Rocky Mountain Mystery. Cassie Miles

      Blair glanced over her shoulder at him, and David flashed an “okay” sign. He was cool.

      Reinholdt had the scalpel again. He made an incision at the hairline. David instinctively turned away. He heard the whine of a Stryker saw, then the grinding noise as the blade hit the solid bone of the skull.

      This part of the autopsy was why Weathers and his companion had left. They knew what was coming. David, in his naiveté, thought the worst was over.

      Though he didn’t want to wimp out and disappoint Blair, there was no way he’d turn around and take a peek. His imagination told him plenty.

      “David?” Blair was standing beside him.

      He whipped around to face her. Her hands, in the latex gloves, were bloody. He concentrated on her green eyes. “Hi.”

      “I think you were correct,” she said in a low voice. “This murder was the work of the Fisherman.”

      If he hadn’t been afraid of losing his lunch, he would have grinned. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Stomach contents.”

      “We’ll know after analysis.”

      Behind her left shoulder, Reinholdt was doing something at the victim’s head. David raised one hand to his eyes, shielding his vision.

      Blair glanced at the big clock on the wall over the door. “We should try to get over to Adam’s office before six. Are you ready to leave?”

      “Way ahead of you.”

      Chapter Four

      The office for Colorado Crime Consultants was west of Denver in Golden, a small town nestled against the foothills. Blair hadn’t done much talking on the drive. Her mind was preoccupied, focused on the autopsy she’d just witnessed. Her reading of the medical findings told her this “clean kill” was performed by the same perp who’d committed the earlier crimes. Yet there were differences—most obviously, the fish hook scars on the abdomen.

      The Fisherman was taunting them, sending a message. But why? And what was he trying to say? The answers weren’t evident in forensic analysis. Pursuing this investigation might require old-fashioned police work—interviewing witnesses and suspects.

      Speaking of old-fashioned forensic police work, she had confided in Dr. Reinholdt before they left the Coroner’s Office, telling him about the stinky fish in the trunk of her car. He had taken her car keys and would notify the forensic investigators though neither of them expected to find fingerprints on a trout.

      David found a parking space just off the main street with its quaint, Old West atmosphere, and they strolled down a covered sidewalk toward the opposite corner. “We’re like a couple of tourists,” he said.

      “But we’re not here to shop.” She paused to peer in the storefront window of a candle shop. The smell of scented wax wafted through the open door. “I wonder if we can get access to the forensics gathered by the Denver PD and CID on the current investigation.”

      “Doubtful,” David said. “Detective Weathers doesn’t seem inclined to share with me.”

      “Well, of course not,” she said. “You’re from the press. Even worse than that, you’re an investigative reporter. Speaking on behalf of everyone in forensics and the cops, your people can be a major distraction.”

      “My people? You make it sound like we’re a tribe of hyenas.”

      “An apt analogy.”

      “You think I’m a dog?”

      She peeked up at him and grinned. He looked much better now than during the autopsy. The color had returned to his face, and his gaze was steady. “If you were a dog,” she asked, “what breed would you be?”

      “Something macho. Maybe an Irish wolfhound.”

      “Macho?” she teased. “Like you were in the autopsy suite?”

      “Hey, it took guts to hang in there.” He linked his arm with hers and started along the sidewalk again. “Guts probably isn’t the best word to describe watching an autopsy. Fortitude. I showed fortitude. I should get a Boy Scout badge for fortitude.”

      “Didn’t you find the process interesting?”

      “In a word…no!”

      “At least you’re honest.”

      “And I should get another badge for that.” He turned right at the corner and started up the block. “How about you, Blair? What kind of dog would you be?”

      “Not a poodle,” she said quickly. Nothing fluffy or cute. “A dog that likes swimming. Maybe a Labrador retriever.”

      “Most of the Labs I’ve known have been a little wild. Is that you? Wild and exuberant?”

      She hadn’t been crazy and out of control in years, certainly not after her accident. And before that? Her career left very little time for fun and games. She’d gone directly from college to med school, then an internship and field research. “Maybe I’m not wild, but the potential for exuberance is there.”

      “That’s something I’d like to see.” His voice slipped into a lower register. “The wanton, uncontrolled, passionate side of Dr. Blair Weston.”

      His intimate tone suggested passion in the bedroom. And, when she confronted his sexy blue eyes, similar thoughts popped inside her head. All too easily, she imagined discarded clothing at the foot of the bed. She and David, meshed together on the sheets. Their legs entwined. Their arms grasping and clawing at each other. Their lungs screaming with unfettered lust. Oh, my.

      She pushed open the gate in the white picket fence surrounding a gingerbread Victorian house that had been converted to office space. The sidewalk was flagstone, lined by a border of yellow dahlias and pansies. On the veranda, David opened the door to the charming yellow house with white trim. Inside was a foyer with hardwood floors, an imitation Persian rug and several potted ferns. Colorado Crime Consultants was the first door to the right.

      Behind the antique front desk sat Molly Griffith. If she’d been a dog, Blair guessed Molly would have the looks of an Afghan hound with her long neck and swoop of straight, blond hair, but her personality was pure terrier—quick, smart and tenacious.

      After she greeted them, Molly held up her wristwatch and announced, “One minute until six o’clock. End of the day.”

      Blair asked, “Do you have a quitting time or does Adam make you stay all night?”

      “I’m flexible.” She bent down, opened her bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Sometimes I don’t come in until noon. Sometimes I leave at two. Time is unimportant to me. Not like Adam. He’s predictable as a metronome.”

      She poured three fingers of Jack Daniels into a plain glass tumbler. “In precisely ten seconds, he’ll open the door to his office and come out here for his evening drink.”

      “Why?” Blair asked. “Something to do with the Marines?”

      Molly shrugged. “It’s just Adam.”

      The wooden door to an inner office opened, and Adam Briggs stepped through. His right hand was outstretched. He grasped the tumbler and took a sip.

      “Told you,” Molly said. “This is the most predictable man on the planet.”

      With a hint of a smile, he said, “Structure leads to productivity.”

      “Or terminal boredom.”

      As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, Adam regarded her with an expression of fond indulgence. These two had worked together since the inception of Crime Consultants. He was the brains, and she was the heart. They made a good team.

      Adam asked his office manager, “Do you have the information for Blair and David?”

      “I