Buried (A Bone Secrets Novel) - By Kendra Elliot Page 0,1
squinted at Michael.
The Oregon farm smelled strongly of manure, but there wasn’t a cow in sight. His research had told him the old dairy farm had been out of operation for over twenty years. Wood and wire fencing traced the edges of the fields in crooked, drunken lines. A hundred yards away stood a barn that Michael wouldn’t step foot into for a million dollars. He didn’t mind taking risks, but this building looked ready to collapse if a bird landed on the sagging roofline. “I’m not here as press. I’m meeting up with Dr. Campbell,” Michael lied.
“The medical examiner left an hour ago.” The cop tilted up the brim of his hat, doubt in his gaze, knowing Michael was name-dropping to get into the recovery site. How many reporters had he chased off today? The discovery of multiple hidden remains tended to draw out the vultures. One brow rose and challenged him to create a more original ruse.
Luckily, Michael had one. “Not that Dr. Campbell. His daughter. Dr. Lacey Campbell.”
The cop ran a hand across his sweating forehead and checked his clipboard. His instant lascivious grin made Michael’s jaw clench.
“Oh, her. Yeah, she’s still here.”
Jackass.
“Can you let her know—”
“What’s your business with her? She’s in the middle of an excavation and a murder investigation. I don’t think she’ll appreciate me bugging her ’cause some stalker is looking for her.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Michael took half a step forward and lowered his voice. “Pick up your radio and get someone back there to tell Dr. Campbell that Brody’s finally here. She’ll want to talk to me.” He glanced at the fleet of police cars and obvious unmarked American sedans. “Callahan here yet?”
The cop’s eyes narrowed at the detective’s name, and his hand moved to his radio. “Not yet.” He deliberately turned his back and spoke into his radio.
About time. Michael rubbed at the skin of his baking neck and wished for an icy bottle of water. Or beer. Would Lacey drag herself away to talk to him? When she was deep in a case, she had a tendency to forget about the outside world. Her cell was turned off; he’d tried to call a dozen times.
The cop half turned his head and watched Michael from the corner of his eye as he spoke quietly into his radio. Michael ignored him, studying the recovery scene in the ninety-degree heat. It was hot, dry, and dusty. Every time he inhaled, his lungs were coated with fine dirt.
Cops in navy-blue uniforms dotted the brown fields. God, they had to be dying in this summer heat. Small white tents hid private procedures from prying eyes and the news helicopters’ cameras. Too many tents. More tents meant more bodies. A tall figure in a Tyvek protective suit strode from tent to tent.
Aw, shit.
Victoria Peres. Identifiable at any range. The rangy forensic anthropologist probably wouldn’t let him on the site even if Lacey held his hand. Michael blew out a hot breath and felt sweat trickle down the center of his back. He slipped his sunglasses back on and turned away. Might as well start making some more calls instead of wasting his time trying to get into Fort Knox. He needed to know what they’d found buried beneath the dirt; he wasn’t here for a story. This was personal.
“Hey!”
At the cop’s bark, Michael looked over his shoulder. He’d finished with his radio and had crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging below the short sleeves of his summer uniform. His name badge read “Ruxton.”
“You’re the damned newspaper reporter who raised a stink about our overtime pay,” Ruxton sneered. “Had every suit on the city council pissed off about the overtime we get paid.”
Not again. Michael briefly closed his eyes.
Ruxton wasn’t nearly done. “If the city would loosen its ass to gives us some cash to hire more police, then we wouldn’t have to work overtime.”
“I didn’t—”
“You reporters just write headlines when someone decides to sue us because they dinged their head while running away during an arrest. Or because they broke a rib fighting against being cuffed. You don’t know—”
With two rapid steps, Michael closed the distance between them, eyes hot. “I’m also the reporter who helped hunt down that sick son-of-a-bitch cop killer last winter.”
The cop’s mouth slammed shut.
“Some of my closest friends are cops, and I’ve got nothing but respect for the job you do, but don’t judge me by what you read in the paper, and I’ll do the same for you.”