Rocky Mountain Mystery. Cassie Miles
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want to admit that she’d been terrified by a fish, driven to the brink of passing out.
She pointed to a minivan that edged too close on the passenger side. “Watch out for this guy.”
David slowed to let the minivan pull ahead on the three-lane street approaching central Denver. “Why did you change your mind?”
“Gosh, you’re persistent.” She fidgeted. “Let’s just say that I didn’t have anything better to do this afternoon.”
“Did you tell Adam you’d be at the autopsy?”
“I guess I ought to do that.” She pointed to the next corner. “I think there’s a pay phone at that gas station.”
“Don’t you have a cell?”
The modern dependence on mobile communication was unnecessary in her case, she hardly left her condo. “Anybody who needs to reach me can leave a message on my home phone.”
David reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ridiculously tiny phone.
“Pull over,” she snapped. “No driving while you’re on the phone.”
“Right. Okay. You’re kind of a back-seat driver, Blair.”
“Kind of.”
He eased to the curb and put the car in Park while he called Adam. And she concentrated on breathing slowly, calming herself. She certainly didn’t want her former colleagues at the Coroner’s Office to see her behaving like a crazy woman. The only thing she had left was her previous reputation.
David ended the call. “Adam says he’s glad that you’ve decided to participate. And he wants us to stop by his office in Golden when we’re done.”
She nodded.
David held the tiny phone toward her. “I want you to take this. To use in case of an emergency.”
She pushed it back toward him. “Don’t need it.”
“Give me a break, Blair. You won’t let me hire Xena as a bodyguard, won’t let me carry my Glock. At least, take the damn phone. You might have to call 911.”
“Fine.” Though she didn’t like being contradicted, it was nice to have someone fussing over her.
As they neared the Coroner’s Office, where the autopsy would take place, she gave a series of directions, leading to the most convenient parking lot.
David pulled into a slot and turned to her. “Would it be better if I dropped you off near the door?”
“Why?”
“I know you can swim like a dolphin, but I wasn’t sure how you are with walking.”
“Not a problem,” she said defensively. “My right leg is seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left, but I have a corrective lift. I’m fine with walking. In the right shoes, I can even jog.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you, but I remember what it was like right after the accident.” His voice was gentle, without a trace of condescension. “All the pins you had in your leg. All the operations. For a while the surgeons weren’t sure you were going to be okay.”
“Guess I showed them.”
His gaze melted over her like warm honey. “I’m proud of you, Blair.”
Basking in his approval, her heart lifted. The day seemed more golden and bright. “I could get accustomed to these compliments.”
“I’m not lying,” he said. “You amaze me.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Now you’re feeding me a line.”
“Don’t get me confused with Jake. He’s the slick one, the pick-up artist. I’m the dork who sits in the corner, not drinking so he can be the designated driver.”
“The caretaker.”
She remembered, too. David had always taken responsibility, made sure everybody else was all right. He was kind enough to open his home to an annoying jerk like Jake. He wanted to hire a bodyguard for her. Though his motivation was partially due to a generous nature, she suspected a darker rationale. He took care of others because he hadn’t been able to save his sister.
Losing Danielle was the defining moment in his life. And that worried her. She wasn’t sure if David could ever heal from that terrible wound.
ENTERING THE CORONER’S OFFICE where he had come five years ago to identify his sister’s body, David realized how much he needed to know the truth about her murder. Throughout the trial of Eddy Adderly and all the way through the sentencing, he had doubts. The evidence was inconclusive. Alibis didn’t match. There was a lack of tangible proof for every murder except the last one.
But he accepted the verdict. For the past five years he tried to convince himself that justice had been done. But now he didn’t believe it. The Fisherman had struck again.
“Excuse me.” A tall, thin man stepped up beside them while they were signing in and getting their visitor badges. “Aren’t you David Crawford?”
“That’s right.” David looked directly into the man’s round, black glasses. “And you are?”
“Justin Hunter.” His smile was shy and somehow furtive. His handshake was the same. “I’m a fan of your work.”
Though some of the magazines that printed David’s articles ran a small photo, he wasn’t often recognized. “Do you work here, Justin?”
“I sell medical supplies.”
As Justin continued to stare with a weird intensity, David moved away from him. “Nice meeting you.”
He fell into step beside Blair. As she proceeded down the hall, he felt as if he was escorting royalty. Everybody who had known Dr. Blair Weston before the accident greeted her enthusiastically. New employees approached her with deference. She had a sterling reputation as a medical examiner. Almost legendary.
The head M.E., a husky man with a ruddy complexion, enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good to see you, Dr. Weston.”
“Back at you, Dr. Reinholdt.” Blair’s radiant smile was wonderful to behold. “You look hale and hearty.”
“A little too hearty,” Reinholdt said, patting his ample belly. “The wife has me on tofu and salad.”
“A wise woman,” Blair said.
“Of course you’d take her side,” he said. “You women always stick together.”
Blair winked. “Because we’re always right.”
Unnoticed, David observed the interactions of the small but boisterous crew of pathologists. These were people who performed all manner of chemical analysis, ranging from DNA tests to toxicology. They were scientists—smart, well-trained people with high IQs. Also quirky. David noticed a definite nerd gene in their collective personality.
At the door to the autopsy suite, he encountered a more familiar face—a detective from Denver PD, Homicide Division. His name was John Weathers, and he’d been part of the team investigating the original series of Fisherman killings.
David had never been impressed with Weathers’s abilities. He was a bland, by-the-book cop with beige hair and a brown suit, average height, average weight. He had no imagination when it came to tracking down a killer who was unfortunately near genius in his crimes.
Willing to let bygones be bygones, David stuck out his hand. “Detective Weathers. I was sorry to hear about Pamela Comforti. My condolence on the loss of your co-worker.”
“You’re David Crawford, right?” As he shook hands, a realization dawned and his brown eyes narrowed. “The reporter.”
“That’s right.”
“Get out,” Weathers