Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

D ust, oddly chilled, billowed up from the conference table when Ophelia dropped yet another box of case files onto the scarred surface. Sheriff Blazerton had been good at his job, and most of his organized files included rather cranky-sounding notations.

She flipped off the cardboard lid and dug through yet more records of trespassing, poaching, and some crime called being a jackass . There seemed to be an endless number of those type of files.

The heater clunked heavily, forcing warmth through the too-quiet office. While billowing snow smashed against the windows, the storm had forced the wind to take a break for a while. Silence surrounded her, eerie in its intensity. Setting the folders aside, the Hank Osprey case file caught her eye. Adrenaline warmed her blood, and her spine straightened. Finally.

She pulled the rickety chair back, wincing as it scraped loudly across the dirty floor. The sound grated in the quiet. Shivering, she sat and opened the manila file folder. Notes lined several pages, the script neat and factual, the print masculine and sure, the ink heavy on the page.

Cause of death was listed as shotgun spray to the torso that injured the heart, followed by drowning, based on the amount of liquid found in his lungs. So, somebody shot Hank in the chest and he fell back into the water, just filling his lungs enough to drown. The shot would’ve killed him anyway. In addition, he sustained lacerations on his head from some sort of blunt-force trauma, probably from falling into the rock-filled water.

She scanned the remaining pages, finding a map and diagram of the stream he’d fallen into but no pictures.

Why had no photographs been taken? All of Blazerton’s other case files included photographs—especially of crime scenes. She sat back, pursing her lips. Had Blazerton neglected to document the scene? Or had the pictures somehow disappeared? She scanned the hallway outside the room. The office held two exterior doors, several windows, and no alarm. Anybody could’ve gained entrance to the building and stolen pictures.

She flipped up papers to reach a piece of yellow legal paper, which held more notes from the sheriff. Hank’s four charges, Brock, Ace, Christian, and Damian, had all been in town at the time of his death. That, alone, was odd, especially since their career paths were so varied. All four men had gone into the Navy like Hank had, but they’d pursued different avenues once there. Ace became a fighter pilot, Brock a SEAL, Christian a special operative with innuendo of being a sniper, and Damian an intelligence officer of some sort.

Fascinating. Hopefully her request for their complete military records would be approved soon.

Unfortunately, the fact that the four warriors didn’t want to discover who’d killed the guardian they supposedly loved put them all at the top of the suspect list. Period.

The interview notes appeared short and to the point. All four men denied knowing anything about Hank’s death, and none admitted to being around Crocker’s Creek at that time. She got lost in the file, reading quickly.

It was the first case file where the sheriff hadn’t made personal notes or given his opinion throughout. The last notation, scrawled in rough handwriting, declared the death to be accidental.

She swallowed and sat back, frowning at the file that created more questions than answers.

“Um, hello?” A male voice wound through the silence.

She jumped up, tipping the chair over and yanking her gun free. “Who’s there?” Relaxing her arms, leading with her weapon, she swung into the hallway and aimed for the voice.

An older man wearing a bow tie, eyes wide, jumped and immediately launched himself back through a doorway that she’d assumed covered a closet. The door slammed shut, a lock sliding loudly into place.

Adrenaline flooded her, and she crept toward the door. “Come out with your hands visible,” she barked in full agent style. No sound came from beyond the door. She lowered the weapon and took point where she could see if he twisted the knob. “This is the FBI. Come out. Now!”

A thunk sounded and then several more. Something hitting the door? She leaned in to hear better.

“No, no, no. No FBI. No, nuh-uh. No FBI.” More thunking echoed. “Gun. Saw a gun. Was a gun. Barrel of a gun.” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The outside door opened, and she set her back to the wall, keeping the entire floor in sight.

“It’s me, city girl,” Brock called out, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.

She relaxed—marginally.

Brock came into view and froze, his gaze on her weapon. A reddish-purple bruise on his cheek looked new. “What are you doing?” Before she could answer, his focus swung to the closed door. “Ah, shit.” He moved between her and the door, placing his hand on the worn wood. “Amos? It’s Brock. You’re okay.”

The thunking stopped. “Brock?” The sound came through muffled.

Brock leaned toward the door. “It’s Brock Osprey, Amos.”

“Gun. There was a gun. Big gun. Barrel of a gun,” Amos said, his voice sounding softer as if he’d retreated away from the door. “You know I hate guns. Everybody should.”

“Sorry. The pretty lady made a mistake,” Brock said. “Put the gun away,” he mouthed to her.

She blinked and then slid the weapon into the back of her waist.

Brock turned to the door. “Amos? There’s a nice lady out here named Ophelia. She doesn’t have the gun any longer. Would you like to meet her?”

“No.” Very faint footsteps echoed and then disappeared.

Brock turned, his jaw hard, his eyes blazing. “What did you just do?”

She couldn’t back up with the wall behind her. “Me? If somebody lived in that closet, you should’ve told me before leaving.”

His nostrils flared. “True. I didn’t think Amos would make an appearance. My bad.”

His bad? She gritted her teeth. “I take it Amos lives in the closet?”

Brock moved away from the door. “He lives in the basement. Has his own entrance and heating system.” He strode past her toward the conference room.

She followed, relaxing her jaw. “Amos the weather guy?” Brock had mentioned him last night.

“Yep. He’s our weather guru.” Brock looked over the pile of manila file folders.

Amos had been repeating himself and hitting his head on the door? “Is he, I mean, is he on the spectrum?” She walked around the table and retook her seat, her limbs heavy as the adrenaline receded.

Brock shrugged. “He’s just Amos. You scared him, so you’ll have to meet him another time. He’s harmless, I promise.” The sunglasses were perched on his head, and his eyes had turned an unreal green. He drew off his jacket and shook snow onto the floor. “Find what you needed?”

“Kind of,” she admitted, gesturing toward the vacant folding chair across the table, ignoring the instant difference in the atmosphere around them. Brock Osprey had a presence, that was for sure. Masculine and tough. “What happened to your face?”

Brock touched the bruise. “I woke up a bear. Long story.”

Fine. Whatever. She pushed a file out of the way. “I’ll give Amos some time, and then I want an introduction. For now, I’m going to concentrate on two cases to start. Hank’s and Tamara Randsom’s, and then I’ll move to the other missing person investigations the sheriff put together.”

Sheriff Blazerton had created a file for the missing Tamara Randsom on May sixteenth, earlier that year, noting his suspicions that she wouldn’t have left her kids behind with no contact—and that was the only information in the file. Ophelia called the local newspaper, and a nice reporter named Arthur informed her that the sheriff had died on May seventeenth by having a heart attack in the middle of church, and nobody could save him.

Ophelia wanted to continue the sheriff’s work since he hadn’t had time to pursue the investigation. She had already conducted a quick social media search and discovered pictures of Tamara with her children and with various town residents during parties or at outdoor events. Tamara’s final post showed the kindergarten graduation day of her youngest child on May tenth. So she disappeared between May tenth and sixteenth. The woman looked to be around forty, with curly brown hair and sparkling brown eyes.

Further research showed a divorce decree between Tamara and Leo Randsom filed in Anchorage earlier in March. “Can you offer insight into either investigation?”

“Nope.” Brock shrugged. “A hunter fucked up and shot Hank, and I’m sure it was an accident, so I don’t want to know more than that.”

Ophelia barely kept from shaking her head. “Hank? He died in December, which surely is outside of hunting season.”

Brock snorted. “Season? Yeah, probably. But folks around here hunt for food and not sport, and if they need food in December, they hunt. That’s a fact. So let it go.”

Her job and her boss wouldn’t allow her to let anything go. “Somebody shot Hank in the chest, and we have to find out who pulled that trigger. After sustaining the shotgun wound, he still had time to draw water into his lungs and drown before he could bleed to death.” It made little sense that Brock didn’t want to know, unless he covered for the person who did it.

He stared at her, no expression on his rugged face.

She didn’t peg him as a murderer, but she’d learned long ago that people often wore different masks, so she had to start thinking of him as a suspect instead of an intriguing and badass mountain man who once served his country. Her gun remained at the back of her waist and would be her constant companion during her job here. “What about Tamara?”

“I left town in May after the weather cleared to explore Alaska and become accustomed to the fact that I’m no longer serving as a Navy SEAL—before Tammy disappeared. Didn’t even know about it until I returned last week.”

Ophelia studied his rugged face. “That’s a long time to explore.”

“Alaska’s a big state.”

True. Yet, she didn’t like the timing. “You left right before she disappeared?”

His jaw firmed. “I left when the weather allowed me to do so. Seriously. I barely knew Tammy and had nothing to do with her disappearance. She and her husband Leo had divorced, and rumor has it even today that she might’ve just taken off and moved to a big city. How do you have jurisdiction as to her disappearance, anyway?”

Excellent question. “Tamara worked as a U.S. Geological Survey Scientist, a federal agency, under a grant to study Alaska’s natural phenomena, most specifically glaciers and volcanic activity. That gives me jurisdiction.” The sheriff had included the woman’s grant information in his investigation. Ophelia decided not to mention that the grant period had expired the end of April, after Tamara had turned in her final documents, making a notation that she’d apply for a follow-up grant shortly. That had never occurred.

Brock shrugged and the scent of pine-filled snow wafted from him. Masculine and strong. “I forgot that Tammy worked as a scientist—obviously remotely. If a federal employee disappeared, why has it taken so long for the FBI to investigate?”

Ophelia shifted on her seat. “She held a grant and did not serve as an employee.” So much for keeping the truth to herself. “All right. She completed the grant. But in looking through Sheriff Blazerton’s files, I believe he suspected foul play, and I’m here to work.” It was unfortunate the sheriff hadn’t had more time to look into the case.

“So you don’t have jurisdiction.”

“I do if Tamara disappeared on federal land.” True but a stretch. “Even if you didn’t know her well, this is a small town with very few secrets, I’m sure. What have you heard?”

“Nothin’.” Brock dropped onto the chair, and dust wafted up. “The Randsoms moved up here from the lower forty-eight about five years ago, probably to get away from all the people, just like the rest of us. They live miles upon miles outside of town, up by Silverhowl Peak, and are self-sufficient. After the divorce, Leo courted the youngest McDaniel daughter. I heard they married in July.”

Ophelia reached for her notebook. “Wow. Very quickly. Name and age of the bride?”

“Loretta, and I have no clue as to her age. Late twenties, I’d guess. A good two decades younger than Leo.” Brock sat back and crossed his arms, revealing cut muscles beneath his T-shirt.

Interesting. “I need to interview them.”

Brock sighed. “Lots of folks move here because they don’t like people, just so you know. Other people, I mean.”

“Yeah, I caught that.” She sat back, pretending nonchalance as she switched topics. “You and your brothers? Are you close?”

His chin lifted. “We’re brothers.”

That didn’t seem like an answer—unless it actually counted as one. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for them?”

“Nope.” His matter-of-fact tone held no defensiveness.

Okay. She had to tread lightly here. “Is there any reason one of your brothers would’ve wanted Hank dead?”

“Of course, not.” His expression gave nothing away, but he stopped moving. Completely. His eye contact remained sure and solid on hers.

She was missing something, but she had no clue what. The thrill of the mystery, of the hunt, rippled through her. “Was Hank a good guardian?”

“The best.” Brock tugged off his leather gloves and tossed them onto the scarred table. “Taught us to hunt and fight. How to survive this world no matter what it threw at us.”

Sounded helpful but not all that warm. “Was there love? Comfort?” she asked.

Brock’s upper lip quirked. “Not exactly. But there was a solid form at our backs, a wall of family, and that’s better than any hug.”

She needed their damn military records. Had they undergone psych evaluations? “So, your guardian taught you to hunt and kill, but he didn’t teach you about emotion?”

A glint entered Brock’s eyes. “I guess he figured we’d learn that from women when we got old enough.”

Was that a challenge? “Have any of you been married?”

“No.” Brock lifted a shoulder. “Well, not really. Damian had a short-lived marriage for a couple of months, but I think they annulled it, so that doesn’t count, right?”

She perked up. “Damian was married? To whom?”

“Hell if I know. He just mentioned it one Christmas after we’d gotten into the Knob Creek whiskey, and that’s all he said. Except her name was Stella. Great name, right?” Brock tapped a finger on his glove. He held up a hand when she started to ask more questions. “Honest. That’s all I know about Stella, and Damian hasn’t mentioned her since.”

Well. There had to be records somewhere. “All four of you happened to be home, on leave, when Hank died.”

Brock changed in front of her eyes—in a way she could never explain. His expression remained calm, his body still, and his gaze direct, but he…changed. “I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“Sure, you do,” she countered. “All four of you are suddenly home on leave, from different units in the Navy, at the same time? It’s statistically impossible that’s a coincidence.”

His chin lifted. “You’re right. I had just been honorably discharged, and my brothers came home for Christmas on leave and also for Hank’s seventieth birthday. He died the day after he turned seventy, three days after Christmas.”

Her skimpy case file hadn’t revealed that fact. “You know, the sheriff’s case file on this is as sparse as I’ve seen a file, especially Blazerton’s. Is there any reason the sheriff would’ve wanted to hide the truth about Hank’s death?”

“Nope.”

“I need to speak with your brothers,” she pushed.

He nodded. “We’ll meet Ace in about thirty minutes at the diner for an early supper. You can question him all you want.”

Good. “The little I gleaned from the notes the FBI assistant director gave to me showed that your discharge occurred last December, then Ace’s in April, and Christian’s just this recent October. I couldn’t find anything on Damian.”

Brock shrugged. “He’s in intelligence, and that’s all I know.”

Wonderful. “You have no clue where he might be?”

“Nope.”

Terrific. “How about Christian?”

Brock lifted a hand. “Couldn’t tell you. He’s around here somewhere living off the land and will show his face in his own time.”

“That’s odd.”

“Is it?” Brock shrugged. “I guess.”

Fine. She could pursue two cases at once. “I’ll need to interview the Randsoms later today about Tamara’s disappearance.”

“Call her Tammy.” Brock shook his head. “People who live outside of town don’t want to be bothered.”

She’d already figured that out. “Listen, Osprey. Alaska is part of the United States. Hank died on federal land, and I can make the argument that Tammy disappeared on federal land, or at least worked on a government project for EVE, which surely has government contracts, so the cases are federal if we want them. We do.”

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “For a woman who wanted to fit in by using her first name and not her title, you sure fell back on the agency real quick.”

Heat filtered into her cheeks that he’d figured her out so quickly. “The FBI appointed me as special investigator in these matters, so you might want to remember that I have the full force of the federal government behind me.” Yeah, she sounded like a tight-ass.

His smile was slow and daunting. “Darlin’, you’re in the middle of nowhere. Even the federal government can’t find you here. You might want to keep that in mind.”

A lone, solitary chill clacked down her spine. Was that a threat?