, but usually it was a single victim. Today, it was the adults found in the pit by the bunker. Was this even called an autopsy? What do you call it when there are just bones left? It's more like a puzzle to put back together instead of a body to take apart. That should be the opposite of an autopsy.

Christ.

Can you say stalling?

It was just bones. But he still didn't like stepping foot in the building. It had that smell.

He forced himself out of his car, felt the heat slam him in the face, and put on his hat. People always asked how he could wear a hat in this heat. He liked his hat. The brim shaded his eyes and his neck, and the light straw color reflected back the sun. Without his hat the top of his head got hot.

He'd taken two steps when his phone rang. An unfamiliar number showed on the screen. Any other day he'd let it go to voice mail, but maybe this was something important. Something that needed him to get his b.u.t.t there right away. Away from the ME's building.

”Callahan,” he answered.

”Detective. This is Maxwell Brody.”

Mason instinctively stood straighter. ”Yes, Senator. What can I do for you?”

”After our talk the other day, I've been thinking hard, trying to remember if there was anything else odd going on when Daniel disappeared.”

Here it comes again. Mason closed his eyes. There was always something the family held back, feeling it was none of the police's business or had an aspect too embarra.s.sing to reveal. What in the h.e.l.l had the senator waited twenty years to talk about?

”I had to go back to my calendar. In my type of position, there's always a permanent calendar, a permanent record of what I'd done that day.”

Mason heard another male voice speaking in the background.

”Hang on, Detective.” The senator's voice was m.u.f.fled as he answered the other male. He came back on the line. ”I'm sorry. My brother, Phillip, is here. He's been helping me review my calendar and diaries from that time.”

Mason stood straighter, fighting the need to remove his hat. The governor was there, too? This was what you'd call a power phone call.

”A few months before Daniel vanished, I started having problems with...well, I guess you'd call it a stalker.”

Mason's ears perked up.

”I always a.s.sociate the word stalker with a woman being followed, but I don't know how else to describe what I had to deal with. It started simple. The usual c.r.a.p in the mail. Bulls.h.i.+t letters. The kind of stuff we roll our eyes at but always date-stamp and file away. Just in case.”

”What type of letter would you call a bulls.h.i.+t letter?” Mason asked.