IAN WALKED INTO THE TAVERN and approached the bar.
“You look like you need a drink, Ian,” Rob commented more than offered.
“Thanks, Rob. Wish I could, but the day's not done yet.” He'd confirmed Dr. DeMarco's find, but there hadn't been much they could do in the middle of the night. As a result, he and a couple of cops from the state police had been up at first light and had spent much of the morning and afternoon removing the road piece by piece to see what they had. And what they had was indeed a complete skeleton.
“I'm looking for Vivienne DeMarco. I know she's staying here. I tried her cell, but she isn't answering.”
“Most likely can't,” Rob answered, handing Ian a cup of coffee in a to-go cup even though he hadn't asked for it. “She came in this morning asking about hiking trails. I pointed her to the Taconic Trail. If she's up there, she won't have cell coverage.”
“Thanks, Rob,” Ian answered, taking a sip of the hot coffee. It wasn't cold out, not like the winter, and the rain had stopped, but it was still cool for early May. “Did you point her to a specific access point?” Rob nodded and mentioned the entry point off the Taconic Parkway about twelve miles south of town.
Twenty minutes later, Ian drove to the end of a short dirt road, pulled into a secluded parking lot that sat halfway up a hill, and considered what he was doing. According to Rob, she'd left five hours ago. If she was still hiking, she could be gone for hours. He hadn't thought much about it; he figured he would just wait for her. But when he'd pulled into the lot and seen her car, he realized his approach was a throwback to his old life, when he'd had one mission and stuck to it—even if he'd had to wait hours, or days, or weeks. He got out of his Jeep and leaned against the hood, wondering if there was something else he should be doing—some coordination, some oversight, something that, as the Deputy Chief of Police, he should be thinking about.
And not for the first time, he questioned his position on the force. From his vantage point, he stared out over the rural Hudson Valley and contemplated his situation. While the skills he'd developed over the past several years were valued by various law enforcement agencies, the truth was it wasn't an easy transition from soldier to police. As a soldier, he and his team spent a lot of time planning and executing missions. As a police officer, he came in to clean things up—which required an entirely different set of skills. And at times like this, times when he wasn't sure if he was doing what he should be doing, he was very aware of how different the two roles were. In fact, he sometimes thought the only things they had in common were guns and testosterone.
Ian was pondering how long he should wait when a figure emerged at the top of the hill. Dr. DeMarco moved with the ease and familiarity of an expert hiker as she made her way down toward the parking lot. She spotted him, paused, looked behind her, then continued down. Seeing her in her jeans, hiking boots, and a long-sleeved shirt with a backpack slung over her shoulder, Damian's comment about her floated into Ian's mind. She was an attractive woman. Athletic and strong looking with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, olive skin, and brown eyes that confirmed the Italian heritage her last name hinted at. She didn't look like she wore makeup or needed to. But then again, he was a guy—what did he know about makeup? To him, whatever she did or didn't do was irrelevant; she looked good.
“Dr. DeMarco,” he said, straightening off his Jeep.
She walked toward him, taking a sip from a metal water bottle. “Deputy Chief MacAllister,” she acknowledged as she stopped in front of him. He studied her for a moment, not thinking anything in particular, but taking her measure nonetheless.
“So, did you find her?” she asked, turning away from him and opening the trunk of her car.
“I don't.” She dumped her backpack into the trunk, unzipped the main pocket, and pulled out a lightweight pullover. “But given the size of the wrist bones I saw and what looked like a thin, gold bracelet, I'm presuming. Of course it could be a young person or a cross dresser or the bracelet could have been placed there. It could be anything. Was it a whole body?”
Ian nodded, watching her pull on the sweater.
“Sorry about that,” she said as her head emerged. “My guess is that you don't see a lot of murder up here. Sorry you have to see it now.”
“I could use your help.”
She froze for a moment, a split second, then shook her head. “I'm sorry, I really am, but I'm on vacation. The New York lab is excellent—the doctor who runs it is a good friend of mine. They'll be able to help you.”
“But I hear you're one of the best.”
Crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against her car, Dr. DeMarco eyed him. He could see the honest debate in her eyes. He could try the guilt card and, at this point, he was pretty certain it would work. But he caught a glimpse of the dark circles under her eyes and something stopped him. Not from asking, but from trying to manipulate her.
“Look, the truth is my boss is on vacation now—something we should both be glad about,” he added as an aside. “He thinks I'm out for his job—”
“Are you?”
Ian shook his head. “Half the time I'm not even sure I want my job. But he thinks I'm after his anyway. He's a real prick about it. If he comes back and this isn't resolved, or heading in that direction, he'll derail it. I'm not going to disguise the fact that asking you to get involved is as much for the victim as it is for me.”
“I get the sense, Deputy Chief MacAllister, that whether I help or not, you're going to do a thorough job. My guess is that doing it any other way isn't even an option for you.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. The first he'd seen from her.
“Believe me, I will do everything in my power to find out who this person is, what happened to him or her, and who did it. But, given that I think Vic will do more harm than good, both to me and the case, you can't blame me for wanting to stack the cards in my favor by using you and your skills.” Ian watched her ponder him and his request. It still left him feeling a little slimy—she looked like she deserved her vacation, not a murder investigation. But at least it felt better being honest with her about his situation than trying to manipulate her. His therapist would be so proud.
After a long moment when the sounds of nearby birds and the distant cars on the Taconic Parkway seemed impossibly loud, she conceded. “I'll take a look. I'm not promising anything and I'm not going to process any evidence for you because I'm not authorized to. But I'll take a look and tell you what I can.”
“Thank you,” he nodded, more grateful than he expected. He didn't know Vivienne DeMarco from Adam, but still, he felt he now had an ally. “We're still working to clear the debris away, but they should be close to done.”
“I want to shower and change. We have plenty of light, so give me forty-five minutes and meet me at The Tavern. I'll be ready then.” Again, Ian nodded then watched as she climbed into her car and drove away. She wasn't warm to the idea, but she was going to do it. He couldn't ask for much more.
A little over an hour later, Ian and Dr. DeMarco pulled up to the spot on County Route 8. He glanced at his passenger who was checking out the scene. The car ride had been silent, but not uncomfortable.
“Must look a bit different than last night,” he broke in. She inclined her head.
“It was dark and pouring rain most of the time—it was hard to see much of anything that wasn't ten feet in front of me. In the daylight, if you ignore the crime scene tape and the knowledge that someone was buried here, it's pretty.” She sounded surprised.
“You've never been to this area before?”
She shook her head. “I know, crazy, right? I grew up in Boston and I know it's only a few hours away, but well, when I get home, I like to stay there. I travel a lot.”
“What made you come here now?”
She was quiet for a moment and he couldn't tell whether she was debating how much to tell him about herself or if she just didn't know the answer. Then she shrugged. “I have a close family friend, kind of like an aunt. She and her husband come here all the time. She's always talking about it. When I was passing through New York City, I saw the sign for the Taconic State Parkway and on a whim I decided to take it.”
“You regret that decision?”
“I'm here,” she shrugged again and reached for the door handle. “Doesn't matter whether I regret it or not.”
They exited the car and headed toward the primary scene. Ducking under the crime scene tape, Ian caught a few speculative glances cast at Dr. DeMarco. Heading it off at the pass, he announced, “Everyone, this is Dr. DeMarco, FBI consultant. She's not here officially but happens to be traveling through the area and has been nice enough to stop and give us her opinion.” He didn't mention she was the one who found the body. He didn't feel like having to explain it to everyone else, so he took the path of least resistance.
He watched her scope out the area as they made their way to the grave. When they arrived at the side of the hole dug by the crew, she went down on her haunches. She studied the skeleton for a long time. He didn't know what she was looking at or for, but her obvious competence reassured him. And so he studied her.
She had changed into another pair of jeans and a different pair of boots—the kind of boots that were made for a woman, with heels and all. She had on a light green sweater and her hair was pulled back again and still damp. Her curves were hard to miss, as was her confidence. The combination of the two made it hard for him to ignore the fact that Dr. Vivienne DeMarco was most definitely a woman.
Not taking her eyes from the body, she held her hand up and asked for a flashlight. The daylight was still good, but he didn't question her as he handed one over. He watched as she swept the beam over the body. Finally, she spoke.
“It's a female. Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. I can't tell for certain from this angle, but there does not appear to be any severe trauma to the bones. I also can't see it from here, but when you get her out, I'd take a close look at the hyoid bone.”
“Strangulation?” Ian asked.
“Possibly, but she could have been starved to death, or suffocated, in which case the hyoid will likely be intact. But in cases like this, with no obvious trauma, it's the first place I look.
“She's Caucasian,” she continued. “And has had at least one child,” she added, shining the light on the pelvis area.
“Then there is probably family looking for her? Husband, boyfriend? Maybe even the kid?” interjected Wyatt Granger, one of Ian's officers. Dr. DeMarco looked up at the young man as if just now realizing other people were around.
“Not if the husband or boyfriend did it, or there is even a husband or boyfriend at all,” Ian stated. Wyatt's questions were nice but naïve. “And the kid, if it's still alive, might not even know who his or her mother is. For all we know, she might have been a migrant prostitute with no family to speak of.”
Ian felt, more than saw, Vivienne's gaze bounce to him. He didn't need to look at her to feel her censure. Without a word, she swung her light back to the body.
“She was restrained,” she stated. That got his attention. He came down onto his haunches beside her. “You can see where there is some damage to the bones.” She shined the light on each wrist and each ankle in turn. He examined the illuminated bones and, sure enough, he could see a couple of small, straight lines, each about a half an inch long.
His stomach went flat. “She fought the restraints.”
“Yes, she did,” came the quiet confirmation.
“Can you tell what it was? Rope?”
She shook her head. “With a mark like that, it's more likely to be something like a metal shackle.”
“A shackle?”
“Hhmm, and,” she paused again, leaning forward, “it looks like she was restrained lying down with her arms up over her head.”
“As opposed to sitting or standing?”
“I wouldn't rule anything out, but based on the location of the damage, I'd look at a restraint system that tied her down from below.”
“So she might have been tortured?” he asked. At this, her eyes swung to his and he realized he'd just given her more information about himself, about his life, than he'd intended. Torture probably wasn't the first thing your average small-town cop would've come up with.
“And possibly sexually assaulted,” she agreed, returning her gaze to the body.
“Any indication of that?”
She shook her head. “Not from what I can see, but given her age and the evidence of restraints, I would say it's a possibility. When was the last time this road was repaved?” she asked, shining the flashlight onto the layers of blacktop Ian's crew had sliced through to reach the body.
“Three years ago, after a big storm. Is that the time of death?”
Dr. DeMarco shook her head. “You'll have to run more tests to know the time of death, but at least you know the dump date.”
“Can you do a reconstruction?”
Her eyes shot to his again, and a look of annoyance crossed her features. He was pushing and he knew it. Asking her in front of everyone else, making it harder to say no, was a strategic move. And, judging by her expression, a bad strategic move at that.
“I think I'm done here,” she said, turning away from him in more ways than one. After one last look at the body, she stood, handed Ian the flashlight, then moved to read Wyatt's badge.
“Officer Granger,” she said. “You should know I've been doing this kind of work for a while now, and it can get to you.” Wyatt's eyes darted to Ian's, but the young man was listening to Dr. DeMarco. “All the successful agents I know,” she continued, “all the best detectives and everyone else who works these kinds of cases—every single one of them—they all have the same thing in common.”
“What's that, ma'am?” he asked, as if asking for her permission to ask the question.
“They have all somehow learned how to preserve their humanity—to keep themselves from assuming the worst in every person or every situation, to maintain their belief that there are good people in the world. It's a unique ability in this field and sometimes the only thing that keeps us sane. Keep it, Officer Granger, it will serve you well, I promise.” Her words were spoken to Wyatt, but Ian knew they were meant as much, if not more, for him.
“Thank you, ma'am,” the young officer smiled. Ian was certain Wyatt fell a little bit in love with Vivienne DeMarco in that moment.
“You're welcome. And don't let anyone else tell you otherwise,” she added as she turned toward the Jeep. “I'm ready to go, Deputy Chief MacAllister.”
“I need another few minutes. Go ahead and wait in the car.” It was childish, he knew. He didn't need another few minutes, but he also didn't like being reprimanded, veiled or not, in front of his reports. Especially when she was right. Without a word, she ducked under the tape and headed back toward his Jeep.
Forty-five minutes later, he made his way toward his car. His empty car. He ran a hand over his face and cursed himself. And then he laughed—for the first time in a long time. He had to admit, she had style. She didn't like the way he'd handled her, so rather than sulk, she'd taken matters into her own hands.
He found her walking alongside the road about a half mile from town. He slowed his Jeep and rolled down the window.
“Want a lift?”
“No thanks, I'm almost there.” She didn't bother to look at him.
“Sorry I put you on the spot.”
“Call me crazy, MacAllister, but I don't like being manipulated or lied to.” Her pace didn't slow.
“I didn't lie to you.”
“Yes, you did. You're not sorry you put me on the spot asking for the reconstruction. You may be disappointed that I didn't cave, but you're not sorry you tried.”
He let out a huff of air. Dr. DeMarco was right. But it was easy for her to say no. She didn't have an unidentified body to deal with. And he told her so. For some reason that stopped her cold.
“You think this is easy for me?”
Ian put his car in park and hit the emergency blinkers as she crossed the road and halted at his window. “How many murders has this area seen in the last ten years?” she asked.
He had looked into it as soon as they'd found the body so he didn't have to think about his answer. “Two.”
“Let me guess, bar brawls or domestic violence?”
Wherever this was going, it wasn't good. “One of each,” he answered.
“Now I'm not saying you haven't seen your fair share of death, MacAllister. I'll bet you have. Special Forces of some sort?”
“Rangers,” he answered with a frown. “How did you know?”
“Because you seem the sort.” She waved a dismissive hand at him that he liked even less than the comment, but before he could respond, she continued. “I've been working cases like this for over eight years. More if you count my work while I was still in residency. Do you know how many bodies I worked on last year?” It was a rhetorical question. “Over 300,” she supplied. “Think about that, MacAllister. Think about how many bodies I have worked with over the years. How many murders—how many children, parents, wives, and husbands that is. How much anger, pain, anguish, and guilt I've seen.
“I literally can't remember the last time I had more than a day off because there is always, always someone new that can use my help. Some husband who needs closure for the murder of his wife. Parents who are desperate to find their child, even if they know that child is dead. How do you say no to that? How can anyone possibly say no to that? So no, this isn't easy for me. It's not easy stepping away and taking the break everyone says I so desperately need. It's not easy knowing that I could be somewhere helping someone bring closure or justice to a senseless death. But I have finally found the courage to take that time for myself before I'm useless to everyone. Before I'm useless to myself.”
She was breathing hard and he could see her pulse beating a rapid rhythm in the hollow of her throat. And, though she probably wouldn't admit it, she was blinking back tears.
“Believe me, MacAllister,” her voice quieted. “Nothing about this is easy.”
It wasn't often that Ian was speechless, but she had rendered him that. Taking advantage of it, she turned and walked away. He let her go, watching her figure disappear down the road, and sat thinking about her words.
When he walked into The Tavern, his eyes found the doctor before the door closed behind him. She was nursing a beer at the bar, staring into the empty space between her and the bottles stacked neatly behind the counter across from her. She looked up when he approached her, a look of disinterested curiosity on her face.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Her expressionless eyes gazed back at him. Then she shrugged it off.
“Have you ordered dinner?” he asked.
She arched an eyebrow at his gall, and he almost smiled.
“I need to eat. I thought maybe we could eat together. I promise not to talk about the case.”
She gave him a look, as if wondering what they might talk about if not the case, but then accepted with a nod of her head. After telling him she'd already ordered, she motioned toward a table in the back. He placed his dinner order with Rob, grabbed a beer, and joined her.
“So, how was your hike this morning?”
She looked surprised by the question but rolled with it. “It was good. It's beautiful around here. I can see why my aunt loves it. Very bucolic, reminds me of England.”
“Did you meet Angus?”
“Angus?”
“Old guy, looks a little crazy, but—”
“Mostly harmless?” She finished his sentence and he nodded. “Yes, I did. How did you know?”
“You paused on your way back down to the lot and looked up the hill, like you were looking for someone.”
“Ah,” she said with a small smile. “He seemed an interesting character. Offered me a dram of whiskey from his flask. Said I looked like I needed it.” She paused. “I'm pretty sure that was an insult, but it was hard to tell with him.”
Ian smiled. “If he offered you a drink, it wasn't an insult. So, tell me how you ended up here in Windsor?”
“Like I said, I'm on a leave of absence. I was just driving through.”
“On your way where?” He was trying to be chatty, but his skills were rusty and he knew his questions came out sounding more like an interrogation.
“To wherever I decide to go next.”
He smiled again. “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
She let out a small laugh at that. “Now, are you the kettle or the pot?”
“I'm trying,” he pointed out. She gave him a look. “I've just never met anyone like you before,” he offered. One of her eyebrows shot up. “And I don't mean that as a pickup line. I mean I've never met a forensic psychologist before. I've never met anyone who has managed to work for both federal and state law enforcement.”
“I'm good at what I do.”
“I'm sure you are, and you don't need to get defensive with me.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She had a point, given what he'd done to her earlier in the day. But still, he was a fixer, so he asked. “Is it just with me or are you always on the defensive?”
She let out a long-suffering breath. “Do you know what percentage of women work in the Boston PD?”
Ian shook his head.
“A small fraction of a minority percent,” she answered. “I'd finished my medical residency, my PhD, and the police academy when I joined up at the age of twenty-eight. I'm pretty good at not letting things get to me, but sometimes they do.”
He sat back and took a sip of his beer. It couldn't have been easy joining such a predominantly male organization with her credentials and at her age. Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't have been easy to join any professional organization with her credentials at her age. Doing the math, he realized she must have started college early and finished fast. A regular child prodigy. It gave a little insight into Dr. DeMarco's character and he could deal with that.
“Like I said, you don't have to be defensive around me.” He had no problems accepting highly capable women in law enforcement or anywhere else. Good was good, regardless of gender.
“Well, like I said, that remains to be seen. How did you find out about me?”
“I have a buddy with the FBI.”
“Which team?”
“His Assistant Director is a woman by the name of Sharon Titus.”
“He must be good, Sharon only works with the best.”
“He said the same thing about you.”
“And what about you? How did you end up here?”
Which reminded him. “What did you mean that I ‘seem the type’ to have been special forces?”
Rob chose that moment to bring their dinners. She took a sip of beer while the food was laid out. He'd ordered a big shepherd's pie. She'd ordered the ploughman's meal of local cheeses, homemade Irish bread, and a salad. No frills and entirely serviceable—some protein, carbs, and greens, nothing more or less. It told him something about the woman across the table and while it hadn't been a line when he'd told her he'd never met anyone like her, the more these little details interested him, the more it was beginning to feel like one.
“Your intensity and confidence that borders on arrogance,” she said, answering his earlier question.
“What?” he asked, coming back to the conversation.
“It's what gave you away as special forces of some type.”
“Arrogance?”
“It's not a bad thing. Given what you guys do, a little arrogance can go a long way to saving your ass, or someone else's,” she added. “You were injured.” It wasn't a question.
“IED.”
“In the left leg?”
He nodded.
“You have a slight limp—nothing too noticeable to someone not in my line of business. So, how did you end up here, in Windsor?” she parroted his question.
“After my stint recovering in Walter Reed, I needed a place to recover.” Both mentally and physically was unspoken, but judging by the look on her face, understood. “I grew up here. My parents have a farm, a couple of hundred acres out off of County Route 9. It's quiet.”
“You live with them?”
He had to smile at the surprise in her voice. “No. My sister and her husband, when they first got married twenty years ago, built a small place on the north forty, so to speak. They moved out about seven years ago and I live there now.”
“And the job?”
He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I needed something to do.”
“But you don't like it all that much?” He was of a mind to tell her tit for tat—if he talked about himself, it was only fair that she do the same. But something held him back and he answered.
“It's not always an easy transition from being a soldier to being the police. People think it's a no-brainer, but the skills are different. It's not that I don't like it, per se, but breaking up bar fights and stopping underage drinking is a far cry from what I was doing.”
“Then why do you do it?”
That was the million-dollar question. “Right now, I do it because they need someone to do it. Will I do it forever? I don't know. Maybe it will be different when I settle in more.”
“When your boss decides to back off and leave you alone. If your boss ever decides to back off and leave you alone.” He was surprised she'd remembered that, and there was some truth to what she was saying. He liked the other officers he worked with. And he liked feeling like part of a bigger community. But Vic made things, well, difficult.
“There is that.”
They had both finished their meals and drinks. She didn't strike him as a dessert person and so they had reached that awkward moment of goodbye. Not friends, not colleagues either, Ian didn't quite know what to do.
“Thank you,” he said. “For today and no, I don't mean that facetiously. We have more now than we did before, so I wanted to say thank you.”
She regarded him in silence and he wished like hell he knew how to read her, but she was a tough person to read.
“Where did you take her?” she asked.
“The Community Hospital at Riverside. It's the next town over. Not a much bigger town, but it has the hospital and morgue.”
“I'll take a look tomorrow if you want me to. I'll do my best with a reconstruction, but I'm not authorized to work with you, so I'll be limited in what I can do since I won't be able to touch her.”
Ian wasn't sure he'd heard right—it took a few seconds to sink in before he nodded in acknowledgement of Dr. DeMarco's offer. “I can pick you up at ten,” he proposed.
“Why don't you give me directions and I'll meet you there at two? I spoke to my aunt this morning—the family friend I mentioned that loves this area,” she reminded him. “Anyway, she insisted I visit a few places she loves while I'm out here. The Martin Van Buren house, some Shaker village north of here, and some lunch place in West Stockbridge that's run by a family friend. I know, it seems petty compared to what you're dealing with—”
“I'll take any help I can get. She's not scheduled to be transported to the state lab for two days, so a few hours here or there isn't going to make a difference.”
And, with this new development, saying goodbye was a little easier. He had a plan, and he liked plans. He gave her directions to the hospital as well as his contact information. And when he walked out of The Tavern, he was feeling better than he had any right to.