No Escape (Texas Rangers 2)

Marissa cocked her head. “Dr. Granger, this your first crime scene?”

She moistened her lips. “Seen my share of crime scene pictures, but this is my first active scene.”

Jo’s face had paled to a pasty white. Her lips were drawn tight. She looked like she wanted to throw up.

Shit. He’d assumed she’d been to crime scenes. “You okay?”

Fire spit from her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Marissa cocked a brow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “The first murder scene is always roughest. I threw up when I saw my first dead body.”

Jo moistened her lips again and stood, as if the mention of getting sick unsettled her even more. She backed up, creating distance between her and the body. “I’m fine.”

The strong, putrid scent of death rose up as Brody stood and took Jo’s elbow in hand. She looked as if she’d topple over. “Let’s step back and let Marissa finish her work.”

Jo resisted. “I need to observe. There could be valuable observations I’ll miss if I’m not here.”

“They’re taping it all. We can check it out later.”

“Seriously, Jo,” Marissa said. “Don’t get sick on my scene.”

Persuaded by the logic, Jo ducked back under the tape and walked stiffly away.

“She’s going to be sick,” Marissa said.

Brody was already turning to follow Jo. “I know.”

Put one foot in front of the other. One. Two. Three. Jo counted the steps, grateful for each new one that put more distance between her, the body, coiling smells and the cops that would never let her forget this day if she threw up in front of them.

She made it beyond the line of cars and behind a bush before she lost control and vomited. Thankfully, she’d had little to eat today, but humiliation burned as her body took over control, leaving her helpless. When her stomach was empty, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and straightened.

“Damn it.” At least she’d managed this humiliation in private.

She turned to find Brody standing several feet from her, a fresh water bottle in hand. Heat rose over her face. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why couldn’t he have left her alone? He knew she was sick. Just like Brody to push.

He held out the bottle to her. “Don’t drink it. Rinse your mouth out.”

She accepted the bottle. “Thanks.”

Carefully, she unscrewed the top and took a small sip. However, the idea of spitting in front of Brody bothered her more than her upset stomach. She swallowed and instantly regretted. She turned and vomited again.

Drawing in an irritated, shaky breath, she straightened. This time she took a sip, but after swishing it in her mouth, spit.

“You always were stubborn,” he said.

“Hardheaded was the word you used.”

He smiled as if a memory drifted out of the shadows. “You’d been trying to teach me a poem.”

“Thematic construction.”

A dark brow cocked. “I didn’t want to learn, and you refused to sign the sheet releasing me to play ball until I did.”

She moistened her lips, wondering if she could find a ginger ale. “You learned it.”

“Forgot it as soon as I took the test.”

“But you earned a C minus on the test.”

“Enough to play ball. I’m surprised you remember.”

“I should be saying that to you. I’m the one with the great memory. Mindful of trivia you once said.” They stood poised at memory lane, ready to travel. Mentally, she stepped back as she raised her water bottle, pointing to the scene. “Sorry about that. I thought I could handle it.”

“I should have asked you if you’d been to a crime scene before. I assumed you had.”

She’d foolishly assumed that the hundreds of gruesome crime scene photos she’d seen were enough prep for real life. “Like I told Marissa, I’ve seen lots of pictures.”

Brody eased his hat back with the edge of his finger. “It’s the smell that got me the first time.”

“You threw up?”

“Hell, no.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled. “Don’t take it so personally. Not everyone has a cast-iron stomach like me.”

“Right.” Damn, why couldn’t she have kept it together?

“Why don’t I take you home?”

Her fingers tensed around the bottle. “Absolutely not. You’re working.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been out here for over seven hours.”

“As have you and everyone else.”

“We’re used to it. You’re not. Call it a day, Jo.”

Brody’s kindness flew in the face of angry memories she’d carried of him for too many years. But if she dug deep enough, she remembered that Brody could be nice when it suited. When he’d needed to pass the English exam, he’d called her freckles cute. When he needed his paper edited, he’d called her brilliant. When he’d wanted sex, he’d talked about her hot body.

He was past writing college papers and taking tests now, and considering he’d watched her get sick, she doubted he had sex on his mind. But he wanted insight into this killer. And though she had a weak stomach, she read people especially well.

She scraped her thumbnail against the water bottle’s label. “I’m used to working long hours.”

Amusement lightened his gaze and eased some of his stiff formality. “Inside. Behind a desk. Different when it’s cold and smells like death.”

She raised the water bottle to her lips, thought better of another sip and recapped it. “Point taken. Look, I’m fine. You go back to what you were doing. I am not leaving until the scene is processed.”

“Stubborn.”

“I think we covered that ground.”

He looked as if he wanted to speak but thought better of it. “Take it easy.”

Her stomach was settling. “I’d also like another look at the body.”

Brody raised a brow. “Really think that’s a good idea?”

This wasn’t about pleasing Brody, as it might have been when she was eighteen. This was about proving something to herself. “I promise not to ruin Marissa’s crime scene. Before my stomach got the better of me, a detail caught my eye.”

Doubt darkened his gaze. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He adjusted his hat back over his brow and extended his hand, indicating the path back to the crime scene. “Lead the way.”

When they reached the body this time, the medical examiner’s attendants were preparing to lift the body from the ground. The face and hair were still badly caked in mud and dirt, rendering them unrecognizable. This time she breathed through her mouth and eliminated the smell.

One of Jo’s greatest assets was that she could distance herself from horrific images or a client’s wild emotions. She’d come to understand that if she could remain free of emotions, she could really see the facts and sift efficiently through the data. Moments ago, the smell had gotten the better of her stomach, but she was prepared to pull back and really observe.

Holding the water bottle close to her chest, she studied the victim and the crime scene. However, this time Jo convinced herself she was looking at evidence. This time she focused not on the girl’s humanity but on the details that needed cataloging.

The victim was dressed. A peasant blouse made of a gauzy, green synthetic, likely from a high-end store. Tattered, stonewashed designer jeans that hugged narrow hips, fashioned to look old but in fact were expensive. Detailed black cowboy boots that cost five hundred plus dollars. Remnants of pink nail polish on long fingernails.

“She came from money,” Jo said. “This girl did not live on the streets.” She leaned closer, zeroing in on a tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. “Can I get a better look at that tattoo?”

Marissa motioned for an assistant with a video camera. “Shoot this.” When the camera was rolling, she slowly cut the bindings enough to release the wrist. Rigor mortis had long come and gone so the arm moved with relative

ease. Though the skin had darkened and slipped, it was possible to make out a butterfly tattoo.

Jo’s eyes narrowed. At first with the decomposition she wasn’t sure but the longer she stared at the image the more certain she became. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?” Brody said.

“I volunteered to help find a missing girl.”

She studied the girl’s pale face, forever frozen in panic and fear. She couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have the earth crushing the air from your lungs. “We were looking for a girl named Christa Bogart. Twenty-two years old. Went missing about a month ago. A local businessman started the Find Christa! campaign.”

Brody frowned. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure Christa had a butterfly tattoo. If you can clean her up, maybe get prints, you might be able to confirm this is Christa.”

“We’ll get on that ASAP.”

She leaned closer. “What’s that in her hand?”