Chapter Twenty
Sean rolled over and snatched his ringing phone from the nightstand, silencing it before it could wake Grace.
Gray dawn filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting the room in soft shadows.
The digital clock read just after six. They had managed very little sleep, though Sean had no intention of complaining.
Sometime after midnight, a shower had turned into another stretch of whispered laughter and tangled sheets before they’d finally drifted off a few hours later.
The memory of the night before stirred through him. It didn’t surprise him in the least that he wanted her again, but she needed rest.
Careful not to disturb her, he slipped from beneath the covers and pulled on his boxer briefs before padding into the living room.
Rico passed him in the hallway with a dismissive flick of his tail, making it clear he had not appreciated being shut out of the bedroom all night.
The cat made a beeline for the partially open door.
The call had gone to voicemail. Instead of listening to the message, he found the most recent incoming number and hit send.
Matt Griffin answered on the first ring.
“We’ve got another one. He dumped this one on the beach at the north property line of the Pea Island Refuge.
I’m on my way, and so are Brad and the coroner. I’ll call Brian and Rafe next.”
Sean scrubbed a hand over his face, forcing his mind into focus. “Damn. I’ll be right behind you.”
He ended the call and headed back to the bedroom. Grace was sitting up against the headboard, rubbing sleep from her eyes while Rico kneaded the covers near her legs. “What time is it?”
As she stretched, the sheet slipped lower. Sean stopped for half a breath before dragging his attention back where it belonged. “Just after six.”
Holding up his phone to show he’d been on a call, he bent to search for his clothes and did his best not to think about crawling right back into bed.
“Oh no, does that mean there’s been another murder?” The concern in her voice wiped away the distraction.
He zipped his pants and reached for his shirt. Thank goodness he kept a go-bag in the trunk of his car. He could change into a clean T-shirt before meeting the sheriff and others, and then circle back to the beach house later for proper work clothes.
“Yeah, but I don’t know more than that.” After checking for his phone, gun, keys, and wallet, he crossed to the bed and bent to kiss her. “I’ll call you later. I’m not sure when, but I will.”
He meant for it to be quick. It wasn’t. One kiss became another, then another. His hand cupped her jaw as he deepened the kiss, and the softness of her mouth nearly undid him. Memories of the night before rushed back with dangerous clarity, and every bit of self-control he possessed was tested.
He drew back with a low groan. “I want nothing more than to climb back into bed with you.”
Unable to help himself, he stole one more lingering kiss before forcing himself upright. If he stayed another minute, he would never make it out the door. Grace Whitman was becoming a distraction he had no desire to resist.
Thirty minutes later, he parked beside a sheriff’s department SUV and headed up the narrow path cut through the sand. The sun had just breached the horizon, casting a muted glow across the water as the steady crash of waves rolled through the cool morning air.
Matt stood at the end of the path, phone pressed to his ear. He lifted a hand in greeting and pointed toward a white sheet covering something farther down the beach.
Sean gave a grim nod and kept moving.
Several uniformed deputies were already working the scene. One drove wooden stakes into the sand, stringing yellow Crime Scene – Do Not Cross tape between them. Another spoke with an older man whose fishing rod, folding chair, and tackle box sat abandoned nearby.
The man’s pale face told his story. He had come here expecting fish. Instead, he had found death.
Sean studied the stretch of sand surrounding the white cotton sheet as he approached.
The tide had smoothed parts of the beach during the night, leaving broad swaths of damp, packed sand broken only by footprints and the early signs of activity from the deputies already working the perimeter.
He didn’t envy the crime scene techs. Once they arrived, they’d spend hours on their hands and knees, sifting through sand with fine screens in the hope of recovering anything the shifting grains might have swallowed.
Stopping beside the body, he crouched and drew a steadying breath before lifting one corner of the sheet.
Damn.
The bastard had done it again. And Suki had been right. This kill had come sooner than expected.
For a moment, Sean simply studied the dead woman’s face, something about her features tugging at his memory. Then recognition clicked into place.
Jessica Daly.
The irony was heavy. Less than twelve hours earlier, the aggressive reporter had stood on television delivering her so-called exclusive. Now, she was Dare County’s fourth victim, and her own death would dominate every newscast in the region.
Like the previous victim, her vacant eyes stared skyward at the drifting clouds and circling gulls. A polished 1993 penny rested heads-up between her carefully plucked brows.
Sean lifted the sheet farther, and his brow furrowed.
The carved word across her torso was different.
Liar.
The wounds had clotted long before the body had been placed there. Deep purple bruising ringed her neck, wrists, and ankles, standing out stark against skin already ashen with death. Another bruise darkened the left side of her jaw and cheek.
Nothing else immediately drew his attention.
“She must have made him angry with that broadcast the other night.” Matt’s voice carried from just behind him.
“She’s the only one with that tag.” Sean lowered the sheet and rose to his feet. “If I were him, I’d have been angry too, but that doesn’t mean she deserved this.” His gaze drifted back to the covered body. “At least it answers our question about whether he was done after three.”
The sound of approaching voices drew their attention toward the dunes. Brian, Rafe, Brad, the coroner, and three crime scene techs emerged single-file through the narrow cut in the sand. The latter carried duffels, evidence cases, and equipment boxes.
One of the techs broke off at once, already pulling a video camera from its case.
The official crime scene documentation was beginning.
Once the initial video was complete, they’d move on to still photographs and measurements before starting the painstaking search for whatever trace evidence the killer might have left behind.
As Brian, Brad, and Dr. Peter Hansen approached, Sean caught the slight arch of his brother’s eyebrows.
Great.
Even with a dead body thirty feet away, Brian had undoubtedly noticed the dress pants and polished shoes paired with a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt.
It didn’t take much to figure out what that combination meant, and Sean had no doubt his brother had already drawn the obvious conclusion—he hadn’t slept at home.
Knowing Brian would give him grief over it the first chance he got, Sean decided to cut him off before the commentary started. He stepped forward and extended his hand to the coroner.
Hansen took it, shaking both Sean’s hand and his head at the same time. “Agent Malone, I know none of this is your fault, but I’m starting to get sick of you already. No offense.”
A dry smile touched Sean’s mouth. “None taken. I’m hoping the killer made a mistake, though. He deviated from his norm.”
“Really?” The coroner crouched and pulled back the sheet. A low whistle escaped him. “Well, now. Ms. Daly must have said something that got under his skin. Who wants to bet she didn’t happen across our killer at a bar, club, or party?”
No one answered the rhetorical question.
Hansen peeled the sheet back farther, exposing the body as he reached into his equipment bag for a thermometer. With practiced efficiency, he began the grim work of collecting his preliminary readings. Time of death would be one of the first answers they needed.
Around them, the crime scene techs moved into position. One continued documenting the scene on video while another began setting measurement markers around the body. A third unpacked evidence flags and began preparing the tools they’d need once the formal documentation was complete.
Sean watched for a moment before shifting his attention to the uniformed deputy still speaking with the fisherman. “Let’s find out what he knows.”
Rafe and Brad remained behind with Hansen and the techs while Matt and Brian followed Sean across the sand. As they approached the witness, Sean extended his hand. “Morning, sir. I’m Special Agent Sean Malone with the FBI.”
The older man nodded and accepted the handshake. “I saw you on the news the other day, though I never thought I’d run into you out here. Name’s Jeff Simmons.”
After introducing Brian and the sheriff, Sean got straight to the point. “I know you’ve already told the deputy what happened this morning, Mr. Simmons, but I’d appreciate it if you’d walk us through it again.”
“Sure.” The man glanced toward the body and shook his head. “There’s not much to tell, though. I’m retired, so I come out here to fish for a few hours three or four times a week. Usually get here around five-thirty or six and stay until ten, give or take.”
He tapped his tackle box with the toe of his boot, his features drawn with lingering shock.
“It was about five-forty when I got here today. I didn’t notice her right off.
I was talking to my daughter on the phone before she headed to work.
I set my gear down, ended the call, and that’s when I saw a bunch of gulls circling low. ”