Page 86 of The Darkest Chase
Grant gives me a solemn look—his ordinary look, really—always so grave. “Stop going around in goddamn circles. Fill us in.”
I circle around the team and stop just shy of a little divot in the earth, this churned-up grass in the shape of a heel.
“For starters, this wasn’t made by a hiking boot,” I tell them, pointing.
Suddenly, I’ve got a crowd gathered around me.
Three grown men the size of bears, practically tiptoeing like ballerinas to see what I’m looking at without stomping on anything crucial.
Henri frowns, crouching next to me, looking at the footprint.
“Don’t quote me on this, mes amis,” he drawls in that thick Cajun accent. He’s so bad we’ve started calling him Gambit lately. “Need to get a good look at the vic’s shoe size, but I’d say this was a smaller foot. A loafer, maybe. No treads on the sole, half-moon heel.”
“There’s a pattern of steps overlapping his. Here, see the larger sections of crushed grass? That says more weight, deeper heel divots, then smaller steps, smaller feet, different shoe,” I point out. “Somebody followed him. Their heel imprints don’t fit inside his, so they weren’t tracing his steps. But they were right on his ass. Their steps overlap, sometimes blur his. The second set of steps goes both ways—right to the ledge before they turn around and come back. The victim’s, they don’t.”
Grant heaves out a long, rough sigh, dragging a hand over his bearish brown eyes. “Really? Do we really need another murder case?”
“We’ve got to earn our pay somehow, Captain,” I answer dryly, though this isn’t fucking funny at all.
It reeks to high heaven.
“You know, guys,” Lucas says, “it’s possible he was just here with someone. What if he fell, and the other person panicked and ran without reporting it? Might’ve been scared they’d be blamed for his death. People turn into idiots all the time.”
“Maybe,” Henri says. “But if someone was out hiking with him, they’d be wearing boots. This looks more like… dress shoes?”
Yeah, I think he’s right.
There’s a nagging suspicion teasing at me.
Dress shoes or loafers—or the severe church-style shoes of someone who dresses like she just stepped out of the year 1800.
Grant grunts. “We’ll sort that out by working the scene. Let’s start off by seeing if he’s got any ID on him. He’s definitely not a townie or anyone I recognize. So we’ll find out who he is, where he came from, and see if we can track down anyone connected.” He rubs a finger to the side of his nose, giving us all that baleful, stern Captain Faircross look. “Let’s keep a lid on the murder talk for now until we can dig up more information.”
Henri frowns, tapping a hand against his knee. “I dunno, Cap. I trust Micah’s instincts on this. Man’s got a nose like a wolf. Feral instincts, tracks like an animal.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” I mutter before Grant cuts us off with a sharp sound.
“Split up, you bozos. Work the scene, document evidence,” he says. “Micah and Henri, head down the hill. I’ll call in the paramedic team to get the body lifted, but do what you can to find the evidence. Photograph everything. Lucas and I will photograph the footprints up here.”
“Yes, sir, Captain.” I snap off a sardonic salute.
That just gets me an eyeroll. Henri grins, straightening and tossing his head, sending his long shag of brown hair flopping.
“C’mon, renard arctique.” Arctic fox. “Let’s go find out who this guy is.”
Shaking my head, I turn to follow Henri.
We pick our way around the main path up the slope and into the trees, toward where the ground slopes more gently to the bottom and we can skid through without too much effort. The guys always tease me for the way I analyze crime scenes, but right now it’s really sticking with me.
Maybe because it’s how Talia sees me, too.
The way she reacts like I’m an animal, dangerous and feral.
Last night, I almost fucking kissed her.
Blame it on the whiskey, sure.
But like hell I’ll be my father, blaming every bad move on booze alone.