a tough little piece of work, but he couldn’t help but notice the sway of her shapely hips beneath the tight jeans.
He watched until she got into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb. There was no question that she was exceptionally pretty with her long wavy chestnut hair and blue eyes that had snapped with intelligence.
She had a mouth on her, too, lush and moist and fresh as a petulant teenager. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been accused of being an ass, at least not to his face.
He had a feeling he hadn’t seen the last of her. He also had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time she’d irritate him.
She had some nerve, waltzing in here without notice or permission. She probably figured since she was a big FBI profiler that all she had to do was take a peek at the crime scene and she’d be able to solve the case.
Matt knew the case was only going to be solved by good old-fashioned investigation. This was his town. He knew the players and he didn’t need some hotshot FBI agent with a personal stake in the case to muck things up.
He left the house and headed back to his office. It was a four-block walk from the crime scene. Officially he was off-duty for the day, but until the murder of Miranda Harris was solved, there was no such thing as a day off.
Bridgewater, Texas, was a small town with the traditional Main Street holding two blocks of businesses. It was a place where everyone knew everyone else, where secrets were difficult to keep. The last murder had taken place ten years ago, long before Matt had become sheriff.
Matt had seen murder before. He’d worked as a homicide cop in Chicago for seven years before returning here to his roots and he’d seen the worst that people could do to each other.
But this one bothered him in a way none of the others ever had. Miranda Harris had been an attractive twenty-nine-year-old who had moved to Bridgewater three months earlier. She’d gotten a job working at the Bridgewater Café and had been well liked by all her coworkers.
Everyone had been shocked by the news of her murder and most people believed the killer was somebody from her past. It was much easier to believe that a killer had come to Bridgewater rather than to believe that a killer belonged to Bridgewater.
Matt was a familiar sight walking the streets of his town. His home was three blocks from his office and he’d always found he did his best thinking while walking.
A hundred thoughts whirled in his head now. He definitely had some questions for Ms. FBI Profiler about Miranda. They had yet to determine next of kin, had only managed to learn that she had come from Dallas following a divorce, and so far Matt and his deputies hadn’t been able to locate her ex-husband.
Maybe Jenna Taylor could fill in some blanks, could give him an idea of who from Miranda’s past might want her dead.
He’d stopped by the house to spend some time alone in the room where life had been stolen, hoping that something would jump out at him, that he might see something in a new light, but the only thing new had been the arrival of Jenna Taylor.
“Hey, Harley,” Matt said as he greeted the old man clipping a row of scrubs in front of his house.
“Sheriff.” Harley nodded and dropped his clippers to his side. “Hot enough for you?”
“Only going to get hotter,” Matt replied.
“You find that killer yet?”
“Working on it.”
Harley frowned. “Forty-three years Mary and I have lived in this house and never has she asked me twice to make sure the doors are locked. But the last two nights she’s had me check the locks half a dozen times. She’s scared, Sheriff. Scared that some madman is going to get her like he got that young woman.”
“You tell Mary we’re going to get this guy. It’s just a matter of time,” Matt replied.
“Forty-eight hours have already passed. Doesn’t that mean your best chance of getting him is gone?”
Matt stifled a groan. God help the people who watched crime shows on television and believed everything they saw. “Harley, very few crimes are solved in forty-eight hours. Trust me, we’re going to solve this case.” With a wave of his hand, Matt continued down the sidewalk, his thoughts even more troubled than they had been moments before.
The murder had shaken people and there were details that hadn’t been released, details that made Matt’s guts clench. He hoped his gut was wrong, that this was a specific, isolated murder. But he had a bad feeling.
The sheriff’s office was located in the center of Main Street. It was a two-story brick building. The jail was located on the second floor and the first floor was divided into three rooms. The largest room held four desks where the deputies and the dispatcher worked. The second room was an interrogation/conference room and the third was Matt’s office.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Deputy Joey Kincaid greeted him as he walked through the door. The young man was the only person in the place. “Anything new?”
“Afraid not,” Matt replied. Joey was the most eager-to-learn-the-ropes deputy he’d ever worked with. He was like a sponge that soaked up any knowledge Matt might have to give him about the job. And he was an unusually quiet young man who rarely spoke unless he was asking questions.
“Anything new here?” Matt asked.
Joey shook his head. “Nothing. Linda and Jim went to lunch and I’ve just been holding down the fort.”
“I’m going to take a quick shower. If anyone calls, just take a message,” Matt said and then stepped into his inner office.
The first thing he looked at was the small, framed photograph that sat on his desk. In the photo was a beautiful blonde woman, his wife.
For three years she’d been his world and then that world had been stolen away by a madman. He reached up and touched the scar on his face. It never itched unless he looked at the photograph and remembered all that he’d lost.
It had been five years since Natalie had been taken, but there were days the wound felt as fresh as if it had just happened. Other days it felt like a dream he’d once had in another lifetime.
Matt headed to the bathroom with a shower just off his office where his uniform hung waiting. He stripped naked and stepped beneath a spray of hot water.
He worked to wash the stink of death off him before he donned his official khaki slacks and shirt. It was just after noon. He’d spend an hour or so reviewing the file on Miranda, then head out to the Sleepy Owl Motel and question Jenna Taylor.
Maybe if he conducted an official interview with her she’d be satisfied that he was doing his job and would go away.
He stepped out of the shower and dried off, then pulled on his clothes. Back at his desk he opened the pitifully thin file that contained the crime scene photos, reports of the evidence gathered and the interviews that had been conducted so far in the Miranda Harris murder case.
He didn’t know how long he’d been reading when he heard the sound of voices coming from the other room. Assuming that Linda Jerrod, the dispatcher and Deputy Jim Enderly had returned from lunch, he got up to check in
