Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(53)

Convincing her to spend the night—without her realizing how desperately he wanted her to—had been a challenge. And he had more challenges ahead of him, if this morning’s drop-off was any indication.

When Sean rolled out of bed, everything had been fine. He’d taken Ric’s call, no problem. Then he’d stepped back into his room, and the sight of Brooke asleep on his pillow had hit him right in the solar plexus. But no sooner had he registered the punch of emotion than everything changed. Within seconds of her waking up and realizing where she was, Sean had seen the walls start to go up again. It had gotten worse on the ride home, until she’d actually flinched when he kissed her good-bye.

That brief moment had sucked, big-time, especially after she’d been so into him last night.

So something had changed, but Sean didn’t know what. The sex had been hot—that he knew for sure—but now she had regrets. Sean didn’t know what was wrong, but he guessed it had to do with everything she’d told him back at the diner.

Sean clenched his teeth. Matt Jorgensen. The first thing he’d done after learning the guy’s name was check out his record. He was twenty-eight, the same age as Brooke. He’d been with the sheriff’s department six years and spent four as a volunteer firefighter. He had a clean record—on the surface, at least—and had built a solid career.

The man himself was solid, too. According to his DPS record, Jorgensen was six-three, 230 pounds.

He was a head taller than Brooke, and the thought of him yelling and getting in her face made Sean livid. The thought of him laying a hand on her made Sean want to rip the guy’s head off.

Sean rounded a bend and spotted a police cruiser parked on the shoulder. He shoved his thoughts aside for later as he passed the cruiser and pulled over on the opposite side of the road by Ric’s truck. No sign of the ME yet.

Sean got out and grabbed an SMPD Windbreaker from the back of the cab. Zipping into it, he stuffed a pair of latex gloves in his pocket and crossed the road, following the distant squelch of police radios. The terrain was steep and muddy, and Sean used branches to brace himself as he picked his way down to the river’s edge where Ric was standing beside a uniformed officer.

Ric saw him and tromped over.

“What do we have?”

“Caucasian female. A utility worker spotted the body from the dam.” Ric turned and nodded at the brown river churning behind him. The water level was up from all the rain they’d been having. “She’s tangled in the tree over there.”

“Age?”

“Hard to say. She’s in bad shape.”

Sean muttered a curse. Anyone who’d spent any time in the water was liable to be unrecognizable, which made it tougher to get a positive ID.

“By the clothing and jewelry, I’d guess maybe twenties,” Ric added.

Ric led him through the tangle of mesquite and sagebrush along the shoreline. Sean glanced up at the dam, where a cluster of people in hard hats had stopped their work to watch the action.

Another uniformed officer stood beside a clump of trees where someone had strung up yellow crime-scene tape.

“We’re going to need some divers to cut her loose,” Ric said. “And probably a forensic anthropologist to make an ID.”

Sean picked his way around a cypress tree and stopped. The body was trapped between two tree trunks. A black jacket seemed to have gotten hung up on one of the branches. Ric followed right behind as Sean trekked closer and caught a glimpse of blond hair tangled with leaves and twigs. Dread filled Sean’s stomach as he pushed aside some bushes to get a better look at the jacket, the lifeless arm, the pale hand.

The rings.

Sean’s breath whooshed out. “Holy hell.”

“What is it?”

“I know her.”

? ? ?

Callie nursed her coffee as she stared through the tall windows of the Delphi Center lobby. The rain had cleared overnight, and the rolling hills basked in the rosy light of morning. It was a nice place to work. Beautiful, even, if you could forget that the building sat in the middle of a body farm. Callie watched as a vulture swooped down over a clump of trees, probably checking out one of the anthro department’s research projects.

Decomposing remains. Ick. Working here was definitely not for the faint of heart.

“Calista McLean?”

She whirled around, and her pulse jumped at the sight of the impossibly attractive man standing there. How had she not heard him approach?

“Hi.” The word came out as a squeak. She thrust her hand out to offer him a handshake, but ended up offering him her coffee cup.

He gave her a puzzled look, but didn’t move to touch her. “I’m Travis Cullen.”

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair that hinted at a military background. He wore a black golf shirt with the Delphi Center logo on the pocket, tan tactical pants, and tan A.T.A.C. boots—which probably explained his stealth approach.

“Good to meet you. Everyone calls me Callie.”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

The command sent a warm ripple through her, and she followed him to a bank of elevators. He stepped on and jabbed a button. Callie’s stomach dropped as they whisked down a few levels. The doors slid open and she stepped off first so she could walk beside him, not behind.

“So. You’re the knife guy.”