had been harvested, and the left-behind wisps of white cotton fiber gave the landscape the appearance of an oceanic thorn field after the stampede of a vast herd of terrified sheep.
The farmhouse was set back a quarter mile from a collection of equipment and storage sheds, on a spacious green meadow surrounded by bleak cotton fields. Six large white oak trees lined the driveway, which curved before a two-story white wooden house with a high-peaked roof covered with slate shingles. The wraparound porch had cypress lattice on the sides, which supported climbing ivy. To the right of the house, separated by an expanse of cobblestone, stood a four-car garage, whose white clapboard exterior mirrored that of the house. The grounds were dotted with mature magnolias and oaks, flowerbeds, azaleas, rosebushes, and boxwoods.
“First, I’ll show you the shooter’s position,” Brad said. He drove past the driveway leading to the house. Fifty yards farther on, he turned down a thinly graveled road that led into the fields toward a tree line.
“We haven’t had a hard freeze yet, and I didn’t see any fresh deer tracks in the field between the tree and the house that could point to a hunting accident.”
Winter nodded. After seeing his business card he had immediately ruled out an accidental shooting.
Brad parked near a downed tree accented with yellow crime-scene tape. “It’s difficult to imagine that anybody could make a shot at this distance that
“The right man could do it, given the conditions we had this morning,” Brad said.
“You know much about long-range shooting?” Winter asked.
“I know as much as other Marine snipers.”
“How accurate is a sniper rifle at this kind of range?”
“Match-grade.308 ammo is accurate at eight hundred to a thousand meters. The brass this guy left was from a.338 Lapua Magnum. Its trajectory is a whole lot flatter and longer than the.308 and can deliver what the shooter can see.” Winter saw Brad’s eyes lose their focus as he remembered. “It was like an alligator grabbed her head and tore most of it off. I’ve seen my share of bad death, but this is one I’ll remember forever.”
“This where you found my card?”
Brad pointed to the trunk. “About here, weighed down with the polished shell casing.”
“And the footprints?”
Brad pointed at the ground. “From here…” He turned to point through the woods. “Straight back that way a quarter mile to tire tracks.”
Winter was looking down at the leaves when he saw something red stuck into the ground through a leaf, something small and perfectly pointed. Kneeling, he lifted the leaf and saw what it was.
“Got an evidence bag?” Winter asked.
“What is it?”
“Looks like the shooter left another calling card.”
“That a toothpick?” Brad asked, handing Winter a plastic bag.
“Got a business card with you?”
Winter took a card from Brad, folded it, placed the flats on either side of the point and slid the toothpick out of the ground, dropping it into the bag.
Brad looked at the toothpick, darkened where it had been in the damp dirt.
“He chewed the end,” Winter said, smiling. “It isn’t a driver’s license, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Son of a bitch. That means it’ll have the perp’s DNA on it.”
Winter put the open bag to his nose and sniffed. “Damn,” he said.
Brad leaned over and sniffed it also. “What is that?”
“Oil of clove,” Winter said, feeling the way he had felt as a kid when he happened upon a snake he hadn’t been prepared to see.
“You all right?” Brad asked.
“That smell triggered a bad memory.” In the realm of understatements, that one took a blue ribbon.
“Judging from the way it knocked the color out of your face, must be a powerful memory attached to that toothpick,” Brad said.
“I’ve run across toothpicks soaked in clove oil before.”
“Somebody you chased for the marshals service?”
“The man I’m thinking about is someone I knew in New Orleans a couple of years ago. It’s complicated. I’m not going into it right now.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“There are good reasons not to discuss him just yet.”
“What can you tell me? I mean, it’s sort of important I know who did this. And you seem to know.”
“The guy I have in mind is a professional killer. Don’t know about his shooting at this kind of range, though he most likely has the training. But the man I’m thinking about probably didn’t do this. It seems more likely somebody wants to make me think that guy was here.”
“You don’t think he’d kill an innocent girl?”
“There’s no telling how many innocent civilians he’s killed. No question he would do it, but if he did, somebody would be paying him a lot of money. That or he’s working on his own with another purpose.”
“What other purpose?”
“Killing me,” Winter replied.
Brad pulled up to the house’s garage and the two men climbed out of the Tundra. Through the only open garage door, a dirt-streaked white Lincoln sat with its rear end visible.
“She’s home,” Brad said, suddenly stern-faced.
“Who?” Winter asked.
“The owner, Leigh Gardner. She’s been out of town picking up her daughter, Cynthia, from college. The victim stayed overnight with Hampton, Leigh’s son. He’s ten. The maid heard the shot, saw her down, and called nine- one-one.”
Winter said, “What time did it happen?”
“Call came in at six-thirty-nine this morning. Jesus!” Brad said as they walked toward the house. “Some idiot hosed off the crime scene! Where’s the crime-scene tape?”
On the wide wet cobblestone walkway, Winter could see no evidence of bloodstains. Water was pooled in a low spot, and the strong smell of bleach rose from the bricks.
The back door of the house flew open. An attractive rosy-cheeked woman, her blonde hair in a ponytail, slammed the door behind her and strode directly toward them. She was no more than five six and wore jeans, a cotton shirt under a wool cardigan, suede cowboy boots, and a frown.
“Damn,” Brad muttered. “By the way, Leigh can come on a little strong.”
“Brad, what the blue blazes happened out here! Who in the hell killed Sherry?”
“Hello, Leigh. Leigh Gardner, this is Winter Massey. He’s-”
“What are you doing about it?” she snapped at Brad without looking at Winter.
“If you’ll calm down, I’ll discuss it with you.”
Fists on her hips, Leigh Gardner fixed the sheriff with what could only be described as a warrior’s glare. “I’m as calm as I’m going to get.”
“Who cleared off the crime scene?” he asked her.
“I guess Estelle did,” Leigh said.
“It was cordoned off with crime-scene tape. Where is it?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Tampering with a crime scene is serious.”
“We’re talking about Estelle. She sees a mess and she cleans it up. Did you tell her not to?”
“Well, no. I didn’t think…”
“Did you leave someone here to protect it?”
“I left crime-scene tape around it.”
“Are you planning to arrest Estelle for cleaning up?”
“Arresting her is hardly the point. It’s blatant obstruction of justice and willful destruction of evidence. It was a clearly roped-off crime scene.”
“How many crime scenes do you suppose Estelle’s been around? If you weren’t done out here, you should
