Her Grave Secrets (Rogue River #3)(2)

Zane relaxed his shoulders, realizing that the younger woman on Hank’s crew had nervously looked over her shoulder at him a few times in the last minute. “Sorry,” he muttered to Stevie.

She grinned, and he reached for her hand and froze. He shoved his hands in his pockets. The amusement in her eyes told him she’d caught his near faux pas.

Working side by side with Stevie Taylor had been an adventure. She’d returned to Solitude after several years’ absence, joined Zane’s police force, and captured his heart within a week. He’d been reluctant to openly date one of his cops, but a wise woman had pointed out that his happiness was worth it.

A small town like Solitude made up its own rules. So far it seemed to approve of the romance. A few old-timers had questioned his intentions toward the daughter of the former police chief, but they seemed to find him worthy.

In their eyes Stevie could do no wrong. She was the prodigal daughter who’d returned home after more than a decade because of the death of her father, Bill Taylor, Solitude’s police chief. The townsfolk had welcomed her back with open arms—a former LAPD officer who’d decided their tiny rural town was a better place to live and catch some bad guys.

Zane had spent five years on the police force earning the trust of the town. It was like a secret club. The primary key to membership was having been born in Solitude. He’d grown up on the eastern side of Oregon and this town, an hour inland from the Pacific Ocean, had made him feel welcomed, but he didn’t feel completely accepted. In their eyes he was still an outsider; he had their respect but not their hearts.

“He’s got something,” Stevie exclaimed.

Zane refocused on the small crew, who were nearly knocking heads as they all tried at once to get a look at something in the dirt. One of them snapped photos as another slowly lifted a cloth from the dirt.

A shirt.

The fabric had held together better than the body. Zane knew a body exposed to the elements would rapidly decompose. It’d been a hot summer and the remains had been found in a moist area of the river valley. Scavengers, bugs, and bacteria had worked their destruction on human flesh. Under the tree trunk were simply bones, a shirt, and shorts.

“No shoes,” Stevie pointed out.

“But even after the tree fell, his feet were exposed. Animals could have torn the shoes away. Same with any hair. We’re lucky to have any clothing at all. No telling how long he’s been here,” said Zane.

Hank awkwardly knelt next to one of his team. The ME mopped his sweaty face with a towel, making Stevie concerned for the older man in the high heat. He pointed at something in the dirt, and an assistant snapped a photo before Hank picked up what Stevie immediately knew was a rib. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and peered at the end. Zane moved forward.

“What’d you find?” he asked Hank.

“His ribs are crushed,” said Hank. “Which I’d expect to find with a tree of that size on top of him, but he was already dead when the tree hit him. There’s no blood in the breaks like you’d see in a wound that occurred around the time of death. Scavengers have been nibbling on some of the long bones too. We’re not going to find all of him. There are going to be pieces scattered all through the forest.”

“So he was dead before the tree fell,” Zane repeated, his brows drawing together.

“Which is what I expected with two holes in his skull,” Hank answered dryly.

“Is this our murder scene?” Stevie asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Hank answered. “I’ll sample the soil under him for blood. The shells didn’t turn up here, but the shooter could have picked them up before he left. It depends if he was willing to haul a body into the woods this far. And if he did, why didn’t he bury him? No one would have found him for decades.”

“No wallet?” asked Zane. He wanted the body identified as soon as possible.

“I checked under his pelvis where I’d expect one to be. Nothing.”

One of Hank’s forensics team members finished freeing the shirt from the bones and held it up, peering at the tag. “Hanes, triple extra large,” she stated.

A big guy.

Stevie sucked in a breath as Zane remembered a big guy who was missing.

“Oh, no,” whispered Stevie as a choking sound came from her throat.

Zane could make out the faded fish printed on the back of the T-shirt. He’d seen the shirt dozens of times. Solitude police officer Roy Krueger had always worn it when they’d fished the Rogue River during the summer. His “lucky shirt.”

His vision narrowing, Zane spun around and stared at the nearby river, breathing heavily.

Not-so-lucky shirt.





CHAPTER TWO





Roy Krueger’s home sat within a dense grove of firs. It was nearly a mile off the main highway; his driveway was a winding dirt path that’d been patched numerous times with gravel and oil. Stevie and Zane bounced through the ruts, leaving a billowing cloud of dust behind them. She’d rolled up her window and cranked up the air-conditioning, not wanting to feel the grit of dust in her teeth. Although it was nearly eight at night, the temperature still hovered in the nineties—too hot even for August.

“I’ve stopped by a few times since he vanished around Memorial Day,” said Zane. “It’s looked the same every time. House locked up tight. Weeds getting taller. No vehicles. I was hurt that he’d left town without saying goodbye.”