Cassie Miles - Colorado Wildfire

“Do you always have gloves in your pocket?”

“Not my pocket. My utility belt.” She passed a pair to him. “I keep them in here.”

“Isn’t that the place where you should be packing a second magazine for your Glock?”

“Here’s the thing, Ty. I’ve never fired all thirteen rounds from this gun. I’ll carry one mag of extra bullets, but the second one is overkill. But I’ve found the gloves come in handy. I am a mom, after all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Last time I used my latex gloves was at Jenny’s kindergarten class when we were making a collage of forest animals.”

He nodded slowly. “What’s our next move?”

That was a good question. Swain County didn’t have the facilities to deal with a murder. They had a small clinic and a dentist who doubled as county coroner but no hospital for an autopsy. For forensics, she used a fingerprint kit that she usually carried in her SUV. She had no access to DNA data analysis or a mass spectrometer or any other fancy tools.

In usual circumstances, she’d step aside and happily turn this investigation over to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation or maybe the Grand Junction police. But today was different. Today, there was a wildfire that just might reach this car and obliterate the scene of the crime.

She took her cell phone from her pocket. “First, I’m going to take photos of the crime scene and dust for prints. Then you and me are going to load this body into the back of my SUV and cart him to the nearest hospital.”

“Why move him?”

Pointing toward the flames, she said, “So the body won’t be incinerated along with the rest of the evidence.”

With her phone camera, she took a picture of the windshield and the front end of the car, which was crumpled against the trunk of the cottonwood. The damage wasn’t severe, causing her to think the car hadn’t been going very fast at the time of impact. Pleased with herself for drawing that conclusion, she made a complete circle around the sedan, taking pictures of the whole car. No skid marks in the gravel behind the car. The driver hadn’t applied the brakes.

A theory began to form in her mind. The man behind the steering wheel was already dead when the car hit the tree. Her conclusion fit the evidence. Wade would have been proud of her. He’d always said that she was a natural-born cop, not surprising since her father was a captain in the Portland PD.

She returned to the front window and made observations, sticking her head inside. The dead man was covered in blood, but the rest of the front seat was fairly clean. She looked over her shoulder at Ty. “I don’t think this sedan is our primary crime scene.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he was killed somewhere else and then put in the front seat, which is why there’s no spatter. And he didn’t crash this car. It was pushed off the road into the tree.”

“How do you know that?”

After outlining her prior conclusions, she stepped away from the window so he could see the final bit of evidence for himself. “No keys in the ignition.”

He peered inside, taking care not to get blood on his white shirt with the pearly snaps, and then he cursed. “I recognize this guy.”

Had she heard him right? “You know him?”

“He’s a cop.” Ty pulled his head out of the car and stood up straight. “A state patrolman. I think his name is Morrissey. Wade introduced us.”

Her husband had been well acquainted with all the law-enforcement guys who worked in and around Swain County. Like her own deputies, they hadn’t been as friendly with Sam. “We’d better do everything right. The staties can be as annoying as you FBI guys. Lieutenant Natchez is a real pill.”

“Agreed. I’ve met Natchez.” Ty whipped out his cell phone. “Do you want me to contact him?”

“I guess that’s the right thing to do.”

If the situation had been reversed, and someone had found Deputy Caleb Schmidt’s body, she’d want to be among the first who were informed. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing Natchez. Somehow, he’d get everything turned around and make this murder her fault.

While Ty placed the call, she continued photographing the inside of the vehicle, starting with the front driver’s side and working her way around. No blood at all in the backseat. When she opened the passenger-side door, she saw a handgun. An attractive piece, it was a Colt revolver with an inlaid copper-colored design on the grip.

The weapon belonged to her husband.

* * *

WADE CALLOWAY EXERTED every bit of his willpower to keep himself from charging down the hill, grabbing his wife and planting a big, hard kiss on her soft, pink lips. The urge almost overwhelmed him. He couldn’t stand to watch her anymore. Ducking down behind a tall boulder at the edge of the forest, he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting his desperate need to be with Samantha, his angel.

Now wasn’t the time or the place.

If he showed his face, she’d be in danger.

What the hell was she doing on this road? Why did she have to be the one who discovered the body? His fingers curled into a fist, and he hammered the ground beneath his boots. Life was not fair!

For more than a year, he’d fantasized about what it would be like when he came home to his sweet wife. She’d come running toward him with her long brown hair streaming behind her in a silky banner. Her clothing—always flimsy in his imagination—would outline her slender legs and supple torso. Her laughter would ring out, and their perfect daughter would join in with hugs and kisses. Jenny and Sam would treat him to a hero’s welcome.

He peeked around the edge of the boulder. Samantha stalked around the vehicle. He couldn’t actually see her scowl from this distance, but he could tell that she was frustrated and annoyed. More than annoyed—anger radiated from her in waves that were even hotter than the wildfire.

He had a real bad feeling that this hostile version of Samantha was the woman who would greet him when he stepped out of hiding. He could hope for her forgiveness but didn’t expect it.

His life—which used to be so very fine—had become one snafu after another. The murder of Drew Morrissey was the latest blunder. Somebody should have been watching the bum, keeping him from getting shot. Not that Wade intended to waste any tears on Morrissey. The man was a traitor to his uniform. Protecting him would have been a smart strategy. Morrissey was cowardly and weak. He might have turned on his partners in crime. Most likely, that ratlike tendency to squeal was probably why the scumbag was dead.

Wade had found the body behind the steering wheel of his car about a half hour ago and had staked out the area, hoping that the killer or killers might come back. And if they did, what would he do? He wanted to take these guys into custody, to lock them up and throw away the keys. It wasn’t that easy. He’d spent the past year in protective custody, waiting to testify and make things right.

Three days ago the legal case had collapsed for the umpteenth time, and Wade decided he wasn’t willing to wait, especially not after he’d caught a glimpse of a man in the federal courthouse whom he vaguely remembered. The name hadn’t come to him. But he’d seen this guy before. And that was enough of a threat to get him moving. If the bad guys had seen him and knew he was alive and waiting to testify, Samantha and Jenny would be in danger.

He’d escaped from his handlers in Texas and made his way back here. Last night, he’d slept in the FBI safe house, thankful they hadn’t changed the security code from the time he was sheriff. From the house, he’d picked up some important supplies: two semiautomatic pistols and a hunting rifle. In the attached garage, he’d found a lightweight Honda motorcycle with heavy-tread tires that made it suitable for off-road or on-road driving.