He also admired the way the lovely doctor put media blabbermouths in their place without raising hackles. He wished he knew how to pull off that feat; he had his reelection to think about and could do with some tame reporters who would make him look good. But he had too much on his mind to watch his mouth, and his back, all the time.
As if by magnetic force, his eyes were drawn to the chief source of his daily indigestion, Detective Jude Devine. The woman had arrived in his bailiwick twelve months earlier, under cover of darkness, with a team of nameless operatives from Homeland Security. No one had bothered to ask if Orwell wanted a substation, least of all under the umbrella of a politically delicate arrangement with the Montrose County Sheriff, whereby they shared costs and responsibility for an unwanted outpost in Paradox, of all the godforsaken places. No, these asswipes just took over an abandoned schoolhouse and converted it into a sheriff’s office, employed a valley woman to be the secretary, doing Lord knows what, then told him to base one of his deputies there. He’d picked Virgil Tulley, who had never quite fit in with the boys in Cortez for reasons Orwell preferred not to delve into.
Next thing, he was informed by the powers that be that Devine would be joining his department as a detective. Period. He was supposed to circulate the official story that she was ex-FBI and make up some bullshit to explain why she wasn’t based in Cortez with the rest of his team. Knowing he would look like a real moron for opening an outpost where there wasn’t enough crime to justify the budget, Orwell had confided in his staff that there was a big tourist development in the offing and the Japanese moneypeople needed to say there was law enforcement on site. He was heroically doing his bit to lure this foreign consortium into the area by establishing a remote office with Montrose, who could not fund it alone.
Ever since word leaked out, he’d been pestered constantly by most of Cortez, who were hanging out for the job bonanza. He only hoped no one would uncover the truth before his reelection, yet another reason media attention made his guts churn.
Devine met his eyes and produced one of her cool half-smiles. You couldn’t warm to a woman like that, Orwell thought. Admittedly, it was not her fault she was too tall and too strongly built to appeal to most guys, not to mention a plain Jane. It was obvious she had not been blessed with the kind of mother who taught females how to make the most of themselves, like his wife did with their three daughters.
Devine’s short dark brown hair was cut all wrong for her face, which was on the square side. And she had the kind of Roman nose that would have suited a guy better. But up close, you could see she had really beautiful gray-green eyes. They weren’t big and pretty, instead they were heavy-lidded and sensual with eyelashes so dense and black Orwell’s wife had commented on them. Most women would have made the most of this one attractive feature with cosmetics, regulations notwithstanding. Orwell had let it be known to his staff that he didn’t consider eye shadow a disciplinary issue. The way he saw it, the fairer sex had a tough enough time retaining their femininity on the job. All he asked was that no one showed up for work looking like a hooker.
But despite the enlightened work environment, Devine didn’t bother plucking her dark eyebrows, and didn’t wear lipstick, let alone mascara. On top of it all, there was her surprising smoke-and-whiskey voice, all wrong for a woman in this line of work. Orwell wondered if she lowered her tone deliberately so she sounded more authoritative. He could only conclude she was one of those career types who thought she had to act like a man and would end up a lonely, frustrated spinster. Women’s lib had a lot to answer for.
*
Jude shifted her gaze away from Sheriff Pratt, who seemed to be fixating on her again. No doubt the media presence had him on edge, reminding him that he was the likely fall guy for some kind of federal government shenanigans. She knew he pictured his career in ruins every time he clapped eyes on her. That was one reason she’d pushed to head up the Huntsberger investigation. It was outside her real brief, but if she could help land a conviction that would bring kudos to the boss, maybe he’d chill.
Mercy Westmoreland had wrapped up the sound bites stage of her presentation and was now taking questions. Jude had one for her:
Doing anything tonight?
She’d first met the alluring pathologist soon after starting her assignment in Paradox. They were both at a symposium on the recovery of human remains. Mercy had presented a guest seminar on air disaster victim identification issues. Afterward, she and Jude had exchanged a few words while they stood in line for burritos at the lunch buffet. The words themselves were not memorable, but Jude had had the strangest feeling Mercy was thinking about the two of them having sex the whole time they talked about the program, the bad coffee, and the long dry spell the Southwest was having. Jude herself had been happily distracted by that fantasy, picturing the cool, alarmingly well groomed Mercy in disarray. Hair down. Shirt unbuttoned. Lipstick smudged. She could almost feel that perfect skin smooth beneath her hands, that lissome body hot and damp against her own.
She had caught herself staring at Mercy’s mouth as it shaped words, wondering how it would feel to kiss her. Even as they ate their Mexican food and compared notes with colleagues around their large table, Jude had covertly watched her. Their eyes had met several times and Jude had looked away first, determined not to announce her sexual frustration by acting like she had never seen an attractive woman before and wanted to jump her on the spot.
To her surprise, Mercy remembered their conference encounter when she’d arrived to examine the Huntsberger crime scene, and she’d greeted Jude like an old friend. A day later, Jude had attended Darlene’s autopsy in Grand Junction, and Mercy had singled her out at the water fountain for a smile that seemed downright flirtatious. As the day progressed, this had evolved into the kind of eye contact that could be seriously misconstrued. Mercy had also prolonged their handshake during the farewell civilities at the end of the day.
Jude had since decided that reading anything into Mercy’s manner was plain wishful thinking, the by-product of her reluctant celibacy. The Four Corners area was not exactly overflowing with eligible lesbians, let alone opportunities for discreet no-strings encounters. Jude would have to drive to Denver if she got really desperate. So far, she hadn’t made the trip. Her life was complicated enough.
She permitted herself a long look at the golden girl of Southwestern forensic pathology. Mercy was your typical highly educated knockout, the kind Jude blew it with on dates. She was average height and neatly made with small high breasts and well-toned legs, at least that’s how they looked beneath her beige linen pants. There was no wedding ring; her jewelry comprised a sensible wristwatch and small pearl studs. Jude was not standing close enough to catch her scent, but she could recall a beguiling musky fragrance from those few hours in the M.E.’s office. She could also recall the smattering of tiny cinnamon freckles across Mercy’s nose and the faint scar below her left temple. Then there was her great ass and sexy walk, her slender hands and dancer’s posture, the remarkable blue-jean eyes, and a seductive smile that hinted at a whole different woman beneath the cool reserve.
Yes, Dr. Westmoreland was the complete package. Looks, brains, minor celebrity status, and the X factor. Tons of it. Jude decided she was probably involved with a rocket scientist who grew orchids as a hobby, the kind of guy who didn’t worry about being upstaged by his girlfriend. In a few years’ time she would ask him to marry her and they would have two gifted children, then Mercy would go on Oprah to talk about combining family life with her glittering career. She was not a woman who would ever fade into anonymity, content with the mundane routines of domestic life. She was star material and everyone around her behaved accordingly.
A paunchy man waved his hand as a make-up artist powdered his face. “Gordon Reid. Fox News. Would you describe this as a ritual killing, doctor?”
“I can’t speak for the killer’s motives.”
“There’s talk this is the work of a Satanic cult.” The Fox guy stuck to his game plan. “Is that a possibility?”
“I’m not here to indulge in speculation on faith-based violence. I can confirm that there was no attempt to remove the fetus and no evidence of goat’s blood.”
Another reporter fired off a question. “How was the stake driven through the victim’s heart?”
Mercy rewarded this inquiry with a thoughtful expression. “In the Roman manner, I imagine.”
Jude stifled laughter as the media bozos stared at one another in chagrined confusion, waiting for some intellectual giant to interpret this.
“So you’re saying it was a mafia hit?”
“I’m saying the spike appears to have been hammered, a proclivity made famous by Pontius Pilate.” This biblical reference only seemed to puzzle her audience even more. Without so much as a blink, Mercy translated, “People, she wasn’t whacked by the local godfather.”
A brief silence ensued. Several reporters then started speculating on the identity of said godfather, the Four Corners not being known for organized crime. Jude could see the ludicrous headlines tomorrow:
Mafia Link Denied in Vampire Killing.
Mercy answered a few more questions with polite aplomb before pointing to an emaciated newswoman with a blinding platinum dye job. Suzette Kelly, the face of Channel 8, was wearing her signature look, a candy pink suit and a necklace of huge white pearls. Jude wondered what a big name like her was doing miles from Denver on a hick town news beat.
Like a barracuda parting a shoal of goldfish, Suzette carved her way to the front of the pack. “Doctor, would you care to comment on the rumors surrounding your personal relationship with Elspeth Harwood, the British actress.”
Jude’s small gasp was echoed throughout the room.
Mercy raised an eyebrow. “Suzette. You know I’d love to get into girl talk with you about celebrities. But alas,” she flashed a coy smile, “I have an exhumation.” Evading microphones, she stepped behind a couple of Montezuma’s finest and vanished out the side door.
Staring after her, Jude found herself grinning like a fool. She wiped her expression clean of delight as Sheriff Pratt arrived at her elbow. He wasn’t amused.
“Detective Devine, would you drive Dr. Westmoreland to the scene? Take a patrol vehicle. We can’t expect her to ride in that truck of yours.”
“I was planning on getting it washed, sir.”
“You’ll have to do that later. She’s waiting out back.” He hovered like there was something on his mind.
“Sir?”
“We don’t want any trouble with Utah,” he confided.
Mystified, Jude said, “Understood.”
They shared a moment’s stoic reflection.
“Alrighty then.” Pratt tugged on his collar like it was too tight. “You better get going.”
*
“Guess you’re headed back to Grand Junction this afternoon,” Jude remarked after she and Mercy had made it through the mandatory pleasantries and had been driving in silence for a while.
Mercy stopped staring at the passing scenery and took stock of her. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me if I’m free for dinner?”
Jude had met some fast women in her time, but the question caught her napping. Could Mercy really be gay and not just a straight woman under time pressure? She tried not to sound startled. “Er…would you like to have dinner?”
“Business or pleasure?” Mercy said “pleasure” with a hot smile that took the straight-woman option off the table like it had never been there in the first place.
Unable to believe her luck, Jude asked, “What’s your preference?”
“I’m kind of a sucker for pleasure.”
Jude dragged her filthy mind off the word “sucker” and commented politely, “The social opportunities are fairly limited in these parts, aren’t they?”
“No kidding. It’s Denver or self-service.” Mercy took a mint from her purse and popped it into her mouth. She offered the bag to Jude. “Want one?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“I’m trying to place your accent. Where are you from, originally?”
“Back east. D.C.”
“Of course. I heard you were with the Bureau.”
“Guilty as charged.”