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“Have you ever seen a dead body?” I try not to soundtoogentle, which could imply she needs coddling.
That smile twists. “I grew up in a village five hundred kilometers north of here. One of my earliest memories was finding my cousin after he committed suicide. So, yep, I’ve seen a few. Got into social work in hopes of seeing a few less.”
The automatic impulse is to say that I’m sorry. I don’t. She didn’t share this for sympathy. Just stark facts.
I fold back the sheet from the woman’s face. Kendra doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “Nope. She isn’t one of us.”
I’m now supposed to ask whether she’s sure, but that seems silly, given the small number of people on-site.
Without me asking, she moves forward and studies the face further. “I’ve met everyone who’s worked here. There were a few supply drops, though, and I didn’t see the pilots.”
“One pilot,” Yolanda says. “I know him.”
Kendra glances at the dead woman again. Her gaze drops to the left hand, peeking out after I adjusted the sheet. She walks down to peer at it and then looks at the clothing folded on shelves.
“Is that hers?” she asks.
I nod and take the clothing down, silently unfolding it.
“If you don’t recognize her face,” Yolanda says, “you’re not going to recognize her clothing.”
Kendra takes no offense at the snap in Yolanda’s voice. Instead,the corners of her mouth twitch, her dark eyes dancing. “Are you sure? What if it was Penny’s clothing? Oryourclothing? Nowthatwould be a mystery.”
Yolanda only sighs, as if this is to be expected from Kendra.
“The clothing doesn’t look as if it belongs to someone living rough in the forest,” I say. “Nor someone who came here to enjoy the wilderness. Same as her hands. Not your typical hunter or miner or hiker. Which doesn’t mean she isn’t one of the above—just not what you’d expect.”
“Damn,” Kendra says. “And here I was hoping to be the first one to make that observation.”
I extend a hand. “Proper introductions. I’m Casey, former homicide detective.”
“A cop?” Her brows shoot up. “You don’t look like one.” She nods toward Dalton. “He does. You don’t.”
“And you don’t look like a social worker,” Yolanda says.
“Pfft. Then you haven’t met many social workers. I totally look like one. Now, a plumber? Maybe not. But with this hair, I’m definitely a social worker.” She turns back to me. “Yes, this woman’s clothing and her hands suggest she’s not—as you say—a typical hunter, miner, or hiker. Still could be a tourist.”
Dalton nods. “If she convinced someone to fly her into the bush dressed in blue jeans. Pay enough, and they’ll take anyone.”
She peers at him. “Nowyou’refrom around here.”
His brows rise.
“You’ve got the look,” she says. “Your dead woman does not. Death by misadventure, I’m guessing.”
“We’re still determining that,” I say.
“Murder?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t say yes to misadventure, because you don’t wantto outright lie, which means you suspect—or know—it’s murder.” She looks at Yolanda. “Is there a security risk?”
“That remains to be assessed,” Yolanda says. “In the meantime, I will proceed as if there is, with a curfew from dusk until dawn and a buddy system. I would have done that anyway, with Bruno and Penny.”
“Who are still missing,” Kendra says.
“I’d like to talk later, get your insights into both of them,” I say.
