“Says he needs to do deep breathing exercises.”
Brody muttered an oath. “Let me have a look.”
He moved over the muddy earth, and when forensics urged him forward, he ducked under the tape and stepped over the foundation frame. He squatted by the body.
The pale hand stuck up from the earth. As he moved closer he could see fingers bent forward as if reaching for a lifeline. Nails were painted with purple polish. The ring and pinky fingers sported silver rings.
The technician came up behind him. “I can clean the face off now if you’re ready.”
He rose. “Yeah. Let’s see who we have here.”
As she knelt and slowly moved the dirt from the face, Brody stood with hands on hips. A long time ago, he’d learned to armor himself from the horrors of crime scenes. Over the years in DPS and in the Rangers he’d seen gruesome sights. Most he could handle, but child deaths still penetrated his hard outer shell.
Using a paintbrush, the tech brushed away the last inch of dirt, moving carefully and slowly in deference to evidence that might be on the body. Soon he saw a shock of blond hair with dark roots and a forehead.
She kept brushing, uncovering the eyes and a mouth taped shut with duct tape. The technician brushed more dirt away. Her hands had been handcuffed together. There’d been enough play in the cuffs for her to raise one hand and dig. Just a little. But not enough to save herself.
He studied her face. Pale skin. A sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Big hooped earrings.
Just a kid.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Jo didn’t end up buying a dress. After seeing Dayton she’d been angry at his intrusion and frustrated that he’d left her so rattled. She’d driven straight back to her office and soon was swept up in the buzz of evening appointments.
Minutes before eight, when the last patient had left she had time to sit back and really think about Dayton. He’d been all smiles. He’d made no threats or given any hint that he was dangerous.
But that had all been surface. She dug out the file Dr. Anderson had given her on Dayton from her overflowing in-box and scanned it. A brief peek below and she saw all the telltale signs that she might have a problem. Sheila Dayton had vanished. Neighbors had reported seeing Dayton berating his wife. His wife never spoke much when the two were in public. Always tense. Worried. And she had confided in a friend that she thought he was going to kill her.
But there’d been no signs of physical abuse. And no physical evidence linked Dayton to his wife’s disappearance. He had a solid alibi for the day she vanished.
And yet there he was at the mall in a shop that catered to women, only chatting with her.
Jo released the breath she was holding. The guy had set out to fluster her, and he’d done it.
She drummed her fingers on the desk, reminding herself that she’d dealt with men like him before. How many prisoners after an interview had promised to find her when they were released? How many had made lurid suggestions? Trouble was part of this territory. Dayton would not get in her head like Smith.
Despite the late hour and Brody’s morning text about Smith’s health, she picked up the phone and dialed the West Livingston prison. She asked the switchboard operator for the warden’s voicemail. Jo listened to his brief message, identified herself, and reminded him of her visit days earlier. She hung up, not expecting to hear from the warden until morning. When her phone rang minutes later, she was surprised to see the prison number on her caller ID.
“Dr. Granger,” the warden said. “What can I do for you?”
It didn’t surprise her he worked long hours. There was always some matter to be dealt with in such a big prison. “I was hoping you could give me the status of Mr. Smith. I understand he has been too ill to receive visitors.”
“He’s resting comfortably right now, Dr. Granger. Had a better day, meaning more restful, according to the staff nurse. But he’s very weak.”
She deliberated on tomorrow’s calendar, wondering how much she could clear so she could get to West Livingston. “Is he conscious?”
“In and out. He was amazingly lucid the day you came. The nurse thinks he reserved all his energy for it.”
She traced circles on her blotter with a ballpoint pen. “I still don’t understand why he showed an interest in me.”
The warden hesitated. “We searched every inch of his cell but found nothing. Brody told me that you and he were married. Brody believes Smith is using you to get to him.”
The comment caught her by surprise. Their marriage was no secret, but discussing it was awkward. “Logically, that makes sense.”
“And searching for logic in an insane mind is a fool’s errand.”
So true. “If Mr. Smith improves will you call me?”
“Certainly. I had this same conversation with Winchester this morning and last night. He’s explained the stakes and the importance of talking to Smith again.”
A last-minute thought occurred to her. “Could Smith be faking? I remember during his trial he faked a heart attack.”
“Six months ago I might have said yes, but not now. The disease has progressed too far. It’s a matter of days, maybe weeks for him.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She hung up the phone. The clock on the wall read seven fifty-eight. Her mother was taking her last salon appointment of the day, which meant Jo could swing by. With a day or two under their belts her mother might be more open to conversation.
The drive took less than a half hour in evening traffic. When she parked in front of the salon, the lights in the shop were on, but the CLOSED sign dangled from the door. Arlene, one of the salon’s stylists, was finishing up a late-appointment client, but Jo knew her mother well enough to know that she was still on the property. Her mother was always the last to leave and lock up the doors.
Jo knocked on the front door and the stylist, Arlene, glanced up and smiled when she recognized her. She crossed to the door, her wedge heels clunking as her black smock billowed around her jeans and Texas rhinestone T-shirt. Arlene had worked for her mother since Jo was in grade school.
Arlene flipped the dead bolt. “Well, little Miss Jolene. What brings you our way?”
Jo smiled. “Came to see Momma.” The women hugged. “How you doing?”
“Can’t complain,” she said, grinning. “Need to rinse out this last perm before my man and I go dancing tonight.”
“Sounds fun.”
“You should come out with us sometime. There are lots of good-looking men who’d love to take you for a spin on the dance floor.”
Jo grimaced. “My sister inherited the dancing gene. I’ve two left feet.”
Arlene winked. “Baby do
ll, with that figure of yours and that red hair, it don’t matter if you can keep time or not. There’s gonna be some fella that wants to take you for a spin.”
Jo laughed. “I can’t remember the last time a man took me for a spin.”
Arlene waggled her brows. “Well, all the more reason to come with us sometime. We’ll be going out again on Friday night.”
“I have a rehearsal dinner this Friday,” she said. “But I might take you up on that offer.” She’d not been good at having fun, a trait she’d been trying to change.
“Good girl. Now go and check in with your momma. She’s in her office doing the receipts.”
Jo found her mother sitting at the small, neat desk in the back of the shop. In front of her was a pile of cash, another with checks and the third with credit card receipts. A lit cigarette sat in a crystal ashtray, its smoke trailing toward a popcorn ceiling.
“Momma,” Jo said.
Her mother turned in her swivel chair and smiled. “You visit twice in a week. The dear Lord can take me now.”
Jo kissed her mother on the cheek. “I thought you quit smoking.”
“I did,” her tone sincere. “It’s just the one a day now.”
“That’s not exactly quitting.” Her Texas twang always deepened when she spoke to her mother.
“About as close as I’ll get, baby doll. What are you doing here in the middle of the week?” She turned back to her stacks, took another drag on her cigarette and pulled out a deposit slip.
Jo sat on a box of beauty supplies sitting by the desk. “I called West Livingston prison today and tried to arrange another meeting with Mr. Smith.”
Candace’s fingers stilled for an instant while she counted the cash but she didn’t raise her gaze. “Why’d you do that, Jo?”
“What he said is bothering me, Mom. Look deep inside yourself. It keeps rattling in my brain.”
Candace reached for her cigarette, flicked the ash from the tip and inhaled deeply. She released the smoke from her lungs slowly. “He’s a crazy man, Jo, who likes to stir up trouble.”