Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(68)

Ray’s chuckle filled the line. “You’d be surprised how many of them are sober and let unknown artists mark them up permanently. Now they’re paying through the nose to have it fixed. I’m thinking this is steering us away from the lead Cecilia Brody gave us about her Korean patient. I’m gonna keep Mr. Jeong on the back burner while we give this more priority.”

“Definitely. He’s looking less and less likely to be involved. So maybe Mr. Tattoo was trying to better himself with a classy message on his wrist? A message that showed in the pictures of those kids with his hands around their necks? That worked real well. Totally distracted me from the sick prick’s intentions!” Mason glanced at the cars nearby. Had anyone heard him yell at Ray? He blew out his steam and ran a hand over his head. “Sorry,” he muttered into the phone.

“You’re just saying what I’m thinking.”

The phone line was quiet for a few seconds as Mason tried to get those Polaroid images out of his brain. His Bluetooth did an odd double beep in his ear, and he glanced down at his phone screen in his console.

“Hey, Ray. I’ve got Michael Brody trying to call. Have you talked to him recently?”

“No, haven’t heard from him.”

“I’m gonna take this call and get back to you.”

“Okay. I’m going to return a call to the ME’s office. They’ve got something they want to run by us.”

Mason switched over the call. Brody was breathing heavily. Oh shit.

“What happened?” Mason barked.

“Jamie’s gone. I left her in the hotel room for thirty minutes…not even that long…and I came back and she’s gone.” His words ran together. “No one has seen anything, she didn’t go to the store, her cell phone is still in the room.” He drew in a deep breath. “But a male called her room. Sounds like right after I left. He must have said something that would make her leave. Damn it, Callahan, I think he’s got her.”

Silence.

“Fuck.”

“I talked to Spencer. They’re still processing the scene of that kid who was killed in the garage. Spencer thinks he was killed because he talked to Mr. Tattoo. Thinks that might be how he found Chris’s house and knew of his friendship with the baker. Jesus Christ! I’m pulling out my hair here, Callahan!”

“Calm down—”

“Don’t f*cking tell me to calm down!”

“What’d Spencer say to do? Did you talk to Hove?” Mason thought hard. He was hours away from Brody’s position. As much as he wanted to jump into the scene boots first, he’d be too f*cking late. Damn it!

“He’s putting the word out and contacting Hove. I shouldn’t have left her alone! That sick *’s got her. He’s killed two people in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe more if he already got to her brother.”

“If he’s gotten to her brother, he wouldn’t have needed Jamie. Now concentrate, Brody! Did you see any vehicles by the hotel? Did you see anyone? Hear anything?” Usually the reporter was unflappable. This level of alarm from Brody was rattling Mason.

“Nothing! I’ve already gone through all that.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m out in front of the bed-and-breakfast. Spencer is supposed to be sending someone over. I’ve checked the hotel room. It’s immaculate. No signs of a struggle at all.”

“So he probably did get her to leave.”

“Why would she leave her phone?”

“Maybe she thought she’d be right back. Like she was just going down to the lobby to meet someone or get something.”

“Shit.”

Mason heard the reporter exhale forcefully. “We’ll find her,” he said lamely.

“I know. I just need something to do. I’m stuck here with my hands tied because no one knows where to start—what the hell?” Brody’s tone shot up an octave.

“What?” asked Mason. He could hear a car engine through the line. Brody was silent, and Mason heard the vehicle shut off. “That someone from county?”

“What the f*ck,” Brody stated. “I’ll call you back in a minute.”

“Wait! Is it Jamie? What happened?”

“No,” said Brody. “I think Chris Jacobs just pulled up.”

The phone call clicked silent.

Mason grabbed at his phone and stared at the end call screen. “Jesus f*cking Christ, Brody!” He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and pounded both palms on his steering wheel. “You can’t do shit like that to me!”



Michael slid his phone in his pocket and studied the battered Ford pickup that’d pulled to the side of the road. The truck had been passing by, hit the brakes as the driver glanced at Michael, and then jerked the wheel to pull over. Through the back window of the truck’s cab, Michael could see an adult male and the top of a black-haired head of a child in the second-row seat.

Chris. And Brian.

Michael stood frozen, staring at the window.

Maybe Jamie was with them.

There wasn’t a third head visible, but his heart fervently made the wish. The adult turned to speak to the child, and then the driver’s door swung open. A long, lean man slid out. He was wearing fatigue-print cargo shorts and a black T-shirt. Attire similar to Michael’s everyday wardrobe. From twenty feet away, Michael stared at the scarred profile, pocked with large, pale scars down one side of his cheek and neck. Chris had clearly been battered at one point in his life. He turned and locked gazes with Michael, his crooked nose and jaw coming into view, and Michael felt a chill punctuate his spine. His ears started to ring.