or patience to explain my methods to you.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation of your methods, Mr. Cahill. I was going to ask what I could do to help.” To her credit, she didn’t sound defensive or offended by his blunt comment.
“Call me Harrison. And I appreciate the offer of help, but I prefer to work alone.”
“This case is part of an ongoing investigation, so you’d better get used to having Jodie and me around. Mind if I grab that bullet?” Sam stepped toward the wall where the bullet lay, and Harrison was tempted to tell him that he did mind. He didn’t want anything touched or moved until he was good and ready for it to be. And he wasn’t ready.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one calling the shots. The FBI was paying for him to be here. They’d want to have a say in how things were handled.
“Let me just snap a few more photos. Have you got a weapon you want to try and match it to?”
“No weapon, but we’ve got three other murder victims. Two were hit over the head and then shot.”
“Recently?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it isn’t likely the cases are connected. These two have been here for a long time.” Harrison took the photos and then stepped back, bumping into something warm, soft and most definitely female. He didn’t have to turn around to picture Jodie—white-blond hair, heart-shaped face and wide, sad eyes.
“Sorry about that.” He stepped quietly to the side, inhaling spring rain and summer flowers, his heart jumping in acknowledgment.
If Jodie heard his apology, she didn’t acknowledge it or him. “What caliber is it, Sam?”
“Looks like a nine-millimeter.”
“Does it match the caliber used to kill Dylan Renault and Earl Farley?”
“Yes, but a matching caliber doesn’t mean a matching weapon.” Sam placed the bullet in an evidence bag and moved toward the tunnel that led out of the room. “I’m going to take this out. See if I can get expedited ballistics testing on it. If the weapons are the same, we may be looking at the work of a serial killer.”
“Seems like a long time between victims.” Harrison leaned forward, gently lifting the blanket that covered the remains and folding it into an evidence bag.
“Yeah, it does. But maybe there are other victims we don’t know about.” Sam’s words were grim, and he walked into the tunnel, his footsteps fading away.
Jodie remained in the room, and Harrison braced himself for the questions he was sure she’d ask. Instead of speaking, she watched silently. Harrison could feel her tension mounting as he began the process of cataloging and bagging one bone after another.
Was she upset by the bodies and caught up in imagining the victims’ last moments? It happened sometimes, but not usually at scenes like this.
Finally, he couldn’t ignore it any longer and turned from the tangle of long hair he was examining. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” But her voice trembled, and her hand shook as she brushed a thick strand of hair from her cheek. Blond hair. Similar to what Harrison was bagging. Was Jodie imagining herself lying dead on the ground, or was her reaction simply a case of rookie nerves? Seeing the dead was never an easy thing.
Pointing that out to Jodie wouldn’t do any good. Harrison had worked with enough rookies to know that they’d rather pass out on the evidence than admit they were about to.
He carefully lifted a cervical vertebra, pausing when he caught sight of another bullet. “Do me a favor, will you? I’ve found a second bullet. Can you let Sam know?”
“Have you found the casings?” Whatever nerves she’d been feeling now seemed to have disappeared as she crouched beside him, her shoulder brushing his, the flowery scent he’d noticed earlier drifting around her.
“Not yet. That doesn’t mean they’re not here.”
“I’ll let Sam know.” She stood and moved away, disappearing into the tunnel, her scent still lingering in the room.
The fact that he could still smell it as he bent back over the remains bothered Harrison more than he wanted to admit. It had been two years since Allison had thrown the engagement ring he’d given her across the room and stomped out of the house they’d planned to share after their wedding. One year and three months since she’d eloped with Jamison Bentley—a high-school teacher whose seven-to-four work-days and summers off were exactly what Allison had wanted from Harrison. It was the one thing Harrison hadn’t been able to give her. His job was his passion, his calling. He had no plan to give it up.
Which was why he’d decided to avoid relationships, accept his life as a bachelor and be happy about it. It was also why he shouldn’t be noticing Jodie’s perfume. Or shampoo. Or whatever it was that clung to her skin.
Apparently, the past month had taken more of a toll on Harrison than he’d thought. Two weeks in California working with the FBI to identify remains left by a serial killer. Then back to New Orleans and twelve-hour days getting caught up on work. He needed a vacation. That was the problem.
It had to be, because there was no way Harrison planned to admit that he found a woman intriguing who looked like she was barely out of her teens.
With that firmly in mind, he turned his attention back to the man and woman lying on the ground in front of him. The nameless, faceless dead. He’d find out who they were and make sure their families had the closure they deserved. Nothing—not time, not scanty evidence, not a sweet-smelling distraction—would keep him from doing that.
TWO
Jodie stepped out of the house and into the damp March air, her heart beating in time to her pounding head. She never got headaches in New Orleans, but she’d had them plenty when she’d lived in Loomis. She should have known they’d be back as soon as she set foot in the little town.
Sam was a few yards away, talking to a uniformed officer, and Jodie walked toward them, determined to forget both the headache and the past. If she kept focused, kept moving forward on the case, there’d be no chance of sinking back into what she’d been a decade ago. “Sam? We’ve got another bullet in the tunnel. No casings yet, but Cahill isn’t done collecting the evidence.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get it and send it with the other for ballistics testing, and—”
“You’ll be wasting your time on that, Agent Pierce.” The officer cut in, and Jodie took her first good look at him, her heart sinking when she realized who he was.
Sheriff Bradford Reed. His lined face and faded eyes sparked a memory of another day. Jodie had been cutting school, and he’d found her hanging out behind the library. He’d been neither cruel nor kind, his silent disapproval making Jodie feel worse than her father’s rage had.
“Wasting my time because…?” Sam’s question pulled Jodie from the memory and she blinked, trying to free herself from the past.
“The crimes aren’t related. We’ve got no mass murderer or serial killer or whatever name
