style="font-size:15px;"> “Except Fiona Winslow, who was killed at the scavenger hunt on your family’s ranch.” Brodie had familiarized himself with all the information Travis had sent to the CBI.
“They broke their pattern with Fiona because they were sending a message,” Travis said. “Taunting me. I think Alex is doing the same thing with this Jeep. He knows that we know it’s the vehicle he was driving until recently.”
“Do you think he’s driving this woman’s car now?” Brodie asked.
Travis shook his head. “That seems too obvious to me, but maybe, if he hasn’t found another vehicle. He thinks he’s smarter than we are, always one step ahead, but we know who he is now. It won’t be as easy to hide. And it will be harder for him to kill alone, too. He’s going to make mistakes. I can see it with this woman.”
“What do you see?” Reading the case files Travis had emailed was no substitute for eyewitness experience.
“The woman’s feet aren’t bound. The others were. Maybe that’s because he didn’t have time, or without Tim’s help he couldn’t manage it.” He moved closer to look into the car once more. “The collar of her fur coat is torn. I think she struggled and tried to fight him off. Maybe she marked him.”
“The others didn’t have time to put up a fight,” Brodie said, recalling the case notes.
Travis opened the door and leaned into the car, being careful not to touch anything. With gloved hands, he felt gingerly around the edge of the seat and along the dash. When he withdrew and straightened, he held a small rectangle of card stock in his hand, the words ICE COLD printed across the front. “He’s following his pattern of leaving the card,” Brodie said.
“He doesn’t want there to be any doubt about who’s responsible,” Travis said. He pulled out an evidence envelope and sealed the card inside. “It’s another way to thumb his nose at us.”
They turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle, or rather, a caravan of two sheriff’s department SUVs and a black Jeep, traveling slowly up the snow-packed road. The vehicles parked on the opposite side of the road and two deputies and an older man bundled in a heavy coat got out.
“Hello, Gage,” Brodie greeted one of the deputies, Travis’s brother, Gage Walker.
“You’re about the last person I expected to see here,” Gage said. He seemed puzzled, but not unfriendly, and, unlike his brother, was willing to shake Brodie’s hand. “Typical of CBI to show up when we have the case half-solved.”
“Dwight Prentice.” The second deputy, a tall, rangy blond, offered his hand and Brodie shook it.
“And this is Butch Collins, the county medical examiner.” Travis introduced the older man, who nodded and moved on to the car. His face paled when he looked into the vehicle.
“Something wrong?” Travis asked, hurrying to the older man’s side.
Collins shook his head. “I know her, that’s all.” He cleared his throat. “Lynn Wallace. She sings in the choir at my church.”
“Do you know what kind of car she drives?” Brodie asked, joining them.
Collins stared at him, then back at the Jeep. “This isn’t her car?”
“It was stolen from a local vacation home two days ago,” Travis said. “We think the killer might have been driving it.”
“I don’t know what kind of car Lynn drove,” Collins said. “Only that she was a lovely woman with a beautiful soprano voice. She didn’t deserve this. But then, none of them did.” He straightened his shoulders. “Are you ready for me to look at her?”
“Give us a few seconds to process the outside of the car, then you can have a look.” Travis motioned to Gage and Dwight, who moved forward.
Travis indicated Brodie should follow him. “I need you to get to work on identifying Lynn Wallace’s vehicle,” he said. “I think Alex will ditch it as soon as he can, but he might not have had a chance yet. You can use my office.”
“Tell me what you know about Alex,” Brodie said.
“Alex Woodruff. A college student at the Colorado State University—or he was until recently. He doesn’t have any priors, at least under that name, and that’s the only name I’ve found for him.”
“Emily goes to the Colorado State University, doesn’t she?” Brodie asked. Knowing he was coming to Eagle Mountain, he’d checked her Facebook page. “Do they know each other?”
The lines around Travis’s mouth tightened. “She says he participated in a research study she and her colleagues conducted, but they weren’t friends, just acquaintances.”
“What brought him to Eagle Mountain?”
“He and Tim supposedly came here to ice climb over their winter break and got stuck here when blizzards closed the highway. They were staying at an aunt’s vacation cabin until recently.”
“I’ll get right on the search for the car,” Brodie said. As he walked to his SUV, he considered the connection between Alex Woodruff and Emily Walker. His work investigating crimes had taught him to be skeptical of coincidence, but until he had further proof, he wasn’t going to add to Travis’s concerns by voicing the worry that now filled his mind. What if the thing that had brought Alex and Tim to Eagle Mountain wasn’t ice climbing—but Emily?
“Thank you, Professor. That would be so helpful. I’ll review everything and be ready to discuss it when I see you next week after the wedding.” Emily hung up the phone and mentally checked off one more item on her Tuesday to-do list. All her professors had agreed to excuse her for another week so that she could help with the preparations for Travis and Lacy’s wedding. Though she could have made the six-hour drive back to Fort Collins to attend a few classes and try to catch up on all she had missed while stranded by the snow, the last thing she wanted was for the road to close again, forcing her to miss the wedding.
Instead, someone in her department had volunteered to make the drive out here to deliver files for Emily to review. She had protested that it was ridiculous to make such a long drive, but apparently more than one person had been eager for the excuse to get off campus for a while. The risk of getting stranded in Eagle Mountain if another storm system rolled in had only heightened the appeal.
She moved on to the next item on her list. She needed to check on her horse, Witchy. The mare had developed inflammation in one leg shortly after the first of the year and veterinarian Darcy Marsh had prescribed a course of treatment that appeared to be working, but Emily was supposed to exercise her lightly each day and check that there was no new swelling. Slipping on her barn coat—the same one she had worn as a teenager—she headed out the door and down the drive to the horse barn. Sunlight shimmered on the snow that covered everything like a starched white sheet. Every breath stung her nose, reminding her that temperatures hovered in the twenties. She still marveled that it could be so cold when the sun shone so brightly overhead, giving the air a clean, lemony light.
The barn’s interior presented a sharp contrast
