Cassie Miles - Colorado Wildfire

“Where did you find him?”

“In this car.” She pointed. “Shot in the chest, he was behind the wheel, but there wasn’t any spatter. He must have been killed somewhere else.”

“Did you come up with those conclusions all by your cute little self?” He glanced at Ty. “Or did this FBI stud help you?”

Ty ended his phone call and greeted Natchez with a pat on the back and a handshake. The two of them were as friendly as could be. They stood over the body of their fallen comrade and said a few things about what a truly great guy Morrissey had been, quick with a joke, sharp as a tack, a credit to the uniform, blah, blah, blah...

Earlier, Ty hadn’t been so complimentary. He’d as much as told her that Morrissey was under suspicion for working with the cartel. She supposed Ty’s conversation with Natchez fell into the “never speak ill of the dead” category.

Natchez scanned the area. His gaze paused on each of the dead or injured men. “What happened here? Did our sexy lady sheriff pitch a fit?”

Her hand rested on the butt of her gun. It would have given her great pleasure to shoot this man between the legs and ruin his perfectly neat uniform. “We were ambushed.”

“No way.”

“My dispatcher has already put in a call to the ambulances,” she said. “They should be here any minute.”

“Who told you to move the body?”

“Nobody had to tell me anything,” she snapped. “These murders were committed in my county, and I have jurisdiction over the investigation.”

“The heck you do. Morrissey was my man. I should be the one who looks into his murder.”

She got in his face. This was one of those times when Sam was glad for her giraffe-like height. Natchez was an inch or two shorter than she was, and she made it seem like even more by stretching her neck and straightening her shoulders. “Here’s the deal, Lieutenant Natchez. The investigation is mine. But I’m aware that I don’t have the facilities to do thorough forensics.”

“Damn right you don’t.”

“Neither do you. The state patrol doesn’t have a coroner. You can’t do an autopsy.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to swear, but nothing came out. Maybe Swain County was too small and too limited in resources to handle this case, but Natchez wasn’t equipped for doing a murder investigation, either.

“I suggest,” she said, “that we request assistance from the FBI on these cases.”

“Good plan,” Ty said as he held up his cell phone. “I just talked to my supervisor, and he mentioned the same thing.”

Natchez gave a nod. “I’m okay with that. If you need my help, I’ll do whatever I can.”

Ty asked him, “Is losing a man going to cause you any problem in scheduling?”

“To tell the truth, Morrissey was cutting back on his hours. He used more sick time than a teenage girl getting out of gym class with the cramps.”

She turned away. Where, oh where, were the ambulances? There was no hope of providing sensitivity or enlightenment to Natchez. She tried to ignore him, but he was like a rash that wouldn’t stop itching.

Natchez swaggered around the scene with Ty. They paused beside the dead man on the road, whom Natchez recognized immediately from a BOLO. Well, of course he would. The guy probably had every notice on file going back ten years, probably practiced with them every night like flash cards.

“I heard a rumor, Ty. Maybe you can verify. I heard that Wade Calloway is still alive.”

Too much! Hearing her husband’s name on the tongue of this bigmouthed jerk sent Sam right over the edge. In a couple of quick strides, she was beside Natchez. With her right hand, she yanked his wrist behind his back, putting a nasty crease in his shirtsleeve. Her left hand held her stun gun at his throat.

“Never speak of my husband again, unless you intend to humbly and without profanity praise him for being an American hero. And show some respect for me, the grieving widow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Finally, she’d got through to him. All it took was an outrageous act of violence on her part.

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