scene. Her hand locked instead around a forearm, nearly as hard as the steel bridge railing. When she realized this arm belonged to King County Deputy Sheriff Nathan Prair, she let go and stepped back and away.
“It’s been awhile, Daphne.”
“Deputy Prair.” She addressed him like a hostess to an uninvited dinner guest. Nathan Prair had been a client of hers-a patient. Departmental counseling following a shooting. She’d had to pass Prair off to a civilian colleague when he’d attached to her, professing he loved her. It had gotten to the point where thanking him or even speaking to him risked leading him on, sending some unintended signal.
The question was why he was here. This bridge was within city limits, SPD jurisdiction. Why the involvement of the King County Sheriff’s Office? Either one of their guys had spotted the body-she hoped it wasn’t Prair-or perhaps the lake itself fell into KCSO jurisdiction. The way politicians drew the maps, anything was possible.
“How have you been?” Prair moved to fill the space she’d made between them. He was in that group of patrolmen that spent a couple of hours a day at the gym, though he lacked the jutting jaw and heavy brow that seemed ubiquitous features of the other G.I. Joes. In fact, Prair’s overly round face housed narrow-set soft brown eyes that left him a confusing mixture of boyishly handsome and mean-spirited. Even with the Marine cut, Matthews had always thought his blond hair was more that of a surfer than the take-no-prisoners cop he hoped to portray.
Prair’s biggest problem was that he believed women found his looks irresistible. It had gotten him into all sorts of trouble. It had gotten him dismissed from SPD and later moved over to the Sheriff’s Office.
“Deputy Prair, I don’t think it appropriate that we have this, or any conversation.” She looked around the bridge for John LaMoia, who was supposed to be on the scene already.
Prair shook his head, smile still in place. “That was what …
over a year ago? I got a little jiggy-it happens. Tell me that’s never happened to you before, one of your couch potatoes getting hot for you.”
“I’m glad you found reassignment,” she said as a concession.
“I hope it works out for you on the job.”
“You sound like my grandmother, or something. This is me, Daphne!”
“It’s Matthews, and it’s lieutenant. Your charm is lost on me, Deputy.”
He leaned closer and he lowered his voice into a whisper that cut through the damp air. “So it was you the Titanic hit. Mystery solved.”
She stepped back as John LaMoia called out her name and approached in a stiff-legged hurry.
John LaMoia didn’t walk, he swaggered, carrying his entire personality in a confident stride, for all to see. Most of all, LaMoia existed to be noticed. His trademark ostrich cowboy boots easily cost him a month’s salary, and he was not shy to replace them when they scuffed up. The thick brown hair, cascading in waves and curls, proved the envy of every woman on the job. The deerskin jacket seemed an anachronism, a relic of the flower power generation into which LaMoia barely fit, having been born too late to be certifiably hip and too early to be a yuppie. Equally loved by the brass and the patrol personnel-not an easy feat-as a detective LaMoia got away with behavior that would have won others suspension. He crossed boundaries and even violated ethics, but always with that con- trived, shit-eating grin of his, and always in the name of right and good. Like everyone else, she had a bit of a soft spot for him, though she would never admit it.
LaMoia’s timing couldn’t have been better. She’d have to thank him later.
“The shrink and the shrunk,” LaMoia said. No love was lost between most detectives on the force and Nathan Prair, a man who by most accounts had tarnished the SPD shield. “I need to borrow her a minute.” He hooked Matthews by the elbow and steered her away, out of earshot, back down the bridge toward a gathering of patrolmen.
“Am I ever glad to see you,” she said.
“Listen, you stand too close to garbage, you start to smell like it. Couldn’t let that happen to you.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Truth be known, Lieutenant,” he emphasized, “I’m surprised to see you here. Night tour, raining, and all.”
“I was nearby when I heard the call,” she stretched the facts slightly.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that other teen jumper, and you getting all sideways over your not stopping it?”
“Who’s analyzing whom?” she asked.
“I’m just asking.”
“You’re using an interrogative to make a statement, John.”
“I just love it when you talk dirty.”
She elbowed him playfully, and he chuckled. This was not their typical rapport, and she found herself enjoying a LaMoia moment.
“You can almost see your place from here, huh?”
“I suppose.” She was looking down toward the black water where the scuba divers swam beneath the surface with powerful flashlights, the beams of which looked gray in the depths. The body, believed to be a woman’s, had been spotted on the surface less than an hour before but had blown its bloat and sunk during the attempt to recover it. Some people didn’t want to be found.
“SID caught it,” he said. Scientific Identification Division-the crime lab.
“Caught what?” she asked.
LaMoia was spared an answer as a semi passed too closely-a patrolman shouted at the driver to slow down- causing the hastily erected halogen light stands to shake and nearly fall.
Instead he pointed to where a lab technician worked over what looked like a tiny patch of dried blood on the bridge railing.
Sight of the blood took her aback-not for what it was, but for what it implied. She’d come to the crime scene because of the implication of a jumper. The presence of blood indicated foul play.
“How’d we find that?” Matthews asked.
“Very carefully,” the woman lab technician answered without looking up. She added, “Doesn’t mean it’s hers.”
“Of course it’s hers,” said LaMoia.
“We’ll know by morning.”
“Could be anything,” Matthews said.
“Yeah, sure. All sorts of bleeders choose this section of the bridge for a view.”
It was then Matthews saw the drip line. Some of the droplets had been stepped on and smeared, but the line was clear. A second technician was busy delineating the area of sidewalk that contained the blood pattern that led from the roadway. A more scientific study of the blood splatter would determine both direction and approximate speed of that trail, but on first glance it seemed obvious.
“Car parked there,” LaMoia said. “Guy hoists her out of the trunk or the backseat, carries her to here-carries, not drags-bumps her against the rail as he gets a better grip and voila. To bed she goes.”
“Whose lead?”
“Moi,” LaMoia said.
“Try Spanish, John. You don’t wear the French very well.”
“Si,” he said.
The Hispanic lab tech winced at his lack of accent, or maybe she was flirting with him. She wasn’t the first.
Matthews studied the drip line again, a part of her relieved that maybe it wasn’t another jumper. She knew she couldn’t voice such a sentiment-others wouldn’t understand.
Excited shouting from below alerted them to the diver that had surfaced and was waving his flashlight toward the nearby dive boat. MARINE UNIT was stenciled on its side. A phone number. A website address. A new world.
A King County Sheriff’s special operations section, the ma-rine unit’s involvement helped explained Prair’s presence.
“They found her,” LaMoia said, stating the obvious.
A quiet descended over the four of them. A moment of respect, as the shouting spread up onto the bridge.
