Shotgun Sheriff. Delores Fossen

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      “So?” Woody challenged.

      “So, the location of those prints means that someone could have waited there for Marcie to arrive. They could be the footprints of the killer. Or the killer’s accomplice if he had one. Sheriff Hardin would have had reason to be out here, but what about you? Before this morning, were you here at the cabin in the past forty-eight hours?”

      “No.” The mayor’s answer was quick and confident.

      Livvy didn’t intend to take his word for it.

      “You can go now,” Reed told the mayor.

      Woody slid his hat back on, tossed her a glare and delivered his parting shot from over his shoulder as he walked away. “You might do to remember that Reed is the law in Comanche Creek.”

      Livvy could have reminded him that she was there on orders from the governor, but instead she took out her binoculars from her field bag and watched Woody’s exit. If he stopped to pick up a discarded cell phone, she would arrest him on the spot.

      “He didn’t take that phone,” Reed insisted.

      “Then who did?”

      “The real killer. He could have done it while Kirby and you were casting the footprints.”

      “The real killer,” she repeated. “And exactly who would that be?”

      “Someone that Marcie got involved with in the past two years when she was missing and presumed dead.”

      Livvy couldn’t discount that. After all, Marcie had faked her own death so she wouldn’t have to testify against a powerful local rancher who’d been accused of bribing officials in order to purchase land that the Comanche community considered their own. The rancher, Jonah Becker, who also owned this cabin, could have silenced Marcie when she returned from the grave.

      Or maybe the killer was someone who’d been furious that Marcie hadn’t gone through with her testimony two years ago. There were several people who could have wanted the woman dead, but Shane was the one who’d been found standing over her body.

      “See? He didn’t take the cell phone,” Reed grumbled when the mayor didn’t stop along the path to retrieve anything he might have discarded. The mayor got into a shiny fire-engine-red gas-guzzler of a truck and sped away, the massive tires kicking up a spray of mud and gravel.

      “He could be planning to come back for it later,” Livvy commented. But probably not. He would have known that she would search the area.

      “Instead of focusing on Woody Sadler,” Reed continued, “how about taking a look at the evidence inside the cabin? Because naming Shane as the primary suspect just doesn’t add up.”

      Ah, she’d wondered how long it would take to get to this subject. “How do you figure that?”

      “For one thing, I swabbed Shane’s hands, and there was no gunshot residue. Plus, this case might be bigger than just Shane and Marcie. You might not have heard, but a few days ago there were some other bodies that turned up at the Comanche burial grounds.”

      “I heard,” she said. “I also heard their eyes were sealed with red paint and ochre clay. In other words, a Native American ritual. There’s nothing Native American or ritualistic about this murder.”

      Still, that didn’t mean the deaths weren’t connected. It just meant she didn’t see an immediate link. The only thing that was glaring right now was Deputy Shane Tolbert’s involvement in this and his sheriff’s need to defend him.

      Livvy started the walk down the hill to look for that missing phone. Thankfully, it was silver and should stand out among the foliage. And then she remembered the note in her pocket with the cell number on it. She took out her own phone and punched in the numbers to call the cell so it would ring.

      She heard nothing.

      Just in case it was buried beneath debris or something, she continued down the hill, listening for it.

      Reed followed her, of course.

      Livvy would have preferred to do this search alone because the sheriff was turning out to be more than a nuisance. He was a distraction. Livvy blamed that on his too-good looks and her stupid fantasies about cowboys. She’d obviously watched too many Westerns growing up, and she reminded herself that in almost all cases the fantasy was much hotter than the reality.

      She glanced at Reed again and mentally added maybe not in this case.

      In those great-fitting jeans and equally great-fitting blue shirt, he certainly looked as if he could compete with a fantasy or two.

      When she felt her cheeks flush, Livvy quickly got her mind on something else—the job. It was obvious that the missing cell wasn’t ringing so she ended the call and put her own cell back in her pocket. Instead of listening for the phone, she’d just have to hope that the mayor had turned it off but still tossed it in a place where she could spot it.

      “The mayor’s not guilty,” Reed tried again. “And neither is Shane.”

      She made a sound of disagreement. “Maybe there was no GSR on his hands because Shane wore gloves when he shot her,” she pointed out. Though Livvy was certain Reed had already considered that.

      “There were no gloves found at the scene.”

      She had an answer for that as well. “He could have discarded them and then hit himself over the head to make it look as if he’d been set up.”

      “Then he would have had to change his clothes, too, because there was no GSR on his shirt, jeans, belt, watch, badge, holster or boots.”

      “You tested all those items for gunshot residue?”

      “Yeah, I did,” he snapped. “This might be a small town, Sergeant Hutton, but we’re not idiots. Shane and I have both taken workshops on crime-scene processing, and we keep GSR test kits in the office.”

      It sounded as if Sheriff Hardin had been thorough, but she would reserve judgment on whether he’d learned enough in those workshops.

      “But Shane was holding the murder weapon, right?” Livvy clarified.

      “Appears to have been, but it wasn’t his gun. He says he has no idea who it belongs to. The bullet taken from Marcie’s body is on the way to the lab for comparison, and we’re still searching the databases to try to figure out the owner of the gun.”

      Good. She’d call soon and press for those results and the plaster castings of the footprints. Because the sooner she finished this crime scene, the sooner she could get out of here and head back to Austin. She didn’t mind small towns, had even grown up in one, but this small town—and its sheriff—could soon get to her.

      Livvy continued to visually comb the right side of the path, and when they got to the bottom, they started back up while she examined the opposite side. There was no sign of a silver phone.

      Mercy.

      She didn’t want to explain to her boss how she’d let possible crucial evidence disappear from a crime scene that she was working. She had СКАЧАТЬ