Chapter 3
Gabe watched the dark-haired woman retreat up the beach, moving with the kind of casual grace that wasn't casual at all. She gave the deputies a wave, but her shoulders carried enough tension to string a bow.
He'd interviewed hundreds of witnesses. The nervous ones who talked too much. The guilty ones who talked too little. The innocent ones who didn't know what they'd seen.
And then there were the ones like her—who saw everything and pretended they hadn't.
He filed away his observations and turned back to the body.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You it wasn't David.
The prayer came automatically, along with the familiar punch of guilt. Someone else's brother was dead. Someone else's family would get the call. But not his. Not today.
"You said your brother was working a story?" Chief Hale shifted his weight, his duty belt creaking like old floorboards.
"True crime. He's a journalist. Specializes in cold cases."
"Sounds risky," Hale said, already looking bored.
"Sometimes." Gabe crouched beside the body, forcing himself to see it as evidence, not as a reminder of what could have happened to his brother. "He said he was following a lead. Something about corruption in a small coastal town. Wouldn't give specifics."
That last part was a lie. David had given him plenty of details. He flat out told him he could prove their dad hadn't been on the take. "I can also prove he was murdered," he had insisted.
Until he knew who he could trust, Gabe had no intention of filling in any details.
"These investigative types," Hale said with the wisdom of someone who'd never investigated anything more complex than a parking violation. "They see conspiracy everywhere. Sometimes people just drown."
"That's Army ink," Gabe said, pointing to the tattoo. "Unit insignia. Not gang-related."
Brewer squinted at it like he was trying to read Sanskrit. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." Gabe straightened, his knees protesting. "See those defensive wounds on his knuckles?" He met Hale's eyes. "He fought back. Someone restrained him, killed him elsewhere, then dumped him here."
Hale and Brewer exchanged exasperated looks.
"That's a pretty big leap," Hale said. "Based on what exactly? Your federal expertise in sand patterns?"
There it was. The small-town pushback. The "we don't need your help" wrapped in false politeness.
"Based on twelve years of crime scenes." Gabe kept his tone even, educational rather than confrontational. "The positioning was designed to look accidental but staged wrong. Whoever did this watches crime shows but doesn't understand actual forensics."
"Or," Brewer said, like he was explaining physics to a toddler, "he got drunk, goofed around somewhere with rope or a swing set or something, then went for a swim, and drowned. Happens all the time. Tourists think the Pacific is like a swimming pool."
Gabe recognized a stone wall when he hit one.
He pulled out his phone, took his own photos. Multiple angles, close-ups of the bruising, wide shots showing positioning. The kind of documentation that would hold up in court if this went where he thought it might.
"Is it okay if I follow up?" he asked. "My brother might have crossed paths with the victim."
"Knock yourself out." Hale waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. "But you're gonna find this is simpler than you're making it. Small town, small crimes. That's how it works."
Seriously? Gabe was sure he'd woken up in the middle of a bad TV series.
The coroner's van pulled up, and an older man climbed out. Gabe recognized the type immediately: competent, careful, probably the only person in fifty miles who took death seriously.
"Morning, Chief. Deputy." The man nodded at Gabe. "You are?"
He badged the guy. "FBI. Special Agent Sawyer." The title felt like wearing a costume that didn't fit anymore. In a few days, it probably wouldn't be his to claim. "I'm investigating a missing person case."
Careful phrasing. Not lying or claiming official jurisdiction that he definitely didn't have.
Just a man who happened to have a badge, looking for his brother.
If people made inferences, well that wasn't his fault.
With any luck, he'd find David before any of the local guys realized he wasn't officially working a case.
What he was working on was getting fired. Morrison had been furious when he left in the middle of his latest Internal Affairs case. Implied there'd be no job for him to come back to if he stayed away too long. Not that Gabe could muster up the energy to care.
The man considered him before holding out his hand. "Bascombe. Will." He gestured at the body. "This your missing person?"
"No. But he might be connected."
Bascombe's knees creaked as he squatted down next to the body. "Well, I can tell you this wasn't a drowning." He lifted one of the victim's eyelids. "Petechial hemorrhaging. And the lividity patterns are all wrong—this man was dead before he hit the water."
Jaw tight, Hale glared at Gabe. "Could've had a heart attack. Then fell in."
"Could have," Bascombe agreed mildly. "But strangulation victims don't usually tie themselves up first." He examined the man's neck more closely.
"Eight to twelve hours, I'd estimate. Someone took their time with him before disposal.
" He looked up at Hale. "I'll do the autopsy, write my report.
But Chief? Don't dismiss this just because murder is inconvenient. "
The rebuke landed like a slap. Hale's face went red, then purple, like one of those mood rings Gabe's sister used to wear.
At least someone in this town had a spine.
"Agent Sawyer?" Bascombe pulled out evidence bags. "Leave me your card. I'll send you the autopsy report directly."
"Much appreciated." Gabe handed over his business card, the one that might not be valid much longer. "Call if you find anything unusual."
"In my experience, murder is always unusual. Even when people pretend it isn't."
Gabe liked this man.
He backed away from the scene, letting the coroner work. His gaze drifted up to the bakery.
The woman stood on the small back deck, coffee mug in hand. Even from this distance, he noted the tension in her posture. She wasn't casually observing. She was watching.
Everything about her behavior at the scene had been wrong. The specific questions she'd asked. The way she'd clocked the evidence before the deputies even looked twice. She'd seen exactly what he had—and understood it.
His phone buzzed, a text from Tyler Price, the Portland State Police officer who'd clued Gabe in to David's last known whereabouts. And the 911 call on the body an hour ago.
Price still felt he owed Gabe for that help years ago. Gabe didn't agree, but he was deeply thankful for his assistance now.
He texted back.
Not David.
Price: Great news. Connected?
Maybe. Victim was asking questions around town three weeks ago. Same time David went dark. ME will send me autopsy report, but any chance you can monitor the investigation & keep me clued in? Local LEOs aren't going to be helpful.
Price: No surprise there. I got you, dude.
Gabe pocketed his phone and headed toward the bakery. Behind him, Hale and Brewer were loading into their squad car, probably trying to figure out ways to write this off as a tragic accident before the coroner even started his autopsy.
If the vic questioned Cara Sweet, he probably interviewed a lot of other people in town. And Gabe needed answers before Hale locked everything down and declared it an accident.
As he clomped through the sand, he studied the building. Second-story apartment, single street entrance, back deck with ocean view. Good sight lines. Easy to monitor who came and went.
Through the window, he could see the woman restocking a display case.
Twelve years as an FBI agent, most of those in Internal Affairs, had taught him how to spot people hiding something. And Cara Sweet was definitely hiding something.
Not for long.