At Close Range. Jessica Andersen
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set her teeth, swallowed the weakness and forced herself to think about the corpse at its most basic—as a piece of evidence in a case they’d thought was closed. “If this body is connected to the skeleton in the canyon, then Alissa was right. She did hear someone else when Croft was holding her captive. There was another man.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Varitek stepped back so they were shoulder-to-shoulder, staring down at the body. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
She felt the warmth of him and wished she didn’t notice such things. He was attractive, yes, but he already had three strikes against him in her book. He was in law enforcement. He was controlling. And he was impossible to get along with. The first was a fact. The other points she’d discovered months earlier, when she’d been forced to let him into the kidnapping case and he’d taken over, brought in his own people and shoved her to the edges of the investigation, claiming she’d be safer there.
Well forget him. She wasn’t looking to stay safe at the expense of the job.
She scowled. “I’m not jumping to conclusions, I’m using my version of the razor theorem—the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. We’ve got a body tied to a crime scene from the kidnappings. The kidnapper is dead, so we know he didn’t kill this guy. Other lines of evidence have already suggested Croft had an accomplice. Ergo, we’re looking at a partner.”
“We’re not looking at anything but the evidence,” Varitek said bluntly. He turned away and reached for his bigger, meaner-looking crime-scene kit, which Cassie knew from experience contained everything hers did, and then some. He said, “Let’s get to work. The sooner we release the body to the ME, the better. We’re going to need a cause of death, time of death, ID…anything we can get. The chief said that based on our findings, he’ll decide whether to recall the task force.”
And that quickly, that easily, he took over her crime scene.
Again.
Cassie fisted her hands at her sides, so tightly that her blunt nails dug into her palms. She thought about going for her weapon. Instead, she said, “Agent Varitek?”
He didn’t even turn around when he answered, “Technically, it’s Special Agent.”
“Yeah, you’re special all right,” she muttered loud enough that he could damn well hear. Then she raised her voice, but fought to keep it level. Businesslike. “Until the task force has been officially reopened and your assistance has been requested by the proper channels, I consider this my crime scene. I’d like you out of it.”
“We don’t always get what we want,” he said, and his voice held a thread of something she couldn’t quite interpret. He glanced back at her, pale green eyes unreadable. “Your boss called my boss—that’s proper channels. You don’t like me being here? Take it up with the chief. If you’re not going to do that, then suit up. We’ve got a scene to work.”
FOUR HOURS LATER, with the body long gone and the empty, dismal-feeling room nearly processed, Seth straightened to his full height and stretched, groaning when his joints popped in protest. His knees still ached from time to time, a legacy of his younger days when he’d gone from catcher’s mitt to goalie’s mask and back again, depending on the season. Not quite good enough to go pro as either, he’d slid sideways into law and then law enforcement, gotten married and then—
Irritated, he slammed the lid on that train of thought. Ancient history had no place on the job. But still, the dark memories soured his already bleak mood as he turned to make the last few notations and pack up his kit.
He was aware of Cassie watching him, aware of the tension humming between them, a mix of professional antagonism and something more complicated. She’d made it obvious that she didn’t like him from the first moment they’d met. She wanted the crime scene to herself and resented his every breath. It annoyed her that he had better equipment, better contacts.
Normally, he wouldn’t have wasted five minutes on a local cop who didn’t want his help, but something about her drew him. Intrigued him. She was an evidence specialist who had to force herself to touch a corpse, a prickly woman with shadows of sadness in her eyes.
And those legs. He couldn’t help noticing her legs. She wore tan pants cut more for field work than fashion, but they did little to disguise the long length of her calves, the sassy curve of her rear and the aggressive swagger of her hips as she moved around the room, shoulders stiff with resentment.
But even as those legs strutted through his mind, he focused on the rest of her, on the prickles, the defensiveness and the bloody-minded territoriality. All things he had no patience with, especially when they interfered with his ability to do his job.
“You ready to go?” Cassie asked. She stood near the door holding her evidence kit, which held their photographs, notes and measurements, as well as a rough sketch of the scene.
He nodded. “Sure. Let’s get out of here.” He hefted his own kit, which contained fiber evidence, prints and other trace samples. Ninety-some percent of the evidence—maybe even all of it—would prove useless, either unrelated to the case or too generic to be of any help.
But it was those last few percentages, those moments of discovery, that made it all worthwhile.
He just hoped to God he’d have an “aha” moment this time. He and Cassie hadn’t talked about it—hell, they hadn’t talked about anything—but the knowledge hung in the tense air between them.
This was no act of passion or rage, no accidental death or manslaughter. It was premeditated. Posed. Practiced.
If they didn’t find this guy quickly, it was a sure bet he’d strike again.
As they left the dismal room and sealed it behind them, Seth couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. He didn’t even try, because it was like that at every crime scene. That was part of what kept him sharp.
Cassie jerked her head toward the stairs. “I’ll meet you back at the station. When I called, the chief said the task force would meet in a half hour.”
Seth told himself not to watch her walk away, not to admire how her long legs ate up the hallway with an aggressive swing that was all Cassie—in a hurry and full of attitude. When she’d disappeared into the stairwell, he cast a final look back toward the sealed door, aware of something tickling the back of his brain. A connection maybe, or a suspicion.
He concentrated for a moment, but it didn’t gel, so he turned for the stairs knowing the detail would surface eventually. When he reached the ground floor he saw the door swing shut, evidence of Cassie’s passing. Figuring she’d left her truck in one of the visitors’ slots in the back lot, he shoved open the rear exit.
And heard Cassie’s voice shout, “Halt! Police!”
A weapon fired.
Then there was silence.
Chapter Two
Gun clutched in her hand, Cassie sprinted in pursuit of a dark figure nearly half a block ahead of her. She’d been stupid to shout, stupid to identify herself. Procedure be damned, she should’ve shot the guy the moment she saw him crouched near the back tire of her truck.
But she’d been caught up in thoughts of Varitek, thoughts of cop-shop politics. So she’d shouted and her shot had gone wide.
And now she was chasing some guy down the damn street.
Could her day get any worse?
Her lungs burned and her thighs howled, but she pushed faster. Ahead, a jean-clad figure wearing a dark ski jacket slipped on a patch of slush and went down. He scrambled up with the flexibility of a young man and skidded around a corner into a narrow street between two more crummy apartment buildings.
Cassie rounded the corner and accelerated, thinking she had the guy trapped in the alley, thinking she had—
A hot, wiry body