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“Damn, Sharp,” Riley whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Martin’s expression darkened as he shook his head.
Sharp shifted and locked his focus on Riley. “Now’s not the time for a blow-by-blow, but I’ll soon be receiving case files that need reviewing. Like I said, I’m not the man to do the job since I have no objectivity.”
“I’ll call Clay today and give him a heads-up.” Riley’s low and steady voice was tight with emotion.
He wouldn’t allow her sympathy to penetrate his guard. “Thanks.”
Back at his car, Sharp slid behind the wheel and turned on the engine. He clicked the heater to high, anxious to drive the bone-deep chill from his body. He sat in the silence, watching as the body-removal team arrived and worked their stretcher through the tall grass toward the creek.
He reached for his phone to check messages. The first two were on existing cases. A witness had called the station and wanted to talk. Another was from the commonwealth’s attorney regarding another case. And the third—for a moment he sat still, staring at the name. Tessa McGowan. His wife, or more accurately, his estranged wife, had called a half hour ago. No doubt she was finally ready to file papers.
He fished out a cigarette and a silver lighter from his pocket. He lit the tip. Scents of tobacco mingled with trepidation. He inhaled twice before he played back the message.
“Dakota, this is Tessa. Hey, I’m back in Richmond, and I’d like to see you. Maybe we could meet for coffee. You’ve got my number. Thanks.”
Her tone held a tentative edge, betraying a nervousness that told him she was uncomfortable making the call. Shit, in the early days of their relationship, they’d been totally at ease with each other. Back then, if either was restless, it was because they wanted to get the other naked and into bed.
But the detachment that enabled him to deal with death had made him a shitty husband. When he withdrew, Tessa had tried to talk to him, but he never could bring himself to open up. Toward the end, she was all but begging him to communicate.
He stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette, suddenly irritated by the strain and distance in her voice. He listened to the message again as he opened his car door and stubbed the cigarette into the dirt.
At least she had called rather than texted. Anyone who texted tough conversations was a chickenshit.
Drawing in a breath, he called her. On the third ring, his call landed in her voice mail. “This is Tessa. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Bubbly, upbeat, and no signs of stress in the recording. That tone fit the memories of the woman he’d once loved. Hell, still loved. He missed that voice. That Tessa.
At the beep he spoke succinctly. “Tessa. It’s Dakota. I can meet you today at the coffeehouse next to the station. Two o’clock.”
He ended the call giving her no room to negotiate. If she really wanted to talk to him about filing divorce papers—the only reason he attributed to the call—she would do it at his convenience. He’d made it easy for her to leave him, but right now he didn’t feel like making this easy.
He started the car and was backing out onto the road when his phone pinged with a text. It was from Tessa. See you then.
The typed response must underscore her dread. She’d known that this time when she called, the probability of him answering was high. She needed to communicate, but she wasn’t eager to talk.
As much as Sharp wanted to bust Tessa for the text, he couldn’t, because he didn’t want to discuss the final stages of their marriage either.
He put the car in drive and texted: Understood.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, October 4, 9:00 a.m.
Dr. Tessa McGowan sat in her car, staring at the one-word text from Dakota. Establishing their first meeting in eight months, a task she’d been avoiding since her return to Richmond days ago, was done. What little relief she’d hoped to feel was fleeting and quickly knuckled under to anxiety.
“I will fix this mess,” she whispered.
She glanced up at the tall building located in Richmond’s city center. The building housed the state medical examiner’s office, where in a half hour, she had a job interview for a yearlong fellowship as a forensic pathologist with Dr. Addison Kincaid.
For the last eight months Tessa had worked with the United States military’s Project Identify in Vietnam to identify the remains of lost American soldiers. She’d been navigating the jungle paths and partly paved roads of the northern rural province, growing adept at slicing through jungle or dodging cows and widow-maker potholes.
The months away had left her out of practice with maneuvering rush-hour traffic and scouting parking spots. She’d allowed nearly an hour for the five-mile drive from her cousin’s Manchester apartment just south of the James River. Thanks to green lights and a prime parking spot opening up, she still had thirty minutes to kill.
Doing her best to shove Dakota from her thoughts and unknot a tangled stomach, she got out of her car and steadied herself on low heels. Straightening her pencil skirt, she squared her shoulders as she tucked her purse under her arm. Her plan was to walk around the block a couple of times, burning through the remaining minutes and calming her mind. She’d hiked hundreds of miles in the jungle and loved the steady rhythmic pace of walking. But the new heels negated whatever relief she’d expected when they quickly pinched and promised blisters.
With Plan A looking less viable with each step, she switched to Plan B, which was to sit in the medical examiner’s lobby and wait for her appointment. She walked toward the gray building and opened the front door. A rush of cool air greeted her as she approached a thick plate-glass window shielding the lobby receptionist.
Tessa leaned toward the circular opening and said, “Good morning.”
An African American woman in her fifties wearing a blue security guard uniform looked up over pink half glasses. “May I help you?”
“I’m Dr. Tessa McGowan. I have a job interview with Dr. Addison Kincaid. But I’m a half hour early.”
The woman studied her, as if reconciling Tessa’s words with the image of a too-petite, too-young woman with long black hair who did not fit the image of a pathologist. “Have a seat. I’ll call down.”
“Thank you.” Tessa turned and crossed the lobby, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. She sat on the edge of her seat, tightening her hand on the leather strap of her purse.
She’d applied for this job online two weeks ago on impulse, making the filing deadline by hours. When she’d received a call for an interview last week, second-guessing had kicked into high gear as it always did when she rushed without thinking. It wasn’t that she thought she couldn’t do the job. She could. What nagged her was the idea of establishing yearlong roots in a city filled with complications.
The elevator chimed open, and a tall, slim woman in her midthirties stepped into the lobby. She wore long dark pants, a white silk blouse, and thick brown hair coiled into a twist. Small hoops dangled from her ears, and around her neck a chain was threaded through a gold band. Green eyes scanned and settled on Tessa. The woman smiled. “Dr. Tessa McGowan?”
Hand extended, Tessa crossed to Dr. Kincaid. “Yes. I’m Dr. McGowan.”
Dr. Kincaid’s handshake was firm, her gaze direct. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ve heard great things about your department.”
Perceptive eyes sparked with curiosity. “Really?”
“I asked around about you.” She drew in a breath and reminded herself her rash candor had gotten her into trouble before. “When I was in Southeast Asia, we had several Virginia doctors attached to our group. They knew you by reputation. All spoke highly of your department.”
“Good to know.” A subtle smile tipped the edge of her lips. “Come on down. I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing this last year.”
“Great.”
The elevator doors opened, and they both stepped inside. Dr. Kincaid pushed the basement floor button.
>
“Tell me about the work you did in Vietnam.”
“The directive of Project Identify is to find the remains of US servicemen. We spent most of our time working with our guide and the village elders, who were trying to remember back fifty years ago when an air force F-111 crashed. Once we narrowed our search, we confirmed the actual site with ground-penetrating radar. From there it became a struggle to clear the jungle and excavate twelve feet of earth to find the remains of the two crewmen.”
Dr. Kincaid arched a brow. “Twelve feet?”
“The jungle grows fast and doesn’t like people reclaiming what it’s taken.”
“I understand you were able to make an identification.”
She was proud they’d reunited the lost soldiers’ remains with their families. “You’re well informed.”
“It’s a project I also feel strongly about. And of course, I’ve asked around about you as well.” The doors opened, and they walked the tiled hallway to her corner office.
