Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(7)

Mason shook his head.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” muttered Michael.

Mason felt a twinge of guilt for trying to push the reporter’s buttons. Wrong time, wrong place. “Sorry.” Michael nodded diffidently, but Mason saw regret flash in the man’s eyes. Sucks to have your woman swept away right under your nose. Been there, done that.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear your answers to your son’s questions.”

The senator’s face stated he did mind, but he kept his mouth closed. Mason lifted a brow to Dr. Brody, asking her to go first. The woman wiped at her eyes and began to quietly speak.

An hour later, Mason hadn’t heard anything that he hadn’t already read in the old police reports and found in newspaper articles. Michael Brody’s pointed questions and frustration revealed he felt the same. Mason had let Brody do most of the interview. The reporter was sharp, asking questions as identical ones crossed Mason’s mind. And the parents seemed to open up better to their son. Mason made notes and wished Ray was there to take notes instead. Mason could concentrate better if he wasn’t writing and listening at the same time. He eyed Michael’s digital recorder. He’d ask him to download the interview and e-mail it to Ray. Computers and Mason didn’t mix. Ray usually handled any computer work beyond the basics.

“It was never known if just one child was the target or if all of them were,” Mason jumped in as Michael paused. “Ransom or blackmail was expected at first, considering the socioeconomic class of the children. Usually, crime motives boil down to money, drugs, or sex.” Dr. Brody blanched. Considering the age of the children, the thought of sex as the motive made Mason queasy, too. “If you imagine Daniel was the prime target. Over the years, has someone come to mind, even very briefly, that could do this?”

Dr. Brody looked away and twisted the sheets in a fist. Several times over the last hour, tears had streaked her face, and Mason knew they were about to start again. He shifted his gaze to the senator. The tall man sat on the bed by his wife; his usually stiff shoulders had slowly deflated through the interview. He met Mason’s gaze. “No, no one.”

Dr. Brody said nothing.

“My wife is tired. Are we done?” The senator directed his question at his son. Mason’s ears perked up at the accusing tone, and he saw Michael’s back stiffen. The reporter nodded and stood. He picked up Mason’s hat and handed it to him.

Mason got the message.

He shook the senator’s hand and said his good-byes. He silently followed Michael through the maze of hallways and out of the big house into the blazing heat. Mason wiped at the instant sweat on his forehead and put on his hat. Jesus Christ. Seven in the evening and the temp was still hovering around a hundred degrees.

Mason stopped beside Michael on the wide wraparound porch and stared at Portland’s skyline.

Stunning view.

What had it been like growing up in such wealth? Michael Brody came from some of the bluest blood in the state but didn’t show it. The guy always needed a haircut and dressed like he spent his days at a beachside bar. Except for the watch. Mason knew shit about watches. All he cared about was if it worked, but Ray had once commented that Brody’s watch probably cost a third of Mason’s yearly salary. Gross salary.

Mason struggled to wrap his brain around that. His gaze went to the black Range Rover in the driveway. Oh yeah. And the vehicle. Another sign that Michael Brody wasn’t the beach bum he presented himself as. Not to mention the dual master’s degrees in international studies and economics, the investigative articles Brody wrote about his year in a motorcycle gang, running with the damned bulls in Spain, and jumping out of anything that could fly.

“They aren’t telling us everything,” the imposter beach bum stated.

Mason nodded. Brody’s green eyes were narrowed in deep thought. The brain behind those eyes was one of the sharpest Mason had ever met. Too bad the guy had a problem with following the rules. Or listening to authority. Oregon State Police could have used someone like Brody. Or the CIA. But Brody liked to do things his own way.

“I agree,” Mason said.

The men stood in silence until Mason glanced at his cheap watch. “I need to go.” He moved down the steps, leaving Brody behind.

“Callahan.”

Mason turned.

“I’m going to find out what happened to Daniel.” Brody held his gaze.

Mason nodded, unsurprised. He believed Brody would do just that. Maybe even before he did.





Jamie hung her keys on the hook by her phone and, with a smile, dropped her purse on the counter. Summer rocked. It was nearly nine in the evening and it was still light out and toasty warm. As much as she liked seeing the kiddos crowding the halls at her elementary school, she especially liked the quiet and the half-days of work during the summer. The warm afternoons and evenings were hers. No meetings with parents, no lectures on not hitting other students, no complaining teachers. She placed her hands on the small of her back and stretched, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut grass from the fields across the street. Her favorite smell of summer. Right after barbequed steak.

Her mouth watered. Opening the fridge, she took out a Diet Coke and frowned at the sparse offerings on her shelves. Yogurt, cheese, and milk. Dairy group accounted for. Not much else. She snagged a lemon yogurt and kicked her flip-flops onto the mat by the door to the garage. Living alone was great, but sometimes she wished she had a reason to cook a big meal. Meat and pasta and crusty bread. Lots of it. Once a month she met with girlfriends for dinner and wine to catch up on each other’s lives. The rest of the month she lived on protein bars, dry cereal, and fruit.