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The dispatcher, a bored-looking woman, probably in her early twenties, glanced up but didn’t smile.
“Hi, Rachel,” Ann said, reading the name plate on the girl’s desk. “Is Sheriff McMichael here?”
“He’s still out on patrol.” Her eyes shifted upward over Ann’s shoulder. Ann turned to see a clock on the wall. “He should be about done. You might find him out the road.” Rachel’s gaze focused on her computer screen while her mouse hand clickity-clicked.
Ann thanked Rachel, left the station, and walked west to the dirt road that ended at the old funeral home. She ate her sandwich on the way, juggling the bag and the cup of coffee.
The air grew chillier near the narrow creek that dipped over and ran alongside the road. When she was a kid, she thought it was the ghosts from the old cemetery. Harmony stopped using that cemetery in 1912 after a fire swept through town and they ran out of room. Now, it was overrun by ponderosa and lodgepole pines. Grave markers, some blackened like rotten teeth, jutted up among the trees.
The abandoned funeral home, which had been spared in the fire—contributing to local folklore about the house and the man who’d lived there—still slouched among the foliage, shrouded in darkness. The warped front steps gave it a sinister grin. The two windows on the upper level lent the old house a pair of eyes. They glared at her. She glared right back.
After what she’d been through, the stupid old house no longer scared her.
A stick snapped in the darkness. Ann inhaled a shriek, dropped her coffee and chips, and reached for her gun—which, of course, was back home locked up tight in her closet. She had thought about bringing it, but the more she’d stared at the black metal, the harder her heart pounded. She wondered if she would ever be able to fire her weapon again.
“Sorry to scare you like that.” A man in Castle County Sheriff’s Department khaki came out of the woods. Ann would recognize that voice anywhere. Frank McMichael had a deep baritone that rumbled from his barrel chest.
“Just the man I was looking for,” Ann said.
He tipped back his wide brim hat. “Well, I’ll be. Little Annie Logan, back in Harmony.” He came out of the gloom and stepped over the creek onto the dirt road.
“In the flesh,” she said. He surprised her and pulled her into a quick hug. He didn’t often show affection. A pat on the head or a handshake. His wife, Lisa, rest her soul, was the one who gave out hugs—and candy. Ann’s hand brushed his gun. She ignored the quickening of her pulse.
Twenty years had been rough on the old sheriff’s waistline, but the twinkle in his eyes hadn’t dimmed in all that time. Clever eyes for a clever man.
“Little jumpy,” McMichael said with a grin.
“Just a tad.” Ann couldn’t help but smile back. Being near him was like being next to her dad. They were best friends their entire lives. McMichael was more uncle than anything else.
“With reason—the Salida Stabber. Boy howdy, what a case. Followed that one day and night. We were all rooting for you, Annie. Whodathunk a gal from a small town like ours would make the Denver Post?” He grinned, rocking forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. The only thing missing was a hearty a-yup. “How’re you holding up?”
Ann bent to pick up the dropped coffee cup and ignored his question. “What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, just makin’ sure no pesky kids are using the old funeral home.” He squinted his eyes toward the woods. “Got your phone call.” He turned back to her. “What’s going on?”
Ann glanced down the road toward town. “It’s about my dad.” They started walking and Ann filled him in on the details of the box.
“You send in a print?” He scoffed. “Of course you did, you’re Bram Logan’s daughter.” He winked at her. “Did you call it in?”
Ann winced and shook her head.
“Why the hell not?” He stopped walking.
“I don’t trust the other cops in Salida.” She looked anywhere but at his eyes. “I wanted to see what I could find out first. If I called it in, they would have taken it away from me. He’s my dad.” She shrugged. “Besides, I sort of did call it in, didn’t I? I called you. Bram Logan is from Harmony, not Salida.”
“Fair enough, young lady.” He continued down the road. They meandered in silence for a few seconds.
“I would be lying if I said I’m not worried,” Ann said. “I know a finger isn’t a body, but . . . It’s not good. Is it?”
“No return address, no stamps, no fingerprints—he’d never be without his bomber,” he said, as if the jacket was more of a tell than the severed body part.
“I haven’t heard from him in months,” Ann continued. “After the Stabber, I called him every day. I thought if anyone could coach me through my first use of deadly force it’d be him.” She stopped, and McMichael turned to her. “He never called me back.” She looked into his eyes.
I’m struggling McMike. Please help me.
“Maybe he’ll still show up.” McMichael looked doubtful. He took a few steps ahead of her. His next words came out a whisper. “I should have been there.”
“What was that?” Ann asked, though she heard him.
“Oh, nothin’.” He smiled at her.
“When did you last see him?” Ann stopped herself from grabbing his arm. The begging tone in her voice irritated her. They’d reached the edge of town.
McMichael slid his hat from his head and scratched his scalp. “Few months. Six? Eight? Not sure. Sometimes he breezed through without stopping in.” The corners of his mouth dropped. McMichael motioned toward the diner.
“Can I buy you another coffee—seein’ that I scared this one right out of your hand?”
“Does the station have coffee?” She lifted one shoulder. “Save you a couple bucks?”
The sheriff grinned. “You betcha. It’ll melt the skin off your tongue, but we’ve got it.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure your dad is fine,” he said in a low voice.
“How can you be so certain?”
“He’s a smart man. Strong, intelligent, observant. I don’t think anyone could get a jump on him.”
Ann thought about the contents of his wallet. The Lufthansa mileage card. “What if he was in Egypt when it happened?”
“You think someone in Egypt sent you his finger in a box with no postage?” He lifted an eyebrow at her.
Ann pursed her lips to the side. Good point. They reached the Sheriff’s Department, and McMichael opened the door for her.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Rachel said. “Did you get the bad guys?”
McMichael introduced Ann to Rachel. This time, the young woman acknowledged she knew who Ann was—the lady who got the Stabber—and offered Ann a sincere congratulations before returning to the game of Solitaire open on her computer. McMichael motioned to a seat at one of the desks in the main area and disappeared behind the saloon style doors Ann knew led to a kitchenette.
“Your dad asked me to keep his locker for him,” he called over the doors. “Sweaty socks and dirty underwear, I reckon, but you’re welcome to try to open ’er up. It’s number seven.”
Ann wandered back to the locker room where four full-size lockers stood across from filing cabinets. They were numbered one, five, seven, and ten.
Ann tried various number combinations to no avail. She went back to the main office and sat down opposite McMichael.
“No luck?” He pushed a cup of black lava toward her.
She shook her head, took a sip, and cringed. The sheriff was right. Her tongue would never be the same again.
“So, what’s new?” Ann asked.
“Just the usual. Louise Marga calling in suspicious activity every couple weeks, though honestly, I haven’t heard from her in a few months.” He looked at his watch. “I’d say we’re due for something. Usually it’s just kids yelling in the woods, raccoons in the attic, a butterfly fart—who knows with her.” He chuckled. “I seem to recall your daddy calling me one night ’cause you went missing.”
Ann laughed. “I’m sure we were out there tapping on Looney Lou’s windows with sticks.” She and Derrick and Derrick’s goon friends, who’d given her the sort-of-cruel nickname. Louise lived on the other side of the old cemetery. It was all too easy to stir her up. “I can’t believe she’s still alive.”
“And sharp as a pair of fresh-honed shears. Still stirs up the town from time to time. End-of-the-world bullshit.” He sipped his coffee, and they sat in an amicable silence for a few seconds.
Ann nodded to a stack of files on his desk. “Any good cases?”
“Nothing big since an infant death a few years back. Accident my ass. Never believed a bit of that woman’s story, but, you know how it goes. Lack of evidence, good lawyers.” His mouth twisted in disgust.
“Anyone I know?” Ann asked.
He took a breath to answer when the front door burst open and a burly guy ducked inside. He hung his Castle County Sherriff’s ball cap on a hook by the door. When he turned around, he met Ann’s eyes and froze. She glanced over her shoulder in case someone was about to attack. Her heart sped up. There was no one there. He was staring at her.
Damn.
“Is that . . . is that . . .” the man said. He pointed a thick finger at Ann. “Is that Detective Ann Logan of the Salida PD?” He rushed over and grabbed her hand. “Deputy Riley. George Riley. It is an honor and a pleasure.”
He couldn’t be older than twenty with his baby face and smooth skin. Ann pulled her hand out of his grasp. Deputy Riley pulled a chair over and sat facing her. He placed his huge hands on his knees, brushing her knee caps with his knuckles. Ann pushed her chair back, but it hit the desk. Trapped.
“How’d you do it, Detective?” Ann darted a glance to the door. “I read the paper, but I want to hear it from you. Straight from the horse’s mouth as they say. I think that’s what they say.” He cocked his head.
What did he want? A play by play?
“I have a case—do you think you could take a look at it?” Deputy Riley leaned over Ann. His badge brushed her nose. Ann did everything she could to stop from pushing him out of her personal space while he rifled through a stack of files. Finally, he sat back to flip one open across her lap. “See if you confirm my suspicions?”
“Aw, George,” McMichael said. “Leave her alone, will ya?”
George looked at Ann and pulled the file away. “I’m sorry, Detective. Am I outta line?”
“Maybe another time.” Ann stood and maneuvered around him. “I gotta go.”
“Don’t let this buffoon scare you away.” Rachel flipped a hand in George’s direction. “He’s harmless.”
The office had suddenly grown too small with George Riley and his big goofy grin hovering around. Ann backed away to the door.
McMichael stood. “It was great to see you, Annie.” He pulled her into another hug and whispered, “I’ll subpoena your dad’s phone records, okay?” Ann pulled away nodding. She mouthed a thank you and left the stifling office.
On the sidewalk, she took in a deep breath and turned to head home when the girl she saw in silhouette that morning ran across the street toward her.