Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake

Amberly held up a hand to stop the deputy, who moved toward her with a sense of purpose. She showed her identification and flashed the sheriff a bright smile. “Don’t worry, I might look like a Native American, but actually I’m the Cavalry sent to save the day.”

It was at that moment that she realized Sheriff Cole Caldwell had absolutely no sense of humor.

“I DIDN’T CALL FOR FBI assistance,” Cole said. Cole hadn’t been fond of the FBI since they’d botched a kidnapping job eight years ago that had resulted in the murder of his wife. “It was our mayor who called.” And that call had held up the entire process while they all stood around and waited for Ms. I’m-Going-To-Fix-Your-Work-FBI-Agent to arrive.

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly expecting the welcome wagon to be drawn up for me,” she replied dryly. “Agent Amberly Nightsong,” she said and held out a hand to him.

“Sheriff Cole Caldwell.” Her skin was soft, but her handshake was firm.

One thing was clear: the FBI agents of his memory were nothing like the stunning woman standing before him. It was obvious she was Native American. Her skin was a dusty bronze, and her cheekbones were high and well-defined.

She had doe eyes, round and dark and long lashed, and her hair was a rich, deep black that was captured in a braid that fell down the length of her back.

Worn jeans hugged long legs, and the bright yellow T-shirt she wore seemed to make her eyes darker and her skin glow with an inner light.

She took a step closer to the victim, and he watched her through narrowed eyes. “First of all, I’m not sure what your thinking is, but no self-respecting Native American would have done this and left those cheap Made In China dream catchers at the scene,” she said.

In truth, he’d wondered if perhaps the perp was a Native American, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “You have an ID?” she asked.

“Victim is twenty-seven-year-old Barbara Tillman.”

“A local?” she asked.

Cole nodded. “She worked as a teacher’s aide at the grade school and lived in an apartment complex just off Main Street.”

“And there have been two others before her?”

A fire of frustration burned in Cole’s gut as he nodded once again. “Twenty-six-year-old Gretchen Johnson was found in front of a trash can next to a pizza place, and twenty-five-year-old Mary Mathis was found in front of the library.”

“And dream catchers were hung at all three scenes?”

“Yes. When Gretchen Johnson was found, my first suspect was her boyfriend, but I couldn’t break his alibi for the time of death. Then Mary showed up. Both women had been stabbed multiple times at some unknown location, then left at the sites, and the dream catchers were hung at both scenes. Both bodies had Taser marks and indications that they’d been bound and gagged.”

“So, he Tasers them to incapacitate them and then ties them up and takes them someplace else, where he stabs them and then stages the dump scene with the dream catchers.” She frowned thoughtfully. “And how long has it been since Mary’s murder?”

“Two weeks. And it was four weeks between Gretchen’s and Mary’s murders. Have you seen enough? I’d like to start processing the scene. We haven’t even allowed the coroner in yet.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said with a step backward.

As the coroner, a fat, balding man named George Thompson, moved in to assess time and method of death, Cole called to the three deputies who he’d meticulously trained in crime-scene procedure.

He gathered them in a group just far enough from where Agent Nightsong stood that he hoped she wouldn’t hear the conversation. “Do your jobs and do them well,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want any mistakes.” Especially with the eyes of the FBI watching…judging their every move.

Once the coroner was finished with his examination of the body, he announced that he believed the murder had occurred at some point the night before, probably between the hours of midnight and three. Method of death was obvious, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He then stepped back to allow the deputies to begin their work.

Cole moved to stand next to Agent Nightsong. Beneath the odor of death that hung in the still air, he could smell the faint scent of her, a welcome smell of blooming exotic flowers.

The scent, so distinctly feminine and wafting from such a beautiful woman, stirred him on a base level that made him slightly uncomfortable.

“I suppose you already have a profile of the killer, neatly tied up with a bow,” he said, vaguely aware that he sounded a bit surly.

She turned to look at him, her eyes filled with an edge of amusement. “You aren’t the vision of a small-town sheriff that I had in mind while I was driving here, and hopefully you’ll discover I’m not the uptight, upright FBI agent that you assume I am.”

He narrowed his gaze as he stared at her. “And what vision did you entertain of me on your drive here?”

“Definitely shorter and rounder.” She turned her attention to his men, meticulously moving around the crime scene with evidence bags and tweezers, their feet covered in booties. “I anticipated nobody who knew the first clue about a murder investigation, because I doubt if you see much of this kind of crime in this size of town, but it looks like your men all know what they’re doing.”

He didn’t know if she expected him to be pleased about her assessment of him or his men’s work. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t much give a good damn about what she thought.

“And no,” she continued, “I don’t have a profile all neatly tied up with a bow in my head. It’s far too early in the game for a full profile. Once this scene has been processed, I’d like copies of the files of the other two murders.”

“Once we’re finished up here, you can follow me to the office, and I’ll see to it that you get copies.” He was confident she would find nothing wrong with the way he’d conducted his investigations so far.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many leads to follow at the moment. He’d already had one of his deputies find out the availability of the dream catchers and discovered that they were sold in most dollar stores and some craft and hobby shops in and around the area.

“The dream catchers…they’re supposed to keep bad dreams away or something like that, right?”

She smiled and the beauty of that gesture shot an unexpected heat through Cole. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to feel anything for any woman, and the fact that a little lick of lust stirred in him for this woman didn’t improve his mood at all.

“The legend is that the dream catcher was used by the Woodland Indians to catch all dreams, both good and bad. The bad dreams get caught in the webbing and burn off with the morning sun. The good dreams are caught and make their way to the hole in the center, where they filter down the feathers and are dreamed.”

He looked back at the victim and the dream catcher hanging over her head. “So, our perp wants to make sure our victims have only good dreams in death?”

“Or he wants you to believe that he’s of Native American descent,” she replied.

“But you don’t think he is,” he countered.

She frowned thoughtfully. “At this point, there’s no way of really knowing. Certainly most Native Americans I know who own dream catchers have the real thing made with their own hands with either soaked willow or grapevine. They’re usually very personal and made with lots of love.” She flashed him another quick smile. “But of course, that’s the old way.”

He wondered if the FBI powers-that-be had specifically chosen her for this job because of her Native American background.

They fell quiet as the men continued their jobs, and the victim was eventually taken away. It was growing dark when the last of the work was done at the scene of the crime, and Agent Nightsong followed Cole to the sheriff’s office.

He’d found her an irritant all evening. It wasn’t anything she’d said. For the most part, she’d been silent. It had been the way she’d watched them with those intelligent, enigmatic eyes.

Cole had found himself snapping at his men, feeling as if both he and all of them were on display and Agent Nightsong was just waiting for errors to occur so she could step in and take over.

As he drove toward the office, with her in her own car just behind him, he drew in a deep breath to ease the tension that had crackled through him since the moment she’d arrived on scene.

He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need some kind of help. This latest murder had definitely shaken him up. Not only did he lack the manpower for the kind of investigation these murders required, but he also lacked resources. Mystic Lake was a small town with very little crime, and it had been years since Cole had done the kind of police work that was now required of him.

He probably would have asked for help, but it ticked him off that the mayor hadn’t even discussed the issue with him and instead had just gone behind Cole’s back and then told him he’d called the feds.

As far as Cole was concerned, it had shown a lack of respect, which heated his insides along with the other feeling that fired inside him each time his gaze landed on Amberly Nightsong.

He’d give her the copies of the files of the other murders, and then she’d be on her way back to Kansas City. She wasn’t officially a part of the case. She was just here as a consultant of sorts. She’d read the files, call him with her thoughts, and that would be the end of it.

His hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he turned into the parking lot behind his office. Funny that his lust hormones hadn’t been active for eight long years and now had suddenly decided to awaken for the one woman he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.