Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(36)
Caitlin rose to find the sheriff staring at Cort Wesley again.
“You want to tell me what business he’s got here, Ranger?”
“Protecting his boy, I imagine.”
“Do I need to remind you that he’s still our primary suspect?”
“Condition of the remains indicates the murder was committed last night, Sheriff,” Caitlin told him, peeling off her latex gloves. “After midnight, for sure.”
“So what?”
“So Mr. Masters and I were together from ten o’clock on,” she said, leaving it there.
Winkmeister smirked, then snickered. “Then I guess it’s a good thing this isn’t your case. Truth is, I’m not even sure we’re looking for a man, based on the condition of the body. I’m thinking of putting out an APB on stray bears or wolves.”
Caitlin gazed back toward the remains, where a swarm of flies thick enough to cloud the air had gathered. “You should know this isn’t the first time, Sheriff.”
“What isn’t?”
“That a body’s been found just off the rez, in almost the identical condition. It happened before, around a hundred and forty years ago. My great-great-grandfather’s case.”
“And here you are, figuring yourself to be following in his footsteps.”
Caitlin pocketed her balled-up gloves, noticed Cort Wesley gazing toward the protest line, where trouble seemed to be brewing again. “Only if I’m after the same killer, Sheriff, and it’s not Cort Wesley Masters.”
*
“What would you like to explain first, Ranger?” Tepper said, as soon as he answered Caitlin’s call. “Why you’re not at your desk or where the hell you’re calling from?”
“Jones didn’t talk to you?” Caitlin asked, as Cort Wesley listened to the conversation from nearby.
“Jones? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s why I’m back at the Comanche reservation. We got a murder on our hands.”
“You mean the Travis County sheriff has a murder on his hands.”
“I need you to get us assigned lead on the investigation.”
There was a pause, followed by a clicking sound Caitlin was certain was Captain Tepper’s lighter firing. She pictured him lighting a cigarette, probably holding the receiver to make sure she’d heard him light it.
“Don’t smoke on my account, D.W.”
“What other account is there? There, you hear me puffing now? How important is this, Ranger?”
“Important enough for you to get Doc Whatley up here,” Caitlin said, referring to Bexar County’s longtime medical examiner.
“It’s not even our case yet.”
“It’s a Homeland Security matter now, Captain. That means Jones will back us up.”
“And how’s that exactly?”
“I recognized someone watching the rez yesterday who’s linked to ISIS.”
“Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“I was hoping I heard wrong. ISIS? Frigging ISIS?” Tepper’s sigh dissolved into a cough. Now Caitlin could picture him pressing out his Marlboro in a new ashtray, brought in to replace yet another she’d hidden from sight. “Next time I put you behind a desk, Ranger,” he resumed, “will you please just stay there?”
30
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
Dylan and Ela stood in the blistering sunlight blazing down on the entrance to the Comanche reservation, their faces shiny with sweat and shirts dappled with spots where it had soaked through in patches. They seemed bent on not letting their discomfort either show or detract from their commitment to stop the construction workers from entering the rez.
But things had clearly changed since the body of the foreman had been found, just off Comanche land. More cops manned the line between the workers and protesters. But there also looked to be a lot more workers on the scene today, their frustration and declining patience evident in beet-red expressions and sweat-blanched shirts, both of which suggested more violence was in the offing.
“You look like hell, son,” Cort Wesley said to Dylan.
“I had a long night.”
“I spoke to someone in the registrar’s office at Brown. She told me the window for reenrolling in school for next semester is five days away. You want to mark that on your calendar or should I?”
Dylan glanced toward the cordoned-off crime scene. “Everyone thinks you killed that guy.”
“That what you think?”
“Not for a minute. He looks too good.”
“Ripped to shreds?”
“I’ve seen what you can do to people who piss you off.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Ela said suddenly, her words aimed at Caitlin.
“How exactly are we wasting our time, miss?”
“With that,” Ela answered, tilting her gaze toward the crime scene back off the road. “This isn’t the kind of killer you can catch.”
The confidence with which the young woman said that sent a chill up Caitlin’s spine. Again, her tone bordered on smugness, but the look on her face was somber and calm. She was not in the least rattled by what had transpired, and seemingly was not even surprised by it.