thought.
“They’ve also taped off the area and will do a grid search for more evidence after the snow melts tomorrow,” Logan added.
John Blake would love that, she thought. His privacy had been well and truly invaded today. “Is Robertson still there guarding the crime scene?”
“No. The sheriff figured it was okay to just tape it off and pick up in the morning.”
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
