Miranda frowned, but she supposed the sheriff had a point. The evidence, such as they’d find, was probably in the cruiser anyway. “I’ll let you go, Jack. Leave the sheriff a note—I’ll be in tomorrow for a debriefing.” She said goodbye and hung up before Logan could protest.
So, the crime scene was sitting there, unprotected, about forty yards from the house rented by a stranger in town.
Hmm.
When she’d first seen John Blake at the hardware store, she almost hadn’t noticed him. He was that kind of guy—aggressively average, at least at first glance.
Up close and in action, however, he was anything but average.
Her uniform pants were hanging over the chair in front of her battered old work desk. She dug in the front pocket, pulling out the card John had given her.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Was it too late to call?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number.
John answered on the second ring. “John Blake.”
“It’s Miranda Duncan.”
His tone softened. “Still alive and kicking?”
“So far, so good.”
“The lab guys came and took your cruiser a few hours ago.” She could hear him moving, the faint thud of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“So I heard.”
“Any breaks in the case?”
“Not yet.” A draft was seeping into the house through the window over her bed. She pulled up the blanket and snuggled a little deeper into the mattress. “Hopefully we’ll know more after the lab finishes up with the cruiser.”
“I thought they’d have a crime scene crew out here this afternoon, but nobody showed.”
She tried not to feel defensive. “We’re a small force to begin with, we’re temporarily a deputy short and we’re dealing with a snowstorm—”
“Enough said.” John’s footsteps stopped, and she thought she heard the soft swish of fabric.
Suddenly, he uttered a low profanity.
“What?” she asked, her nerves instantly on edge.
“There’s someone wandering around your crime scene,” he said.
The figure creeping toward the taped-off patch of frosty grass was moving with slow, measured paces. Dressed in what looked like winter camouflage, he blended into the snow-flecked scrub, only his movement giving away his position.
“He’s in camo,” John murmured into the phone, wishing he had his binoculars to get a better look. But he was afraid to leave the window, afraid that if he took his eyes off the creeping intruder, he’d lose sight of him altogether.
“Is he inside the tape?” Over the phone, Miranda’s Texas twang had a raspy touch, reminding him that she’d already suffered through a long, stressful day. Her head was probably one big ache by now, and she had to be bruised and battered from the rollover.
“Not yet.”
“I can get a cruiser over there to look around, but it will take a little while,” Miranda said.
Over the phone, John heard the creak of bedsprings. Was she in bed?
He wondered whether she was a pajamas or a nightgown girl. Or, God help him, was she a woman who slept in the buff? A delicious shiver jolted through him at the vivid image that thought evoked.
He drove his imaginings firmly to the back of his head. “So far, he’s just circling the taped-off area. Maybe he’s just a curious hunter?”
“Is he carrying a rifle?” Miranda asked. He heard the sound of fabric rustling over the phone—was she getting dressed?
“You’re not thinking of driving out here yourself, are you?” he asked.
“That’s my crime scene.” Her tone was full of stubborn determination. “I can get there faster than I can round up a cruiser. I’m closer.”
“That’s crazy—you have a concussion—”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up before John could try to talk her out of it.
He tried calling her back, but the call went straight to voice mail. Maybe she was already on the line to her office, rounding up backup.
With a sigh, he shoved his phone in his pocket and turned off the lights in the front room, plunging the house into darkness. Maybe his camo-clad visitor had been waiting for him to go to bed before he made his move.
Ball’s in your court, John thought, grabbing a pair of binoculars before returning to the window. He let his eyes adjust to the change in light until he spotted the intruder again. The man was still circling the yellow crime scene tape, staying outside the perimeter.
He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused the lenses on the man in camo. His visitor wore a snow camouflage balaclava covering his mouth, nose and most of his forehead, leaving only a narrow strip of brow, eyes and upper cheeks uncovered. A pair of binoculars hid his eyes from view. He appeared to be using the binoculars to search the ground inside the crime scene tape, sparing him from having to trespass beyond the perimeter.
Suddenly, the man turned his face toward the window, his binoculars seeming to focus directly on John.
John took a step back from the window, but it was too late. The man in camo turned and headed into a clump of bushes north of the house.
John shrugged on his jacket, grabbed a flashlight and took a second to check the magazine of his Ruger before he headed out the door in pursuit.
He’d barely reached the taped crime scene when he heard the sound of a car engine roar to life. A moment later, the taillights of a vehicle stained the night red as a car pulled away from the shoulder of the highway about fifty yards away, heading north. John trekked toward the shoulder of the highway, watching the taillights grow smaller and smaller. About a half mile down the road, the car took a left and disappeared from view, hidden by the overgrown shrubs that lined the crossroad.
John trudged back to the crime scene and flicked on his flashlight, moving the beam over the trampled snow just outside the tape. While there were footprints visible, they were shapeless and free of identifying marks. He searched his memory for details about the man he’d seen wandering about and realized he must have been wearing some sort of boot covers with a soft sole. No wonder he hadn’t worried about tracking through the snow.
He followed the tracks, using his flashlight to illuminate the snow around the crash site. He wasn’t sure what the intruder had been looking for, but he could see nothing of interest. He supposed a crime scene team might be able to glean more, especially once the snow started to melt off the next day.
As he was walking back to the house, he heard the motor of another vehicle. He turned to watch its approach, soon making out the front grill of a large Ford pickup truck. The truck slowed as it neared his house, pulling onto the shoulder in front of him. The headlights dimmed and the interior light came on as the driver cut the engine. John could just make out Miranda Duncan’s tousled auburn hair.
She’d made good time. Great time, actually.
She stopped a few yards away from him, squinting as he lifted the flashlight toward her. “What are you doing out here?”
“The intruder left. I was trying to see where he went, but he had a car waiting.” He aimed the flashlight beam toward the ground, leading her through the snow to where he stood.
She pulled up a foot away, tugging her jacket more tightly