“You have my word.”
Leading with the flashlight and his gun, he stepped into the cave, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the entrance. Almost immediately, he must have come to a corner, because the glow dimmed and then got cut off.
As she called for their colleagues and received confirmation that the others were on their way, she carefully lowered herself down to the muddy patch of ground that was the cave’s welcome mat. She knew it was going to take some time for the others to arrive, and prayed that her instincts were right about that big blond man who evidently wasn’t worried about lying or misrepresenting himself—and yet who seemed crushed when it came to Sissy Barten.
If anything happened to Veck on her watch, she’d never forgive herself—
“What . . . the hell?” she murmured.
Reilly frowned and sank down onto her haunches. Smack in the middle of the patch of soggy dirt, the impressions from where Veck had landed were like moon-craters. Likewise, around the rim, his path to the opening was deep and obvious, the sunken impression of smooth-soled shoes dominating the ground and announcing that a man of some two hundred pounds had been by.
Rising up, Reilly braced her foot on a ledge and stretched high to look where Veck and she had crossed over. On the top of the shelf of stone, there were two sets of wet prints, hers and Veck’s. That was it.
Surveying the expanse of the slope, she shook her head. No way Jim Heron or whoever he was could have gotten down here without having his feet get soaked. And no way he could have stood where he had without leaving damp prints behind, as she and Veck had done.
What the hell was going on here?
Behind her, Veck reappeared at the cave opening. “It’s Sissy Barten. He’s right.”
Reilly swallowed hard as she got back down. “Anything else in there?”
“Not that I can see. Did you call us in?”
“Yes. Are you sure it’s her?”
“I didn’t touch anything, but there’s blond hair showing and the body is where Kroner said it would be.” Veck’s brows dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“Were there any other footprints on the floor of that cave?”
“Let me check.” He disappeared. Came back. “Not really. But it’s not the best surface for capturing them. It’s relatively dry, with little soil depth. What are you—”
“It’s like he just dropped out of the sky.”
“Who? Heron?”
“There’s no evidence he’s been here, Veck. Where are his muddy footprints? On the ground? Up there?”
“Wait, aren’t there—”
“Nothing.”
He frowned and glanced around. “Son of a bitch.”
“My feelings exactly.”
Off in the distance, she heard the other officers approaching so she cupped her hands and called out, “Over here! We’re over here!”
Maybe someone else could make sense of this. Because she was coming up with nothing . . . and evidently, the same was true of Veck.
CHAPTER 30
As the last of the day’s sunlight drained from the sky, Sissy Barten’s remains were carefully bagged up and removed from the cave.
Veck was one of four guys who took the handles, bore her weight, and walked her out into the clean air. He’d stayed close as the afternoon had progressed, but kept his hands to himself, limiting his participation to taking his own photographs with his phone, talking with the coroner when the guy arrived, and helping wherever, and whenever he could with nonessentials.
Reilly had done the same.
And now the only thing left to do here was to get the body up the slope.
“Let’s go this way,” he said to the others. “It’s the best shot we’ve got.”
The four of them headed to the north, taking the least obstructed way—which was a relative term.
And there were plenty of people waiting for their arrival.
Naturally, the news crews had arrived and parked on the rim. God only knew who had tipped them off. No one in an official capacity at the site, that was for sure, but this was a public area and the whole town knew not only about Kroner’s capture and recuperation at St. Francis, but also the victim in that motel, and the other dead girls. The fact that there were a dozen uniforms traipsing around a remote area with a lot of dark places probably didn’t mean someone was having a birthday party at this pile of rocks. Plus now there was a body bag involved.
And God knew every idiot had a cell phone these days.
Which was precisely why, the moment after a positive identification had been made using photographs and birthmarks, de la Cruz had literally run up out of the scene and gone gunning for his car. Although the CPD would not release the name to the press until after the family had been notified, there had been numerous e-mails, texts, and phone calls back and forth with HQ—and there was no way of knowing who might have told their wife, who told her sister, who told someone at the television station.
Sometimes the information age sucked.
And no one wanted the Bartens to find out about their daughter on the evening news . . . or, heaven forbid, Facebook.
As Veck and the other three guys grunted and stretched and pulled and lifted, Reilly was right with them the whole way, clicking her flashlight on and shining the beam to give them something to go on as things got darker. And darker still.
Until it was pitch-black.
Nearly an hour later, they made it to the top and carefully placed the remains in the back of one of the search and rescue vehicles.
Veck and Reilly stood back as Sissy Barten was taken safely back to town.
As the other officers began to disperse and engines were started, Reilly said quietly, “I don’t think—”
“Kroner didn’t kill her,” Veck agreed just as softly.
“The MO does not fit.”
“Not at all.”
And they weren’t the only ones who’d noticed the discrepancy between Sissy and the other victims: This body had been suspended head over heels and drained of blood, and there had been some kind of design etched into the stomach. Further, even though she had been naked and picked clean of personal objects, no patches of skin had been removed and she hadn’t been sexually assaulted—which had been another of Kroner’s perversions.
“I just don’t know how to explain the earring,” he murmured.
“Or why Kroner knew where she was if he didn’t kill her.”
Veck glanced over at his partner. “You want to eat somewhere?”
Bracing her arms over her head, she stretched. “Yes, please. I’m starved. And stiff.”
He took out his phone and texted her:
There was a discreet
“Perfect plan.”
His impulse was to kiss her hard and quick. Except he nipped that in the bud, because they were not just not alone; they were around people they frickin’ worked with, hello.
And he wanted to drive back with her, but they were going to have to tandem it, thanks to his damn bike.
