She Who Watches (16 page)

Without answering, she kissed his cheek and went inside, closing the door softly behind her. Mac stood there for several long seconds. He hated not knowing what the deal was with her. If she didn't want to see him again, why not come right out and tell him? He envisioned himself ringing the doorbell and pushing his way inside, demanding to know if she was in love with her ex. Kristen would step back, surprised at his sudden assertion. “I . . . I don't know,” she'd say.

He'd stand there, hands on his hips, and say, “Well, when you figure it out, let me know, OK? And one more thing. I love you and Andrew, and I don't want to lose you.” Then he'd pull her into his arms and. . . .

He got so far as to put his hand on the doorknob, then he stopped, turned around, and walked to his car. He could hardly believe he'd even considered confronting her like that. He wasn't ready to make a commitment, and she definitely needed some space. He had imagined telling her that he loved her, but did he really? He thought about what Nana had said about following his heart. He felt certain there was a place for Kristen and Andrew in there.

Mac considered going to her and telling her how he felt, but when he looked back at the house, the lights were out.

SIXTEEN

M
ac came into the office early Monday morning, now better able to focus on what needed to be done. The murder investigation forced him to think about something other than Daniel Revman's death and his own relationships—or lack of them.

It was only 7:00 a.m., and all four homicide detectives along with Sergeant Bledsoe were busy at work in the small detectives' office.

Daniel's death had been hard on all of them, but none more than Philly, who felt personally responsible. It brought all Mac's fears to the surface, knowing it could just as easily have been him. This morning Philly looked like he'd slept in his clothes, if he had slept at all. He knew how fragile life was, better than most of the population, having worked hundreds of homicides in his career. Mac thought about the talk Kevin had with Philly the day before when Phil had come to work with a hangover. He'd worried from time to time about Philly's lifestyle and wondered how much trouble the big guy was in. With the age difference, Mac felt uncomfortable offering Philly advice or help. And what advice could he give? Stop drinking? Philly already knew that.

Cops had as many personal struggles as any one else, if not more. Unfortunately, they were often the last ones to ask for help. Maybe that's why people in his profession committed suicide at three times the rate of the general population.

Mac heaved a heavy sigh and, elbows on his desk, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He hated seeing Philly like this. Philly's drinking problem brought back memories of his own father and the drunken stupors he'd fall into. His dad had been a cop, and Mac had always hated him for what he'd done to their family. Seeing Philly gave him an understanding of his dad he'd never had before. Jamie McAllister had seen his share of ugliness as well. Not that drinking was an excuse—it never would be—but Mac could see how a guy could use alcohol to numb the pain.

Philly could use some lessons on dealing with problems in a healthy way, and Kevin was just the person for the job. Kevin had worked the back room as long as Philly, and he had seen his share of horrors as well. Yet the sergeant always remained grounded in his family and moral convictions. The difference couldn't have been more obvious. Kevin had told Mac more than once that his faith had kept him on an even keel. Looking at Kevin and Philly, he had no doubt as to which man he wanted to emulate—but could he?

Considering the male role models he'd had growing up, Mac feared his genetic makeup might have more power than his own determination. He wanted to be a devoted husband and father like Kevin and like his cousin Eric, now lieutenant over the entire Portland OSP operations. He heaved another heavy sigh. How was he supposed to make plans for the future when he might not have one past today?

“You can't do it alone,Mac,”
Kevin often told him.
“You need God.”
Mac agreed. Something the pastor had said during his sermon on Sunday morning found its way into Mac's thoughts.
“When tragedy strikes, and it will, the question we need to ask ourselves is not why,
because we'll never be able to answer that completely. What we need to ask is this: is God with me? The answer to that will always be yes.”

He took a huge gulp of lukewarm coffee to rid himself of his random thoughts and forced himself to concentrate. Maybe he could at least read his e-mails. Some of the messages were from his academy classmates, running a message tree to discuss a get-together after the funeral. The funeral date hadn't been set, but it would be by the end of the week.

Mac saw Nathan Webb's pickup go by the office window. Time to go to work.

“Nate's here.” Dana came into his cubicle.

“Yeah, I saw him pull in.” Mac closed down his e-mail program.

“And,” Dana said, “maybe there will be some forensic evidence in the soil that we couldn't find with our hand search. I'm excited that we actually found something in that pile of dirt. I never realized how much fun sifting through the dirt could be. Maybe I ought to become an archeologist. I could be exploring pyramids or something.”

Mac smiled at her enthusiasm and was about to offer a rebuttal when Nate came around the corner.

“Hi, you two. I'm surprised to see you here so early.” Nate grinned.

“Same here.” Dana reached out to shake his hand. “You must have gotten up with the chickens.”

Nate laughed at the comment. “Way before that. And the saying is ‘up with the rooster,' not the chickens.”

“We appreciate your coming.” Mac shook his hand as well.

“That's quite a drive.”

“Just three hours. Things are a bit different on our side of the mountain. Nothing is ever close-by—well, almost nothing. We don't have coffee shops and grocery stores five minutes away like you guys in the valley.”Nate leaned against Mac's desk. “Ever notice that you city slickers measure distance by time instead of miles?”

“What?” Mac had no idea what he was talking about.

“No, really. You ask someone from the country how far something is from a certain place and they'll say ten miles or fifty miles, something like that. You ask someone from the city how far something is, and they'll say ten minutes or thirty minutes away. Why is that?”

“Maybe because something that may be five miles away can take you thirty minutes to get there, depending on the time of the day. We have little obstacles like rush hours and traffic jams, something I doubt you miss much, living on your side of the mountain.”

“You've got that right. Just an observation. I don't envy you in the least. Traffic coming into town was horrendous.” Nate cleared his throat. “Hey, before we get started, I just want to say how sorry I am to hear about the loss of the trooper the other day. I didn't hear about it until yesterday.Was he from this office?”

“Thanks. He was from down south, just up here as a member of the SWAT team. His name was Daniel Revman. We came on together. Daniel got hold of a booby trap during a warrant at a biker hangout.” Mac glanced at Dana, looking to change the subject.

Dana must have felt the same way. “So, how's your family and your farm?”

“Great. We came out unscathed—a little blackened acreage, but no lost crops or livestock. Mama and the little ones are back home now; looks like the fire is continuing to move to the northeast. We were lucky to recover that body when we did.”

The wording of the statement caught Mac's attention.

“Did you hear what we found yesterday?” Dana smiled.

“What
she
found,” Mac added.

“Yeah, what I found.”

“No. I haven't heard a thing.”

“Oh, sorry, Nate,” Mac said. “I should have called you.”

“That's OK; you had a few things on your mind.” Nate's gaze moved back to Dana. “What did you find?”

“Well, you know at the post how Sara's fingernails were cut off?”

“Yeah. Looked like the guy knew what he was doing.”

“We sifted through all that dirt we recovered from around the body and found a single fingernail. We'll take it to the lab this morning.”

“We'll take the soil down to the lab too,” Mac added. “Have the pros go through the whole batch again—make sure we didn't miss anything. Good thing Dana is a woman, or we might have missed it.”

“What does being a woman have to do with anything?” Dana huffed.

“Women notice stuff like that. You probably missed two bullets and a knife tip, just spotting the fingernail.” Mac laughed at his attempt at humor.

“Good thing Nate's here, or you'd be in serious trouble.” Dana's dimpled grin diminished her warning. “Although . . . speaking of nails, it's about time I had mine done.” Dana examined her fingers.

“See what I mean?” Mac eased past Nate and Dana. “You guys ready to head out?”

“Lead the way.” Nate followed behind Mac, who stopped by Kevin's office to let him know they were heading for the crime lab.

“Be careful.” Kevin always said that, but he always sounded genuinely concerned.

“I hope you're still OK with my tagging along,” Nate said from the backseat. “I don't get in on the nuts and bolts of murder investigations all that often.”

“Glad to have you,Nate, especially this morning.” Mac eyed him in the rearview mirror. “You can help us lug all those sacks of dirt up to the crime lab.”

Nate smiled. “I knew there had to be strings attached.”

When they arrived at the Justice Center, they divided the bags between them and, after passing through security, hauled them into the elevator and up to the twelfth floor. Mac logged in the soil, along with the leather beaded pouch and the stone that carried the image of She Who Watches.

After the crime lab secretary logged those in, Dana turned in the various tissue and fluid samples from the autopsy. “We'll need a full workup on the samples for a DNA standard and test for toxic substances in the blood.”

“I'll get someone on it as soon as I can.” The lab secretary placed the items in a bin. “Is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing.” Dana handed over the possible fingernail sample. It was secured in a paper fold, sealed inside a small manila evidence envelope with red evidence tape. The signature across the brittle red tape would be a quality-control element for the forensic scientist, who may have to testify one day that the sample was not tampered with prior to his or her analysis.

“When will you get the results back?” Nate asked.

“Hard to tell,” Mac answered. “Since we're not trying to tie it to a suspect, prepare for court, or draft a warrant, the evidence has to take a back burner to other cases that have priority. The lab processes hundreds of thousands of cases each year, most of them drug related.”

“Can't we put a rush on it? It is a murder case.”

“I'd like to,” Mac said, “but we can't justify the extra pressure on the scientists at this point. We have no suspects, and we have dozens of interviews to do before we can come up with a list of possibles.”

“The DNA process alone takes about a week, unless an offender or victim sample is on file for review,” Dana explained to Nate. “The extraction of the DNA material is a painstaking and laborious process of typing and comparing samples.”

Mac grinned. “But that doesn't mean we can't get things done in a hurry.”

“We've made some good friends here in the department,” Dana added as they stepped into the elevator.

“Don't let her fool you,Nate. All Dana has to do is walk into the lab, and the guys will work through their lunch hours.”

Dana rewarded Mac's compliment with a punch in the arm.

They walked to the federal building, which was only a few blocks away, to make their nine o'clock appointment with Special Agents Miller and Lauden at the FBI office.

Mac had the feeling the agents, up until now, hadn't been totally honest in the spirit of sharing information, but to what extent, he didn't know. Hopefully, they'd put everything on the table now that the case was no longer in their hands.

Dana pressed the buzzer in the lobby of the FBI office, and the security officer admitted them into the reception room. Mac studied the office furnishings while they waited for the agents. The oak desks and elaborate decorations were a stark reminder of how federal and state funding differed. OSP had to make do with surplus furnishings in their office, and many of the desks and chairs were older than Kevin. It bugged him that the feds seemed to have such deep pockets while, at the state level, they had to make do with hand-me-downs and second-rate equipment. Mac reminded himself that he couldn't control what the various agencies did or didn't have. He was there to take over a murder investigation.

“Good morning, Detectives.” Agent Mel Lauden appeared in the reception area with his hand extended.

“Morning, Mel.” Mac shook his hand. “Thanks for meeting with us this morning.”

Agent Lauden led Mac, Dana, and Nate into a conference room with a large mahogany table in the center surrounded by matching chairs. Grease boards lined the walls, and several three-legged easels held writing pads. The agents had apparently mapped out Sara Watson's disappearance, complete with possible suspects and leads, on the board.

Mac scanned the notes, not recognizing many of the names of people who were apparent players in the case. He clenched his jaw, wondering just how much information the FBI had withheld from the OSP.

Agent Lauden checked his watch. “Can I get you some coffee or juice? Jimmy is on the phone with an unrelated case; he'll be in to give the briefing in a minute.”

Mac and Nate agreed to a cup of coffee while Dana took a small can of apple juice. While they waited, Dana transferred the notes on the board to the pad. Mac made a few notes as well. Ten minutes later, Agent Miller entered the room.