Buried (A Bone Secrets Novel 03) (27 page)

He shared the info with Hove and Sheriff Spencer.

“White skin? Don’t they have red eyes?” asked Spencer. His expression was perplexed.

“Sounds like he wears contacts.” Michael bit his lip to keep from laughing. Spencer looked like he was thinking about a zombie wandering around his county.

“The tattoos are probably the more noticeable flag,” said Hove. “He can cover up his hair and eye color, but he’s gonna be wearing long sleeves in this heat unless he wants everyone to perfectly remember the man with the colored arms.”

“No luck on Chris’s truck?” Jamie spoke up. She’d been listening intently to the men speak, but Michael noticed her body language stiffen when Hove started talking about the tattoos. No doubt the images were still sharp in her mind.

Spencer shook his head. “I put out a description and the license plate. Frankly, there just isn’t a lot of law enforcement patrolling the roads on this side of the state. But the traffic’s lighter too. We’ll find him.”

Two of the state’s crime scene investigators continually passed the group, going back and forth between the bakery and their Suburban. Hove had called in the state’s team to take evidence at Spencer’s request. Spencer’s tiny evidence kit was in a fishing tackle box in his trunk, consisting of fingerprint powder, lift cards, evidence collection envelopes, a special light, and ancient gloves. For this murder and its connections to the large number of murders on the west side of the state, no one wanted to miss anything.

“Chris’ll turn up,” Michael stated. He pulled Jamie against him and rubbed her back. He knew she was thinking of Brian, too. It wasn’t just about Chris. Jamie was passionate about protecting children and especially this nephew she’d never met. She knew the boy was out of her reach and incredibly close to danger.

“Can we go back home now?” she asked into Michael’s chest. “They don’t need us here, do they? And Chris has clearly left. Maybe he’s going to Portland. I’m worried about him.”

Michael looked to Spencer and Hove. The two cops exchanged a glance.

“Yeah, I don’t see any need for you two to stick around,” answered Hove. “We’ll call if we have more questions.”

Spencer’s cell phone buzzed, and he left the circle to answer.

“What about the baker’s family?” asked Jamie, before she turned around and wiped at her eyes. Even in the supreme heat, the sudden absence of her head left a cold spot on Michael’s chest. He hadn’t seen tears, but her eyes were definitely red. “Has someone notified his relatives?”

“We haven’t found any family yet,” Hove replied with a swipe at the sweat on his forehead. “Spencer has someone looking into it, but they’re coming up empty so far.”

“Say what?” Spencer exclaimed into his cell, pulling the attention of the group. He turned to make eye contact with Hove but kept listening on the phone. “Where’d they find him?”

Spencer clenched his jaw, and his chest expanded. Michael saw his hand tighten around the cell. Every cop in the area perked up as if a strong scent had entered the air. Michael felt the hair rise on his arms. Jamie’s hand gripped his arm, and he stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, feeling her tremble, her breathing escalating.

Chris?

Spencer shoved his phone in a pocket. “A kid’s been killed. His mom found him in their garage a few minutes ago. Looks like he was shot.”

“A kid?” Jamie gasped. Michael held on tighter to her shoulders.

“A teenager. Ethan Buell.”

Michael felt Jamie deflate.
Thank God. But that poor mother.

“Ethan works at the gas station. He was on duty yesterday when you two got to town.” Spencer gave Michael a hard look.

“We didn’t fill up here,” Michael said. What was Spencer getting at? Was he implying—

“Ethan’s a good kid. Friendly and outgoing. Has a tendency to talk a lot.”

Something clicked in Michael’s brain. “You think he got a good look at our suspect? Maybe asked him too many questions?”

“I’ve got two dead people in twenty-four hours in a town where no one has been murdered in almost a decade. Do I think there’s a connection? You bet your ass I do. Now I’m changing my mind on you two leaving town today. Plan to stick around a bit.” Spencer looked at Hove, who was dialing his phone. “Looks like we’ve got a murder weapon left at the Buell scene. A Ruger revolver. Damn thing’s like twelve inches long.” He paused and looked at Michael and Jamie.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t like revolvers,” Michael muttered.

“No, my officer on the scene is saying it looks like one that Chris Jacobs has used for practice on the firing range.”

“That’s bullshit!” Jamie yanked out of Michael’s grasp and stepped forward. “You can’t say it looks like someone’s gun. This is Hicksville out here. Everyone owns a gun or five. Don’t even think about Chris for that boy’s death without better evidence.”

“I didn’t say that.” Spencer stepped back, startled by Jamie’s vehemence.

“You just did!”

Michael kept his mouth shut. Spencer had just stuck his foot in his own mouth, and Jamie was efficiently taking him to town for it.

“If he was working at the gas station, shouldn’t there be video from yesterday? Can’t you see who he talked with? Maybe even see license plates?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Like you said, ma’am. This is Hicksville. And I doubt Jim Graham ever put video surveillance up at his gas station. But I will definitely find out.”

Jamie stepped back. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m a bit protective when it comes to my brother, and I’m tired and—”

“It’s been a long morning,” added Michael.

“God, yes,” sighed Jamie.

Sheriff Spencer touched the brim of his hat at Jamie. “Not a problem. I need to get over to the Buell home. Sergeant? Can I get another evidence team? Or should I just wait on these guys?”

Hove headed into the bakery. “I’ll see how things are coming here and let you know,” he said over his shoulder.

Spencer touched his hat again and left. Jamie leaned against Michael. She was worn out. He was worn out. It was damned hot, dry, and dusty, and all he wanted to do was crawl into a cool bed with Jamie and hold her.

“Hungry, princess?”

Jamie shook her head. “I can’t believe that boy was killed. When he first said a kid, I thought—”

“I thought the same thing. I thought for sure it was Brian. Although, before he got off the phone, I thought they’d found Chris. And not found him in a good way.”

“He’s still alive. I can feel it,” said Jamie. “That man hasn’t gotten to him yet. Do you think that boy saw the tattooed man at the gas station? And told him how to find Chris?”

“I don’t know. Somehow Tattoo found Chris before us. He might have followed us from Portland, but we didn’t lead him directly to Chris. I have to think he asked somebody.”

“We have to find him first. Where do we start?”

“That’s the magic question.”

“I’m ready to go back to the hotel. Actually, I’m ready to go home and see if Chris has turned up there, but—”

“Hey, Brody.” Hove stepped out of the bakery. He had on purple nitrile gloves and held a few papers in his hands. “Can you two look at these real quick?”

Hove held a child’s drawings. Without touching them, Michael and Jamie studied the crayon pictures as Hove shuffled through them. There were pictures of animals, not certain what types of animals, but Michael guessed dogs by the ears and tails. A picture of Chris’s home, obvious by the tan paint and tall fir trees. Another picture was a man, woman, and boy all holding hands. The woman had wings.

“Oh,” gasped Jamie. “It’s his mother. Chris must tell him she’s an angel. How lovely.” Her voice cracked.

Hove flipped over the family drawing. On the back, in faint pencil, was another drawing. But it was a quick sketch by an adult. A woman’s face. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

Jamie sucked in her breath. “Elena.”

Michael’s chest tightened. Chris had sketched the boy’s mother for him. The lines were sure and true and smooth. A drawing that had probably been done many times in the past. It conveyed a gentle personality, a calmness in the woman’s eyes. Chris had talent or else he’d drawn the same sketch a million times and could do it perfectly. Michael figured it was both.

“Turn them all over,” Jamie begged. Michael knew she was hoping for a sketch of Brian or perhaps Chris. The back sides of the papers were blank. Disappointment rippled across Jamie’s face.

“I want them,” Jamie said. “When you’re done with them, I want them.”

Hove nodded. “I’ll make sure you get them.”

Chris continued to dial Jamie’s phone numbers every hour. Her cell wouldn’t even ring. It kept going straight to voice mail, which told him her phone was dead, off, or out of range. Scenarios kept dancing through his head, and none of them were pleasant. Several times, he’d pushed his old truck past the speed limit on his return toward Portland but then brought it back down. The last thing he needed was a ticket. He was a firm believer in staying off of the radar. Everyone’s radar.

But how had the Ghostman found him?

Please let his sister be okay.

“Dad, I need to go to the bathroom,” Brian spoke up.

Chris glanced at his watch. It was past lunchtime, and they needed to grab a bite to eat. “Okay. Next exit that has food.”

“McDonald’s?” Brian’s eyes lit up. “Please?”

“We’ll see.” Every parent’s fallback; every kid’s most hated reply. “Depends what we find.” Chris tried to stretch his legs in the truck. He was tired of driving. A place where he could sit back and relax for a bit would be nice. Preferably not McDonald’s. He took the next exit, which promised Food, Gas, and Lodging.

“McDonald’s!” Every kid’s reaction to spotting the golden arches.

“Umm.” Chris eyed the brick diner next to the fast-food restaurant. It looked cozy, like someone’s grandma was the owner. “How about that place next door? It looks like the type of place that has grilled cheese on the menu.” Brian’s all-time favorite.

And beer.

“You think so?” Brian twisted up his mouth in deep consideration.

“Let’s check their menu.” If not, Chris would beg them to make one. Surely they’d throw one together for a kid.

They parked. Brian cast one wistful glance at the golden M and pushed open the door to the diner. Cool air rushed by them from the nearly empty dining room. Chris sighed.
Perfect.
A waitress with a coffeepot in one hand and two cups in the other scooted by them.

“Seat yourself. I’ll be right with ya.”

Chris steered Brian toward a large booth in the back, near the bar, and plopped down on the overstuffed bench. The other five people in the restaurant barely glanced their way, and the only sound came from the television screen behind the bar. Menus were on the table. Brian immediately found the kids’ selections.

“Grilled cheese. And fries,” he announced. He pulled crayons and a coloring book out of his backpack and focused on Iron Man, his current obsession.

Thank you, God.

Chris scanned the menu and stopped at a bacon and bleu cheeseburger. He set the menu down, leaned his head back, and briefly closed his eyes. Parenting was a twenty-four-hour job. A job he was thankful for, but he often wished he had help. After Elena’s death, focusing on Brian had helped him get through her loss. At times, he’d considered moving back to Portland and enlisting Jamie’s help with his son. But that would mean placing his son where he could be easily found.

Wasn’t going to happen.

They were safest away from everyone. Away from society, crowds, reporters, sick men.

“What can I get for ya?”

Chris’s head came up, his eyes flew open, and he double blinked. The waitress was darn cute. She couldn’t have been
much over twenty years old. She tilted her head and repeated her question, with a knowing smile that said she was used to second looks from men.

Chris pointed at Brian. “Grilled cheese, fries, and milk. I’ll take the bleu burger and a Coors Light.”

“Gotcha. Be right back.” She bounced away, stopped behind the bar, poured his beer, grabbed Brian’s milk, and was back to them in under a minute with a cheery smile. He sipped at the cold beer and appreciated the iciness on the back of his throat. Brian kept his head down, concentrating on his coloring. His son didn’t talk continually like some kids. Like Chris had…before. He’d been one of those kids who gave a running commentary on everything he saw to anyone around him. After he came back, he spoke as little as possible. He still watched his surroundings closely but kept his words to himself.

“Bathroom?”

Brian was staring at his father, his hazel eyes confused, and Chris had the impression Brian had asked the question twice. Chris spotted the bathroom sign past the bar and stood up.

“I can go alone,” Brian whined, but he stood and started to follow his father.

“I’ll just walk you in.” Chris pushed open the men’s room door and checked the stalls. All empty. “I’ll be back at the table. And wash your hands good.”

Brian nodded.

Chris slid back into his booth. Sure his son could use a public restroom alone. After he checked the inside and watched the door after. That wasn’t overprotective. That was smart parenting. He shuddered as he remembered how he used to run wild around his neighborhood when he was growing up. One dinner he’d been late and his father had been furious. Looking back
now, his father hadn’t been worried about Chris; he’d been upset that his mom had been worried.