After I finish up my notes I head upstairs to my office and bump into Paul in the stairwell.
“Did Pat give you a timeline on the results?”
“She’s swamped. She’s calling in some help since the FBI showed up first thing this morning with a bunch of evidence for her to analyze.”
Shit.
“I wish we had some decent equipment here,” I grumble, mostly to myself, frustrated at the limitations of my own lab. “It would be so much faster and more efficient if we could run some basic tests here instead of shipping everything off on the CBI lab.”
“Have you put in a request?”
I lift my eyes to look at him.
“Yes. Last year. Got a response after seven months to tell me it wasn’t in the budget.”
“You need to do up a cost analysis. I bet we’d make back the money it would cost in lab fees in a couple of years.” I wince, because if there’s one thing I suck at it’s numbers. Paul notices and snickers. “I don’t mind putting something together, if you want?”
“For real?”
He seems amused at my disbelief and shrugs. “Sure.”
“That would be amazing.” In my head I’m already visualizing rearranging the small lab to accommodate new equipment. “Maybe we’ll need to knock a wall out…” I muse out loud.
Paul starts laughing at me.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I grin at him and start moving up the stairs as he continues down.
“Hey, Doc?”
I turn and see him looking up from below.
“Yeah?”
“What’s with the rent-a-cop at the door?”
“They’re just being cautious. There was an incident at my place last night.”
“Incident?” He grabs the bannister and lifts a foot on the first step.
“Beau went after a prowler last night and was stabbed.”
I didn’t think a man Paul’s age could move that fast, but he’s up the stairs in no time, a hand grabbing onto my bicep.
“Is he okay?”
Paul has never met my dog, but like a good pet parent everyone in the office has heard about him. Or seen the picture of his happy mug I hung on the wall over the printer in my office. A lump forms in my throat. I manage to keep thoughts of him at bay while focusing hard on my work, but clearly he’s never far from my mind.
“He needed surgery and made it through the night. That’s good news.”
I’m not sure who I’m convincing, myself or Paul, who is looking at me with a crestfallen expression on his face.
“I’m so sorry.”
I smile and nod, shrugging his kindness off, and before those tears burning my eyes start falling, I turn my back and head for my office.
After a quick call to the veterinary clinic, where a friendly woman assures me Beau is still holding up well, I take a quick shower in the small en suite bathroom. I’m tempted to slip out for a quick visit to the clinic, but according to the assistant I spoke to, it won’t be until later this afternoon they will try to wake him. I’d better get some work done.
For the past few hours I’ve been hiding in my office, doing paperwork and making a few phone calls, when a knock sounds at my door. Duncan Irving, one of the older funeral directors at Benson, steps into my office.
“Paul tells me to check in with you for the death certificate for Glen Marks.”
Marks is the name of the drowning victim. I just spoke with the man’s brother earlier, informing him of my findings. As suspected the brother was grief-stricken but I got the sense hearing there was nothing he or his father could’ve done to save Glen’s life gave him some relief.
“Let me get you a copy.” I pull up the document on my computer and hit print while I make small talk. “Haven’t seen you around much recently.”
“I’m technically retired, but sitting at home isn’t for me. I drive my wife nuts, or so she says,” he says with a grin. “I go in from time to time, give the guys a hand with funerals, but can jump in when needed. Something’s going around the office because two were sick last week and a third called in this morning, so I’ve been temporarily dusted off and put into action.”
“As long as you enjoy it.”
I pull the document from the printer and sign it before sliding it into an envelope and handing it over.
“That I do,” the older man confirms with a grin, as he tucks the envelope into his jacket’s inside pocket. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you around.”
“You too, Duncan. Don’t work too hard.”
He lifts a hand before disappearing down the hall and I turn my attention back to the computer, catching sight of the time. Crap, the briefing at the station is in ten minutes.
It takes me that long to check in with Paul at the morgue—who seems to have everything under control—and to let Janey know I’m gone for the day. By the time I make my way to the station with the young police officer in tow, I’m late.
The briefing room is filled with FBI and police, a lot of whom I recognize, but my eyes lock in on Jay, who is at the front of the room standing beside Blackfoot and Agent Gomez. I try to slip into the room unseen, finding myself a standing spot on the side, but Jay spots me and comes stalking my way.
Before I know what’s happening, he hooks a hand behind my neck and plants a hard kiss on my shocked mouth.
“I was worried,” he rumbles, as loud whistling, clapping, and a few choice catcalls erupt around us.
My face burns and Jay looks a little embarrassed himself.
“Sorry,” he whispers only for me to hear.
“Guess we’re official now,” I whisper back.
“Right,” Gomez calls out from the front of the room to try and get over the din. “Now that Detective VanDyken took care of welcoming Dr. Carter properly, can we please get back to business?”
Loud laughter goes up and I can’t help my own grin.
Chapter 23
Jay
I’m downstairs in the kitchen cleaning the coffee and grounds off the kitchen counter. The filter overflowed when I didn’t properly put the pot underneath. I’m cursing under my breath when I hear her soft snicker behind me.
“Having trouble?”
She gently shoves me out of the way and in no time at all has the machine gurgling. Then she turns to me, goes up on tiptoes, and lifts her face for a kiss. I gladly comply.
Yesterday’s briefing lasted over two hours, but netted some interesting information. For one, Ramirez had been back to the Ward property and heard from neighbors that the police had been called in a few times on Ward since last year, for a variety of transgressions. Tony had pulled up the reports back at the station and found two of them were back-to-back complaints about stinking smoke coming from Ward’s property. Both times when uniforms showed up there was no sign of smoke, despite a lingering stench. Ward admitted he’d been burning some garbage at the back of his property and was told not to do it again.
The FBI team had made a good dent in narrowing down the list of Ward’s family members and there were only twelve possible names left on the list, one of which turned out to be Henry William McCarty, second cousin to Tom Ward. Blackfoot and I were able to confirm that McCarty, who goes by Billy, works at the crematorium in Aztec but coincidentally hadn’t shown up for work today.