The horsemen move the herd along the fence and toward the gate. Billy circled left to stay out of their way and trudged through the bison flop and soured mud, dropping markers as he went for the CSU crew to follow. Footprints left by the ranger and first responders had mucked up the ground on all sides of the car. Casting impressions was going to be a hell of a job.
First thing he noticed as he approached the Camaro was the vanity plate on the back. SPARROW. Odd choice for a muscle car. Must be a story there.
The driver’s side door was open, the victim seated behind the wheel, her left arm hanging at her side. He noted the purple discoloration of her fingertips and the lack of an engagement or wedding ring on her finger. Her body was angled toward the car’s interior, her head falling forward causing a curtain of blond hair to obscure her face. Leaning inside the car, he saw her right hand laying palm up on the console. Her little finger was bruised, possibly broken. Looked like she’d put up a fight.
The voluminous train of the dress filled the driver’s foot well and overflowed onto the console. The victim had pushed it to one side to access the gearshift. The transmission had remained in Drive. Her foot depressing the brake pedal and frozen there in death was the reason Hanson had seen the taillights burning.
A wedding gown and no rings. Did Hanson take the rings or had the victim fought with the groom and removed them? Or had she been on her way to be married when she died? He radioed Frankie to have Hanson frisked for the rings before being transported from the scene.
He walked around the back of the car and put on latex gloves before opening the passenger side door. An evening bag lay on the floor. Frankie could inspect its contents and search the car for a weapon. She was good at that. She never overlooked the details.
He leaned in, aware of the faint, fetid odor of death. Last night’s low temperature had slowed the degradation of the body, but that would change as the day warmed. The Camaro would never be free of the smell. He scanned the back seat and looked up to see the small rip in the black fabric headliner above the driver’s seat. Possibly a bullet hole. He snapped a photo with his mobile.
Moving on, he rested his hand on the edge of the seat and leaned in farther for a look at the victim. Beneath the veil of blond hair, he saw where a bullet had entered below her right cheekbone and most likely found a path through the sinuses to the brain. Blood had leaked from her nostrils and dripped onto the front of the dress. Suicides usually aim for the temple, or they eat the barrel. This wound didn’t appear to be self-inflicted.
He snapped more photos. Despite the dress covering her torso, arms and legs, he could tell the body was already losing muscle shape. The muscles in her jaw had loosened, dropping her mouth open. Lividity appeared only in her reddish earlobes, her fingertips, and the back of her wrist that rested on the console, but full rigor had begun to set in. Life had abandoned this body several hours ago.
“What happened here, sweetheart?” he murmured and reached across to move the hair draped over her face. Powder tattoo marks speckled her cheek around the wound. The reddish-brown color indicated she’d been alive when she was shot, and the gun had been fired from about a foot away. It takes a particular kind of viciousness to shoot someone in the face at that close range. He looked past the damaged cheek and focused on her features already distorted by gravity—eyelids drooping, bowed mouth drawn down, a tiny beauty mark in the right corner.
Recognition struck. He stumbled back from the car, swearing. The victim was Caroline Lee. No, maybe not. The deterioration was significant. This woman may only look like her. He forced himself to lean back in and saw on her right wrist a small scar, a scrape from a barbed wire fence. He remembered the day it happened.
It was Caroline.
She’d called a few days ago to let him know she was now the attorney of record for his uncle’s will. Before hanging up she’d said, “Good to hear your voice again, Billy.”
He stood beside the car and wiped away tears. The vanity plate made sense to him now. Sparrow. Her dad used to call her that name. He looked around the vacant field, his breath streaming out in the cold. He wondered if she’d suffered—waiting alone in the dark for help to come.
He heard the farm gate on the road scrape across gravel as it swung open. Frankie was just starting up the path he’d marked. They would inspect the body together, pick over the scene, open a file, and compile evidence. They would draw conclusions about suspects and write affidavits for warrants. All by the book, all impersonal. Suddenly the business of murder sickened him.
The ground beneath him seemed to tilt as he walked around the back of the car to intercept Frankie, feeling the need to come between her and Caroline. Rage was building in his gut.
“Why the hell are you wearing those ridiculous boots?” he barked as she walked up.
She looked at him hard. “Why do you care?”
“They’re an insult to the victim.”
Her lips parted. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
He lifted his chin at her mobile, struggling for control. “Forget it. Did you find anything?”
Her gaze stayed with him a couple of beats longer than it had to. “Our victim is Caroline Lee, age twenty-nine. She works as an estate attorney at the Lee Law Firm, daughter of Saunders and Rosalyn Lee. That’s as blueblood as you get in this city, right? The car’s registered in her name. Kind of unusual for a society babe to drive a muscle car.”
He nodded. A hawk was riding the air currents high above the pasture across the road. It folded its wings and dove behind the tree break.
He wondered if he could hold on.
Frankie continued. “Her name came up in the Commercial Appeal’s wedding announcement archives. She was to marry a Dr. Raj Sharma five weeks ago.” She frowned, staring at him. “Billy? Are you listening? You should see your face.”
He had to tell her. She had a right to know. “The Lees have a home in Mississippi. The family used to come by my uncle’s diner. Saunders Lee was my uncle’s attorney. Caroline Lee called a few days ago to tell me she was closing out his will.”
He searched the sky for the hawk. Instead he saw Caroline’s face close to his, her arms wrapped around his bare neck, her body glued to his. “One, two, three,” she would whisper, and they’d spring from the tree limb that stretched over the lake at the back of her father’s property.
They would hit the water as one.
He realized Frankie was studying him.
“You really think we should work this case?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen the Lees in years. I’m not a part of my uncle’s will. I’ll inform Middlebrook, but I don’t expect a problem.”
The hawk lifted in the air from behind the tree break. Something squirmed in its beak.
His rage returned. He imagined Caroline fighting for her life, the bullet striking, her body shutting down.
His blood pulsed, pushing out the words. “If I get my hands on the son of a bitch who did this, I’ll kill him.”