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Francesca Moretti thought she couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. So much junk cluttered the salvage yard that it could be any number of things, right? She wasn’t that close. And it was wrapped in a painter’s tarp and partially hidden behind some wood pallets, sawhorses and stacks of roofing material. But the longer she examined the size and dimensions of that shape, the more convinced she became. It was a human body.
Filled with revulsion, she shrank back into the shade of the closest outbuilding. The blazing July sun, bouncing off the sea of car carcasses, bent bicycle frames, even obsolete farm equipment, made her feel as if she was trapped in an oven instead of running down a lead on the outskirts of Prescott, Arizona. But it was panic and not heat that threatened to suffocate her.
Could this really be happening? Again? In her last big case, she’d located what was left of the missing wife and mother she’d been hired to find. The discovery had made national headlines; Janice Grey’s murder probably would’ve gone unsolved without Francesca. She’d provided the missing piece of the puzzle that confirmed a murder had taken place, which allowed investigators to go ahead and prosecute their prime suspect. But that type of thing didn’t happen very often and certainly not to the same private investigator. Francesca had pretty much decided it would never happen again. Not to her, anyway. And then…this.
Trying to ignore the Doberman who’d started barking like crazy the moment she set foot in the yard—fortunately, the dog was chained to the back of the house—she stared at what appeared to be a shock of brown hair spilling out from under that paint-speckled tarp. She wanted to identify the body, make sure it was her client’s sister, as she suspected.
But that could wait. She thought she smelled decomposition. And, judging by the stiffness of the corpse, apparent from the odd angles underneath the tarp, the body was in full rigor. There was no reason to look any more closely; the memory would only keep her up at night. Better to let the county homicide investigator handle the situation from here on.
Yes, get help. That was what she needed to do. Immediately. She didn’t want to ruin any forensic evidence linking April Bonner to the man who’d killed her.
Hands shaking, she fumbled in the purse slung across her body, searching for her iPhone. She was breathing shallowly. Try as she might she couldn’t override her body’s automatic response.
Calm down. You’re okay. Everything will be fine. You wanted to add missing persons to your list of services, remember?
She’d wanted to solve some difficult cases.
But that was just it. Locating people who’d gone missing wasn’t supposed to be this easy. And the goal was to find them alive.
Finally, her fingers encountered the phone. She was scrolling through her address book for Investigator Finch’s phone number when she heard footsteps—the purposeful stride of a man wearing boots from the sound of it—and brought her head up fast. She wasn’t alone? There’d been no answer when she knocked at the old wood-frame house facing the road, and she hadn’t heard a vehicle. But that didn’t mean anything. This was a big property, ten acres.
So weak she doubted she could run even if she had to, she peered around the corner of the building. She couldn’t see whoever was approaching.
Sweat, rolling from her hairline, dripped into her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision and prayed for a burst of adrenaline to stop her knees from turning to jelly. What was wrong with her? In her line of work, the threat of physical injury—or death—came with the territory. She’d known that from the beginning. But she’d always imagined herself as so much tougher, so much calmer in the face of danger. She hadn’t reacted like this when she was a cop, or when she’d found Janice’s remains scattered in that gully, had she?
No. But she’d worked property crimes when she was with Phoenix P.D. and, after that, the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. And the day she found Janice, she’d been with a group of search-and-rescue guys she’d hired to scour land the police had decided was too far out. They’d stumbled across bones, which distanced her from the violence that had taken Janice’s life.
This was different. Francesca had just discovered a recent kill. She was alone in a relatively remote location. And no one else had any idea where she was. She hadn’t even notified Heather, her assistant, other than to say she’d be out most of the day running down leads. She’d driven from her home in Chandler two hours to the south and didn’t know anyone in the area.
“Who’s there? And what do you want?”
It was a man, all right, and he didn’t sound pleased to have a visitor. His harsh voice set the dog barking at a far more feverish pitch.
Unwilling to answer, and afraid to poke her head around the shed again for fear he’d see her, she pressed her back against the rough wood of the building. The bartender at the Pour House had told her he’d spotted a woman resembling April getting into a truck driven by the guy who owned this salvage yard: Butch Vaughn. She’d come out here hoping to speak to Vaughn. But after finding the figure beneath the tarp, she knew it wasn’t the time or the place to confront a possible killer. Especially a killer with a Doberman that could easily be released. The police could deal with it.
“I know you’re there,” he said. “Demon’s making damn sure of it.”
Demon had to be the dog. What an appropriate name…
“What are you doing trespassing on my property?” His footsteps had grown less decisive. He wasn’t quite sure where she was. “Don’t you have any manners?”
Her actions said more about her nerve than her manners. Pushing, even when others didn’t want to be pushed, and looking, even when they didn’t want certain things to be seen, was part of her job. Although she hadn’t always been so assertive, her desire to succeed had forced her to overcome her natural reluctance to pry. Timid private investigators weren’t going to help anyone. If the owner of this property hadn’t been seen with April, who’d been missing for three days, Francesca would never have considered intruding on his privacy.
Glancing behind her, she wondered if she should make a break for her car. Could she get around the house and all the way to the road before he caught her?
If her heart wasn’t already racing, she thought she might have a chance. Five years ago, she’d taken up running as a way to relieve stress and stay in shape. She prided herself on her athletic ability. But a quarter mile had never seemed as far as it did at this moment. And she had no illusion that she could outsprint a man who was in top physical condition. She’d seen this guy’s profile on the dating Web site where April had first come across him. If Harry Statham was really Butch Vaughn, as she now believed, and the muscular picture he’d posted was anywhere close to accurate, he was definitely fit….