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“What’s going on?” She glanced to where Brewer and the old man waited. “You got a body or what?”
Cyrus sent an oddly covert glance in that same direction. “Before you take a look there’s something you need to know.”
This got stranger by the moment. Bree held up her hands. “Wait—have you called the lab? The coroner?” The realization that no one—no one— else had arrived as of yet abruptly cut through all the confusion.
Cyrus shook his head, looked at the ground before meeting her gaze. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know who the hell to call first. This is…complicated. That’s why I called you before anyone else.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Cyrus?” Good grief, it wasn’t like this was the first deceased victim he’d come upon.
“The vic…” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “She’s…”
At least Bree now knew that the victim was female.
“She’s a federal agent.”
Federal agent? “BIA?” Her first thought was that an agent from the Bureau of Indian Affairs had been murdered. The controversy over who was boss, Tribal Affairs or BIA, was an ongoing issue. Things got complicated and damned hot at times.
Cyrus shook his head. “FBI. Julie Grainger.”
Regret hardened to a lump in Bree’s gut. She’d only met Julie Grainger once. Nice lady. Young, early thirties, like Bree. Hard worker. Loyal. A damned good agent from all indications.
“I told you this was complicated.”
No kidding. “All right.” Bree rubbed her forehead, an ache starting there. “I’ll take a look and talk to the guide. You call Callie MacBride and get her lab techs over here. Tell her it’s Grainger.” A mixture of frustration and more of that regret dragged at Bree’s shoulders. “Then call the coroner’s office.” Think, Bree. This one will be sticky. Protocol has to be followed to the letter.
“You want me to call Sheriff Martinez?” Cyrus suggested.
A vise clamped around Bree’s chest. This was Ke
Patrick Martinez.
No matter that he had been the sheriff of the county for the last six years, somehow she had managed to avoid ru
Eight years!
Focus on the job.
Special Agent Julie Grainger was dead. She deserved Bree’s full attention.
Nothing else mattered right now. Determining why she was dead and who killed her was top priority. “Yeah, do that. But call the others first.”
“Morning, Detective,” Brewer said as she approached.
“Good morning, Officer Brewer.”
“This is Burt Hayes.” Brewer gestured to the guide.
Hayes was Ute, as all park guides were. Bree’s family was Ute, as well. Hayes had that aged, craggy look, the one that said he’d spent almost as much time in the scorching Western sun as the Puebloan dwellings. He wore faded jeans and beneath the matching denim jacket an equally faded khaki shirt, along with leather boots that had seen far better days. His graying hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached the middle of his back.
“Mr. Hayes.” Bree extended her hand, gave his a firm shake. “I need to take a look around, then I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Hayes nodded. “You Charlie Hunter’s girl?”
Most folks around the Four Corners area knew her father. He’d once been an outspoken advocate for the Ute people and tribal affairs…before a stroke had silenced his deep, strong voice.
“Yes, sir.” Bree smiled. “And he’s still as ornery as ever.” She turned to Officer Brewer. “Why don’t you assist Mr. Hayes with filling out his statement while I have a look at the scene?”
Brewer nodded, didn’t comment or ask any questions, which meant that neither he nor Cyrus had done that part yet. Learning the victim was a federal agent had shaken them both.
Complicated.
Definitely complicated.
The silence felt deafening as Bree tugged on the latex gloves and crouched next to the victim nestled amid the rocks ensconced in the desert sand. Grainger’s slender body was bloated with the ugliness of death, her skin pale and marbleized. One hand had been ravaged by wildlife, probably coyotes. Bree grimaced. They were damned lucky there wasn’t more damage.
Bree visually examined the body for indications of the kind of violence done by man. No blood. Redness and bruising on the throat. No other signs of violence were visible except ligature marks on her throat. Bree leaned as close as possible and studied the marks. A unique pattern…not mere twine, certainly not a particularly thin wire. The longer she looked the more familiar the pattern appeared. Maybe a necklace of some sort. She’d definitely seen something like it before. Though Bree felt fairly certain cause of death was strangulation, the coroner would make the final conclusion.
She sat back on her haunches and inventoried more details. Jeans, blouse, which, on closer inspection, had a tear in one sleeve as if she’d struggled briefly with her attacker. Hiking boots. But no jacket. Though the weather was definitely tolerable, the last couple of days the temps had hovered in the lower forties. Jacket wearing weather for sure.
Bree surveyed the landscape. No vehicle. She wandered wide around the body, careful of every step. No visible shoe imprints. With the dusty terrain and the ever-present wind, that was no real surprise. No purse. No cell phone. Most females carried some sort of purse, even if only a small clutch. And cell phones, hardly anyone left home without them these days.
Had the body been dumped here, making this location the secondary crime scene, or had Grainger met someone here who had taken her personal effects and vehicle after taking her life?
This part of the park’s entry and exit possibilities via vehicle were limited to say the least.
The thought drew Bree’s gaze to the road. A dust cloud bloomed, a
Official vehicle.
Ke
Had Cyrus called the sheriff first? Now that she thought about it, that didn’t add up. There was no way the sheriff could have gotten here this fast unless he’d heard already. Before Cyrus called anyone.
The driver’s-side door opened and her heart seemed to stall in her chest. A booted foot hit the ground as the trademark white cowboy hat rose above the open door. Broad shoulders followed that same route…then a tall, lean body gloved in jeans and a brown sheriff’s department jacket moved aside and the driver’s-side door slammed shut.
Patrick Martinez.
Sheriff Patrick Martinez.
Peter’s father.
He strode toward her and Bree snapped out of the ridiculous trance she’d slipped into. Focus. She was a professional; he was a professional. There was no need to let personal feelings get in the way of doing the job. She’d considered long and hard what she would do if this situation ever arose. Now was the time to put that plan into action.
“Sheriff,” she said, taking the first step.
Vivid blue eyes, ones exactly like her son’s, zeroed in on Bree’s like a laser hitting its target. Patrick nodded curtly. “Detective.”
“The victim’s over here.” Bree walked back to where Grainger’s body lay waiting to reveal the story behind the final moments of her life.
Had Cyrus or Brewer called MacBride yet? Those lab folks should be here. Now.
Patrick crouched to get a closer look. Bree did the same. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and tugged them on. “Who found her?”
The pain in his deep voice reflected the ache of finding one of his own murdered. Every victim was a tragedy, but the loss of a colleague was like losing a family member.