The Texas Ranger. Diana Palmer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ his friend. They hadn’t spoken since.

      It had been a fluke, that whole situation. She couldn’t really blame Brannon for defending his best friend. But if he’d loved her, he couldn’t have walked away that easily. And he wouldn’t have treated her like trash, either.

      Most people around San Antonio said that Brannon wouldn’t know love if it poked him in the eye. It was probably true. He was a loner by nature, and he and his sister, Gretchen, had suffered terrible poverty in childhood. Their mother had died of cancer two years ago, not long after Josette had split up with Marc. Gretchen had been wined and dined and then horribly jilted by an opportunist when he discovered that she inherited little more than debts. Like her, both Brannons had known betrayal.

      Barnes purred and rubbed against her arm, diverting her from her sad thoughts. She petted him and held him close. His loud purr vibrated against her skin and gave her comfort, like the weight of his big, furry body. He was a battle-scarred alley cat who’d needed a good meal and a bath. Josette had needed something to come home to after a hard day’s work. She’d never been able to walk past anything that was hurt or deserted, so she’d loved Barnes on sight. She’d taken him to the veterinarian for a checkup and shots and then she’d taken him home with her. Now, she couldn’t imagine life without him. He filled some of the empty places inside her.

      “Hungry?” she asked, and he rubbed harder.

      “Okay,” she said, sighing as she got to her bare feet and stretched lazily, her slender body twisting with the motion. Her hair was down around her shoulders. It fell like a golden cascade to her hips in back. Brannon had loved her hair like that. She grimaced. She had to stop remembering!

      “We’ll split a hamburger, Barnes. Then,” she added with a wince, “I have to comb through a thousand files and download a dozen pages into the laptop for Simon. After that, I have to write a summary and take it back to Simon so that he can compose an opinion on it. Then I have to fax it to the district attorney.” She looked down at Barnes and shook her head. “Oh, for the life of a cat!”

      Chapter Two

      Nothing about a crime scene ever got easier, Marc Brannon thought as he knelt beside the body of the shooting victim. The man was young, probably no more than late-twenties, and he was dressed shabbily. One bare arm bore a tattoo of a raven. There were scars on both wrists and ankles, hinting at a stint in prison. There was a pool of blood around his fair hair and his pale eyes were open, staring blankly at the blue sky. He looked vulnerable lying there; helpless and defenseless, with his body wide-open to the stares of evidence-gatherers and curious passersby. Evidence technicians went over the scene like bloodhounds, looking carefully for trace evidence. One of them had a metal detector and had just found a slug which they hoped would be from the murder weapon. Another technician was videotaping the crime scene from every angle.

      Brannon’s big, lean hand smoothed over the neat khaki of his slacks while his keen, deep-set silver-gray eyes narrowed in thought. Maybe Marsh had nothing to do with this, but it was curious that a dead body would be found so close to his nightclub. No doubt Marsh would have an iron-clad alibi, he thought irritably. He had dozens of cronies who would give him one whenever he needed it.

      Deep in thought, Brannon watched the lone medical examiner investigator work. She was going very slowly and methodically about securing the body. Well, she should. It could turn out to be a very high-profile case, he reminded himself.

      The homicide detective for the central substation, Bud Garcia, waved at Brannon before he spoke to the patrol officers who’d apparently found the body. He sighed as he joined the medical examiner investigator beside the body, out of the way of the evidence technicians who were busily garnering trace evidence close to the body. Brannon had an evidence kit himself, but he would have felt superfluous trying to use it with so many people on the case. There were continuous flashes of light as the corpse was photographed as well as videotaped.

      “Hi, Jones,” he greeted her. “Do we know anything about this guy yet?”

      “Sure,” she replied, busily bagging the victim’s hands. “I know two things about him already.”

      “Well?” he prompted impatiently, when she hesitated.

      “He’s male, and he’s dead,” Alice Jones replied with a wicked grin as she put the last bag in place with a rubber band. Her hair, black and short, was sweaty.

      He gave her a speaking glare.

      “Sorry,” she murmured dryly. “No, we don’t have anything, not even a name. He wasn’t carrying ID.” She stood up. “Care to guess about his circumstances?”

      He studied the body. “He’s got abrasions on his wrists and ankles. My guess would be that he’s an escaped prisoner.”

      “Not bad, Ranger,” she mused. “That would be my best guess, too. But until we get him autopsied, we’re going to have to wait for our answers.”

      “Can you approximate the time of death?”

      She gave him a long, appreciative look. Her eyes twinkled. “You want me to jab a thermometer in his liver right here, huh?”

      “God, Jones!” he burst out.

      “Okay, okay, if you have to have a time of death, considering the state of rigor, I’d say twenty-four hours, give or take two either side,” she murmured, and went back to work. “But don’t hold me to it. I’m just an investigator. The medical examiner will have to go over this guy, and he’s got bodies backed up in the morgue already. Don’t expect quick results.”

      As if he didn’t know that. Evidence processing could take weeks, and frequently did, despite the instant results displayed on television police shows.

      He swore under his breath and got to his feet gracefully. It was a hot September day and the silvery metal of his Texas Ranger badge caught the sun and glittered. He took off his Stetson and swept the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. His blond-streaked, thick and wavy hair, was momentarily visible until he stuck the hat back on, slanting it across his eyes.

      “Who called you in on this?” the assistant medical examiner asked cursorily as she worked to prepare the body for transit.

      “My boss. We’re hoping this may be a link to a guy we’ve been trying to close down for several years without success, considering where the body’s located. Naturally my boss sent someone experienced and capable and superior in intelligence to investigate.” He looked at her mischievously.

      She glanced appreciatively up at her rugged companion, appraising his lean physique and commanding presence. She gave a long, low whistle. “I’m impressed, Brannon!”

      “Nothing impresses you, Jones,” he drawled.

      He turned around and went to look for Bud Garcia, the homicide detective. He found him talking to another plainclothes detective, who had a cell phone and a notepad.

      “Well, that sure fits the description,” Garcia was agreeing with a satisfied smile. “Right down to the raven tattoo. It’s him, all right. What a lucky break! Thank the warden for me.”

      The other officer nodded and spoke into the cell phone again, moving away.

      “Brannon, we’ve got something,” Garcia said when he saw the taller man approaching. “Wayne Correctional Institute down near Floresville СКАЧАТЬ