“You sound like Dad.” Cady shook her head. “I can handle myself, and I try not to do stupid things.”
“I know.”
“I called you tonight, right?”
“You did,” he acknowledged. “And for that, I’m grateful, but you’re still my little sister.”
Cady barked out a short laugh. “I’m hardly little, and I rarely run into problems. Most people don’t like seeing a dog mistreated. I’ve encountered some pretty badass dudes who got weepy or angry over an abused dog.”
“But there are plenty of assholes who don’t give a damn, like the one who left him with no food or water.” Matt glanced over the back seat at the crate containing the little pittie. Through the holes, he could see the dog was still curled up. He reached over the seat to give Brody a head scratch.
Cady didn’t argue.
A short while later, she drove back to Matt’s house. “So, can I keep him here until I can place him with a foster?”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Of course. There’s an empty kennel. Why not fill it?”
After Matt had recovered from his shooting, he’d bought the house and acreage and built the kennel with the intention of training K-9s, but his sister had immediately filled it with rescues. More than three years later, she was still keeping it full.
“Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll help you get him cleaned up.” Matt let Brody out of the van while Cady helped the pittie out of the crate.
They walked toward the kennel. The door opened and a thin man stepped out. Matt had known Justin since childhood. Recently released from a drug rehab facility, his friend looked rough. But then, he’d weathered a car accident, a subsequent opioid addiction, and the murder of his estranged wife, during which he’d been shot and kidnapped. Justin was still standing, but there wasn’t much left of him. Emotionally, he was drained.
“Hey, Justin.” Cady summed up the dog’s condition.
Justin just nodded. He’d been unable to get a job since his release, so Matt had put him to work in the kennels. Dogs were the best therapy he could think of, and his friend needed to be occupied. Too much free time would not help him stay sober.
Justin kneeled on the concrete and held out a hand to the pittie. The dog walked closer. Justin stroked his head, and the dog leaned on him.
One wounded soul recognized another.
Matt’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. Bree. His heart did a happy little skip. Their relationship was still new and shiny, and he hadn’t adjusted to the effect just hearing her voice had on him. Did she want to see him tonight? “I need to take this call.”
He stepped outside and answered the call. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said.
He’d hoped her call was personal. They were past due for a date night. Her family and job kept her busy. But he knew instantly from the tone of her greeting that the call was official business. “What happened?”
“We found a body in the river near the bridge on Dead Horse Road.”
“Are you still there?”
“Yes. It’s a fresh case. I’m still waiting on the medical examiner.”
“OK. I’m on my way.” Matt ended the call. He ducked back into the kennel. “I have to go to work.”
Cady frowned. “I’m not telling Mom. She’s not happy that you’re working for the sheriff’s department again, since that’s how you were shot.”
“I know.” But Matt had tried retirement. It hadn’t suited him. He was only thirty-five. “But this is who I am.” He called Brody.
“You can leave Brody with me. I’ll put him inside before I go.” Cady gave him a quick hug. “I love you. Be careful.”
“I will.” Matt went into the house and changed into his civilian-consultant uniform: khaki-colored cargoes and a black sheriff’s-logo polo shirt. Then he went out to his SUV and headed toward a dead body.
CHAPTER THREE
Bree climbed the slope back to the road. She swallowed a mouthful of evening spring air. Cold water had slowed—but not stopped—decomposition of the body. The smell, like meat just beginning to spoil, penetrated her nose and coated the back of her throat.
Collins was standing in the open door of her cruiser, talking on the radio. She spotted Bree, signed off, and jogged over.
“I called the medical examiner,” Bree said, breathless. “And our criminal investigator, Matt Flynn.”
Budget restrictions prohibited hiring a full-time investigator. Matt worked as a civilian consultant to the sheriff’s department on an as-needed basis.
A sheriff’s cruiser parked on the shoulder of the road. Chief Deputy Todd Harvey stepped out and walked on the gravel shoulder toward her. He adjusted his duty belt on his lean waist. At six feet tall, he had the long, easy stride of an outdoorsman. He stopped in front of her.
Bree summed up the situation in a few quick sentences. Then she opened the passenger door of her SUV and took out her camera. “We’re losing daylight fast. You and Collins utilize additional deputies as they arrive to search the ground around the vehicle, between the vehicle and the bridge, and the bridge’s surface. Bag anything you find as evidence. Photograph everything.” Bree eyed the line of law enforcement vehicles. The press would be here shortly. “Set up a perimeter for media. Be careful. I saw a black bear and two cubs on the trail. I doubt they’ll be back, but be mindful.”
She closed the door, moved to the rear of the vehicle, and opened the cargo hatch. She retrieved her bear spray, just in case. “According to the initial caller, the car has been parked at the bridge since Friday. The heavy rain over the past weekend probably washed away any footprints.” Bree doubted any evidence would have survived the storms, but they would go through the procedural motions anyway.
“Yes, ma’am,” Todd said.
The wind kicked up across the river, and Bree could feel the chill in the air. The temperature was dropping with the sun. She put on her jacket and shoved gloves and evidence bags into the pockets. “Direct Matt and the ME to the body.”
Todd and Deputy Collins turned back to their vehicles. Bree headed down the slope toward the body. She took pictures from multiple angles and distances. The corpse’s left hand extended onto the rocks. The victim wore a silver wedding band with a brushed texture channel. Bree leaned closer and snapped a close-up. By the time she’d finished with her photos, the sun had dropped behind the trees. The medical examiner would also take photos of the body in situ, but Bree liked to have her own. Besides, the ME would be dependent on artificial light. Bree would take advantage of the remaining daylight. You couldn’t have too many crime scene photos.
Footsteps caught her attention. Bree turned to see Matt and the medical examiner emerging from the woods. Broad-shouldered and six three, Matt was an impressive figure. He hefted two battery-powered floodlights on tripods. The portable lights were specifically designed for illuminating remote areas where setting up a generator wasn’t practical.
Dr. Serena Jones was a tall African American woman with close-cropped hair. Her short, stocky male assistant half jogged to keep up with her. The ME and her assistant each carried a plastic kit.