Joe introduced himself to the crime scene investigator, Sanderson. “What’ve we got?”
“Deep incision from the carotid to the jugular. She’d have been dead pretty damn quick.” Sanderson glanced up at the rangy lawman standing beside Joe. “Never thought I’d see this in Trinity, Hank.”
Chief Hank Trent shook his head. “Neither did I.”
Sanderson reached across the body and picked up something lying half-hidden by the body. It was a large filet knife, sticky with blood.
Joe looked up at the kitchen counter and spotted a knife block. There was an empty slot.
“Weapon of opportunity,” Chief Trent murmured.
“Guys, I don’t want to make your case more complicated, but I’m not sure Jane Doe could’ve done this,” Sanderson said quietly. “We’ll know more after the autopsy, but this cut looks like it was done in one stroke. Not sure a slip of a woman like the roommate could’ve made that happen. It probably would’ve taken a man.”
Trent exchanged a look with Joe. “I don’t think Ms. Doe needs to know that just yet.”
Joe nodded in agreement. “I want to question her.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “This happened in my county, Chief. I get the first crack at her.”
“Let me in on it, then.”
Trent looked inclined to argue, but after a moment he gave a nod. “I take the lead. Let’s not muck this up with interagency squabbling.”
“You take the lead,” Joe agreed.
“CAN I change out of these clothes?” Jane asked, her posture stiff, as if the feel of the bloody clothes against her skin was painful.
“Soon,” Hank Trent promised.
Joe leaned against the wall of the interrogation room, keeping his distance as Hank Trent had requested. He’d listened for the last half hour as the police chief took “Jane Doe” back through the events of that afternoon. It was hard to stay silent with so many questions still unasked, but he wouldn’t appreciate an outsider interfering with one of his own investigations, either.
Besides, sooner or later, he’d have his turn with her. And she’d think dealing with Hank Trent was a walk in the park in comparison.
“There was a man in your apartment when you arrived,” Trent said for the third time since the interrogation started.
“I told you that already.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I’ve told you what he looked like. I’ve described his voice. I told you that he had packed a bag for me and expected me to go with him. I told you everything I remember. Can I please just get out of these bloody clothes? Please!” She smacked her hand on the table between them.
“Why’d you bypass the front entrance?” Joe interjected, unable to remain silent any longer.
Both Jane and the police chief turned to look at him.
“You didn’t enter the front,” Joe said. “I know. I was in the hardware store, watching for you.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She looked back at the chief. “I couldn’t find my key,” she answered smoothly.
She was a good liar, Joe thought. Believable. But then, he knew that already.
He pulled up a chair and sat by Chief Trent, who shot him a glare. Joe ignored it. He didn’t have the time or inclination to play nice with the locals on this case. “Your key was in your purse. Want to try again?”
“I didn’t see it in my purse. Why does that matter?” She didn’t look so fragile anymore, vibrant color rising in her cheeks and her voice growing hard and tight. She looked more like the woman he remembered from almost a year ago. Images flitted through his mind, daring him to remember her as he’d known her then.
He gritted his teeth and held her angry gaze, replacing the unwanted memories with the stark mental picture of Tommy’s lifeless body.
Jane Doe looked at Chief Trent. “Who is this man?”
She didn’t say it like someone who wanted an answer, Joe realized. She knew who he was already.
So she
Anger burned in his gut, mingling with the black coffee he’d drunk at the River Lodge Diner. He was beginning to regret skipping breakfast and lunch.
“Chief Garrison is here in Trinity because of you, Ms. Doe. Says you’re his prime suspect in a murder in Canyon Creek. Ever been to Canyon Creek?”
When she turned her eyes to meet Joe’s gaze, a zing of energy caught him by surprise. Even pale and wary, as she was now, she still possessed the vibrancy he’d noticed the first time he set eyes on her a year ago.
He hated himself for still feeling it.
“Where’s Canyon Creek?” she asked.
“Wyoming,” Joe answered.
“I hear Wyoming’s pretty.”
Hank Trent shot a glare at Joe. “I hate to interrupt the travelogue-”
“You spent almost a year in Canyon Creek, Wyoming,” Joe continued, ignoring Trent. “You worked for a rancher there. Thomas Blake.”
He watched closely for her reaction. Her gaze didn’t drop, but he could see her mind working behind those soft green eyes. Was she remembering Tommy’s laughter-lined face? The way he could make people feel like family the second he met them?
Was she remembering his body, slumped and still on the stable floor, drenched in the river of crimson flowing from the three bullet holes in his chest?
“We’re getting off track here,” Hank Trent said firmly. “Chief, unless you’d rather wait outside-”
Joe sat back, knowing he’d crossed a line. This was Trent’s territory, and Joe had just trampled all over it. That was no way to make allies of the locals.
And like it or not, he needed allies on this one. He had only the spottiest of evidence against Sandra Dorsey or Jane Doe or whatever the hell her name really was.
But he knew, gut-deep, she was involved with Tommy’s murder right down to her pretty little toes.
JANE TUCKED her knees up to her chest, trying to stop crying. Beneath her, the cot was wobbly and hard, but they’d finally let her shower and change into clean clothes. The jail-issued T-shirt and jeans were too large, but at least they weren’t covered with Angela’s blood.
She closed her eyes tight against the fresh flood of despair. Angie. Why had he killed her? Just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time?
No. Not a brother. His gaze had made her feel naked. Exposed. As if he knew everything there was to know about her, inside and out.
What kind of monster had she brought into this sleepy little town?
Footsteps approached her cramped holding cell and came to a stop. Jane forced herself to open her burning eyes, dashing away her tears with her knuckles. Joe Garrison stood just outside her cell, gazing through the bars at her with an expression as intense and knowing as that of the mustached man who’d been waiting in her apartment.
When it became clear he had no intention of speaking first, she asked, “Who are you?”
“You know exactly who I am.”
She pushed off the cot and crossed to the bars. He was several inches taller than she was, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his hard gaze. “I know your name. Now I know your job. But I don’t know you.”
“You’re really good, you know?” He raised his arms and gripped the bars over her head, leaning toward her. He seemed to fill all the space in the narrow cell, even though he remained outside. “Even I can’t tell if you’re lying about not remembering.”
Jane gripped the bars in front of her, trying not to let his imposing presence shake her. “Even you?”
His smile was an awful thing. “We go back a ways, Jane. Or is it Sandra?”
Sandra Dorsey, she thought, remembering the name on the papers in Joe’s hotel room. “Maybe it’s Sandra. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
