“Did he have conjugal visits?” she challenged.
“I’ll speak to the warden,” Gideon said. “What about personal items? Did you find anything on her body?”
Nodding, Dr. Christopher moved to a stainless-steel tray holding metal remnants from a pair of jeans and a melted phone. “The jeans are generic. The phone must have been in her back pocket. It’s melted.”
“Identifying the body might lead to a phone account, and the phone company can give you texts and call numbers,” she said.
“If you can confirm the pregnancy and especially the fetus’s DNA, call me,” Gideon said. “The majority of women who are murdered are killed by someone they know or who professes to love them.”
“I’ll see if I can fast-track the DNA test,” Dr. Christopher said.
As they pushed through the exam-room doors and stripped off their gowns, Joan’s mind churned with facts and frustration. Regardless of the choices this woman had made, she did not deserve to die, and neither did her child. “The forensic team is at the fire scene now?”
“Yes.” Gideon wadded up his paper gown and tossed it in the bin on top of hers.
“I want to see if they’ve discovered anything.”
“They don’t work for you.”
“You going to claim jurisdictional protocol?”
“No. I care more about solving this case than soothing my ego. But a detective on paid suspension would give a defense attorney a field day in court.”
His calm logic was irritating. But also correct. “I’ll fly under the radar.”
He reached for his hat and traced the brim with his fingertips. “Same rules apply, not that you’ve followed them yet.”
“You won’t know I’m here,” she said innocently.
He muttered a curse and headed to his SUV. In her vehicle, she followed him back into the center of town, and each parked across from the beauty salon.
As she stepped out, she spotted a tall man with broad shoulders. His back was to her, but she recognized him easily enough.
Clarke Mead. He was Ann’s estranged husband and the fire chief. In his midthirties, he had dark, close-cropped hair with a matching mustache. He had always rocked that Magnum, P.I. vibe, and the extra years now only enhanced the look. Gideon and Clarke had been friends since middle school. Both their families owned ranches, but the Meads had sold years ago. Gideon and Clarke had played ball together, drank beer behind the high school bleachers at football games, and gone to UM together. Two peas in a pod. Both had loved the town enough to stay and serve their community. They would protect it no matter the cost.
Hearing Gideon’s footsteps behind her, she did not wait for him but strode toward Clarke. When his head turned, dark eyes narrowed as surprise and questions hiked thick eyebrows. “Joan Mason?”
She thrust out her hand, oddly glad to see the big lug. “As you live and breathe.”
He wrapped lean fingers around hers, hesitated briefly before he pretended not to notice her scars. “Damn, I thought you were never coming back.”
“I didn’t, either. I suppose you can figure out why?” she said.
“I got a good idea why,” Clarke said as he looked back at the burned pile of debris. “You been by to see Elijah?”
“I have.”
“And?” Clarke kept his focus on Joan as Gideon walked up.
“Cool as a cucumber,” Gideon interjected. “Couldn’t have been more charming.”
“He’s a slick bastard,” Clarke said. “Don’t be fooled by it.”
“Have you seen him at all since the fire?” Joan asked.
“Sure. I visited him about nine years ago. Curious, I suppose. Maybe hoping that on some level he was suffering. Of course, he wasn’t. He seemed perfectly at peace.”
Elijah had never mentioned Clarke’s visit in any of his letters. It was a subtle reminder that there was a lot Elijah was not telling.
“Did he ever write you?” Joan asked.
“Hell no,” Clarke said. “Why would he?”
“He wrote Joan,” Gideon said. “And she wrote him back.”
Irritation gnawed. She was not ashamed of the correspondence, but that did not mean she wanted it made public knowledge.
“I bet you didn’t learn a damn thing,” Clarke said.
“Not about the College Fire,” she conceded.
“Is Elijah still insisting he’s innocent?” Clarke asked.
“Yeah.”
Clarke worked his mouth, like he might if he’d taken a bite of a sour apple. “Any word yet on the body we found in the blaze?”
“None yet,” Gideon said.
Clarke shook his head. “My money is on Lana Long. Leaving the purse in the alley suggests she planned to burn the place down but didn’t realize her fire was like a wild dog ready to maul her.”
Gideon did not respond.
Joan understood he wanted the strangulation detail on Lana’s neck kept quiet. She had worked enough investigations to know that certain facts were best kept secret, even from the other professionals working the scene. Cops and fire crews talked to each other, and information got leaked.
“Was anything found on Jane Doe’s body?” Clarke asked.
“It was all pretty well destroyed,” Gideon said.
“When will the docs get the DNA back?” Clarke asked.
“That’s hard to say. They fast-tracked it to the lab in Helena.”
A dark-green Jeep parked behind her rental. The driver’s side door opened to a tall bleached blonde wearing snug jeans and a fitted sweater that set off a silver-and-turquoise necklace dangling over full breasts that Joan would bet were a plastic surgeon’s work. The hair was shoulder length and teased and sprayed enough to resist the Missoula wind.
Her gaze settled on what had been the beauty shop. She blinked, cursed, and blinked again. Custom boots clicked against the asphalt as she neglected to look before crossing the street. “Detective Bailey. I’m Jessica Halpern. What the hell happened? Jesus H. Christ.” She walked toward the blackened rubble, stopping just short of the yellow tape.
“We’re still investigating,” Gideon said.
She turned and faced them, blue eyes glistening in a pool of unshed tears. “This was my life. I sunk my entire life into this place.”
“We’re very sorry,” Gideon said. “And we’re doing all we can to get to the bottom of this. Have you heard from
