Still, Garrett’s idea was plausible. For a person to tamper with evidence, and open themselves up to a murder charge, there had to be a lot at stake.
“Okay,” he said, collecting his thoughts. He’d go over and visit the boys at Los Coyotes himself. Meanwhile, he wanted to ask Shay who else had been at the bar that night. A thrill raced through him at the thought of seeing her again, and it had nothing to do with investigative fervor. “The autopsy report hasn’t been released, but the media will be calling. Just say that we’re investigating the accident, refer them to the Department of Fish and Game, and make no comment.”
The light in Garrett’s eyes dulled. “Sure,” he said, flapping his newspaper.
Pleased by the exchange, Luke went back to his office. Before he spoke to Shay, he wanted to check up on Hamlet, so he rifled through the files on his desk until he found the number for the lab at UC Davis. A postgraduate student named Dr. Brenna answered. He sounded about fourteen.
“Did that lion have a broken tooth?” Luke asked.
Dr. Brenna made a lot of fumbling noises. “No sir. All of his teeth were intact.” More papers rustled. “Preliminary tests are negative for human blood or tissue. We found two partially digested rabbits among the stomach contents.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you shot the right lion?”
Luke sat up straight in his chair. “Didn’t he have a satellite tag?”
“Yessir. Subject 122, otherwise known as Dark Canyon’s Hamlet. According to the GPS, he was in the general vicinity of the victim. But these tests don’t add up.”
“Run them again,” Luke ordered, although he wasn’t sure he had the authority to make such a request.
“We have, sir. Three times over. I need to notify the Department of Fish and Game, because it looks like your man-eater is still on the loose.”
Shay woke up late, stretching her arms over her head. Remembering the miserable birthday she’d had the day before, she buried her face in the pillow and groaned.
She’d love to drift back to sleep, or laze about in bed for a few more minutes, but memories of her forward behavior with Luke Meza assaulted her, stripping her continence and making her squirm with discomfort.
Kicking off the blankets with more force than was necessary, she climbed out of bed. Dylan had left early this morning for basketball practice, as usual. Normally she used the quiet time to catch up on reading or indulge in a leisurely bubble bath, but having been away all day yesterday, she had a pile of housework waiting for her.
Rubbing her eyes, she bypassed the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and headed straight for the coffee -maker. After a few bolstering cups, and a hearty breakfast, her spirits revived. She wasn’t the type to mope about, especially over a man. Concern for Dylan and sorrow over Hamlet were understandable, but getting all twisted up in knots because of one momentary lapse of reason with Luke was an exercise in futility.
So what if he didn’t like her? This wasn’t junior high. They probably wouldn’t have to work together very often, and he’d move on soon enough. He was only an interim sheriff after all. No more important, or irreplaceable, than your average, everyday temp.
Welcoming the distraction of mindless chores, Shay turned on the portable radio as she tidied up the kitchen and living room. While she waited for a load of laundry to dry, she decided to treat herself to some basic upkeep. Last night she’d showered before bed, but she’d been too tired to shave her legs. Maybe it was vain, but it stuck in her craw that Luke Meza had seen her at her worst, with wet clothes, tangled hair, and stubbly legs.
Humming along with the music, she carried a couple of buckets of warm water out to the old washtub on the back porch. Shaving in a tub outside wasn’t quite as relaxing as a long bubble bath, but it held a simple, rustic appeal. Shay’s mother had often scrubbed her down outdoors, weather permitting, and it was shaping up to be a fine morning. Not too hot, the perfect mix of wind and sun.
After grabbing a towel, her razor, and some all-natural soap, she settled into a chair on the patio and sank her feet into the tub of warm water, shivering with pleasure.
She’d only finished one leg when the doorbell rang. Muttering a string of mild curses, she hopped up to answer it, forgetting her towel on the porch and dripping a trail of water across the living room.
It was Luke.
Shay stifled a gasp of dismay and did quick inventory of her appearance. Dylan’s ratty old boxers were too short, barely peeking out from under the hem of her roomy blue T-shirt. Raising a hand to her hair, she was relieved to find it brushed and clean, tied back from her face in a simple ponytail.
It could have been worse, she supposed. After yesterday, anything was an improvement.
Luke looked even better than she remembered, which didn’t seem fair or even possible. His jaw was smooth and chiseled, his uniform military crisp. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said back, feeling soapy water drip between her toes.
“Is this a bad time?”
Shay’s heart skipped, and she had to remind herself that this was the man who’d treated her like leftover cake. “It’s fine,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.
When she didn’t offer him a seat, they stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. He looked away first. “Whose birthday was it?” he asked, his eyes resting on the deflating balloons she hadn’t the heart to throw away yet.
“Mine.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
He knew better than to say something lame like
“Twenty-six.”
His mouth curled at the edge, as if he found her age amusing.
“How about you?”
His manner turned gruff. “I’m thirty-six.”
“Why, you old man,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Try not to break a hip.” Refusing to let his unexpected visit throw her, she went back outside, sat down, and picked up her razor. The water wouldn’t stay warm forever. And he wasn’t interested anyway.
Maybe he thought he was too old for her, or that she was too white trash for him, but that didn’t stop him from following her out. It didn’t prevent him from taking a seat opposite her on the patio, or from watching as she propped one foot on the rim of the tub, lathered up, and resumed shaving.
“Friday night,” he began, clearing his throat, “you were celebrating?”
She ran the blade over soap-slick skin. “Mm-hmm.”
“With whom?”
“My girlfriends.”
He took out his notepad to write.
“Monica Reyes and Lori Snell,” she supplied with a sigh. “Why? What did the medical examiner say?”
“Official ruling is an accident. Definitely a lion.”
Shay nodded. The wounds were impossible to mistake, but it was reassuring to get professional confir mation.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to investigate,” he explained. “Your people will conduct their own inquiries, I’m sure, but I’d like to find out what Yesenia Montes was doing that night. Where she went. How she ended up at the Graveyard.”
“Did you talk to her mother?”
His expression became shuttered. “Yes.”
Shay’s heart went out to him. Mrs. Montes must have been destroyed by the news, and she’d have hated being the one to break it to her.
“Lori Snell,” he said, looking down at his notepad. “Is that Garrett’s wife?”
“The one and only,” she replied, returning her attention to her soapy leg.
“Who else was there?”
Moving the blade over her bended knee, she named a few names. Good old boys and regulars, mostly. Guys she’d known since grade school, like Jesse Ryan.
“Did Yesenia talk to anyone besides Jesse?”
“Probably,” she admitted. “I didn’t notice.”
