Sheriff Will Pyle was growing impatient. Nick saw it on his face, heard it in his voice. Pyle got annoyed when people died in his town. So far in his four-year term of office, only twelve had. Two of them had been heli-ski accidents, eight had gone from old age or disease, one man had committed suicide. Kristiana Felgard was a blot on Pyle’s record and he didn’t like it, not one bit.
Surprisingly, though, he didn’t seem to resent Nick’s being there, or the fact that Dana had placed the call to Denver without consulting him.
Pyle was a big-boned, beefy man of sixty-two. He’d been a state cop in Illinois for over thirty years before coming to Painter’s Bluff in search of a quiet life. Until last night, he’d had it. Though he and Nick had crossed paths on several occasions during Pyle’s term, this was the first time in an official capacity.
Straddling an outdated swivel chair, Nick rearranged the photos on the sheriff’s desk. “You took a lot of shots, Will.”
The sheriff removed his gun and holster. “Old habits, Nicky. We cover our butts. Got a mix of digital, Polaroid and good old Kodak film. Even took videos under floodlights. We did our best to preserve the site, but January being what it is and us not really equipped for such an undertaking, there’s not a whole lot left up there.” He stretched his back, raising his arms overhead. “You want coffee?”
“Black, two sugars.”
“Two?” Pyle snorted. “You lose your toughness in the city?”
“I used to take four.”
“Sissified city cop.” Pyle hunted through a cupboard for the sugar. “Can you even ride a horse?”
“Bareback through the snow to school, just like my daddy and his daddy before him.”
Another snort, this time of laughter. But Pyle sobered as he poured the coffee. “What do you make of this unholy mess?”
Nick picked up a graphic shot. “Nothing good so far. I see blood on the snow here. Besides the strangulation bruising on the victim’s neck and the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, she was unmarked.”
“Noticed that.”
Nick counted the spots of blood. There were four in the snow and another on a jutting rock near the victim’s left shoulder. “Talk to me about the blood.”
“We collected samples and sent them to the county lab for analysis. Should have the report in a day or two. Be great if it matched up with the DNA samples you got from the guy who attacked that woman in Aspen.” Pyle searched for stir sticks in his desk drawer. “How long you been working this case, Nick?”
“Nine months.”
“On one cold case. Don’t you find that kind of police work frustrating?”
“Yeah, it’s frustrating, but someone has to make sure the victims and their families don’t slip through the cracks. They deserve justice, Will, to say nothing of the perps who deserve to be locked up.”
“Point taken, but a job like yours’d drive me to drink. Strand of hair here—no match. Drop of blood there—useless DNA. No witnesses, no way to place a suspect at the scene. You must have an endless supply of patience to go over a file from a thousand different angles.”
“Think of me as a dog looking for a bone to chew on. He’ll sink his teeth into the smallest one and stick until something juicer comes along.”
Pyle chuckled. “Dana says you could’ve been a cowboy. You have a ranch waiting for you when your daddy retires. Instead you’re riding herd on a bunch of dusty corpses. I’m sure the families are grateful, Nicky, but in your boots I’d have taken the cattle, hands down.”
“Give me ten more years and I might agree with you.”
Pyle handed him a chipped mug. “Here you go, sweetheart, two sugars. Now let’s take a break, and you can fill me in on this architect my deputy’s been babbling about all night. He spotted her checking into Skye’s hotel. She as DDG as he claims?”
“Drop-dead gorgeous?” Nick caught his bottom lip briefly between his teeth. He could still feel the way she’d nipped him earlier. “Yeah, you could say that. She’s definitely a beauty—long legs, long blond hair, blue eyes…”
“Blue like the lake up at Painter’s Lodge, swears my deputy. Or the ocean around a tropical island.”
“Your deputy watches too many travel shows.”
“Nah, his mom writes poetry. When he acted up as a kid, she’d sit him in a corner with a book and make him read.”
Nick used his laptop to enlarge a section of the imprint near the victim’s head. “He set something down here, Will. From the impression and the displaced snow around it, I’d say it was knocked over.”
“Snow globe, you figure?”
“That’d be my guess.” Nick glanced up. “Do the Sickerbie boys spend much time at Painter’s Rock?”
“No reason for them to in the winter. Besides, they’d have screamed like girls if they’d seen a dead body. They’ll swipe their mom’s bank card and do it up at McDonald’s, but they’d have reported this, Nick, not left her there for Hank Milligan to find. Poor old guy nearly had a coronary, and he doesn’t carry a cell phone. He had to hike all the way back to town to report it.”
Nick highlighted the patches of blood only a few inches from the imprint. He suspected the drop on the rock might be the key. “Did Milligan disturb the site?”
“Hank might be old but his eyesight’s better than mine. Knew what he was looking at twenty feet away. Didn’t have to get close to know she was dead.”
“What’s the ETD?”
“Anywhere from 11:00 to 3:00. Sorry, Nick, that’s as good as our doc could do. The country medical examiner might be able to shave a few hours off either way.” Slurping coffee, Will picked up a clipboard. “We’re running the out-of-towners now. So far, they’re clean.”
“He won’t be into other crimes. We’ll have to link him either to the victim or to the scene in another way. When did Kristiana Felgard arrive in the States?”
“Seven days ago. Her passport says she flew into JFK. We’ve asked the New York police to look for relatives, but that’ll take time.”
Nick brought up a map of Sweden. “She came from Hallstavik. That’s near Stockholm.” Where Sasha had lived for a year with her grandmother. “Where did she go after New York?”
“You’ll have to give us a bit of time. We’re checking out the airlines, railroads and bus companies.”
“How did she get to Painter’s Bluff?”
“Rental car from Denver.”
“Backtrack from Denver. Find out how long she was there. Contact her next of kin in Sweden.”
“Yes, sir,” Pyle mocked, and Nick’s lips moved into a smile. The sheriff slurped more coffee. “You staying with Dana?”
Nick switched to an old file. “I’ve been invited. I’ll see. Fawn’s parents are in town. They already have a full house.” Sitting back, he regarded the screen. “If this guy sees Sasha, we’re screwed.”
Pyle grunted. “Man, I gotta get a look at this woman. How old do you figure she is?”
Nick didn’t have to figure, he knew—her age and probably a number of other details she’d prefer to keep private. “Twenty-nine. She’s the youngest one-third of a partnership that got rolling just under three years ago. They’re building a clientele and a reputation, but architecture’s a tough business. This job for Skye Painter is important. I doubt if dynamite could blow Sasha off it.”
The outer door opened and closed while