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The image was blurry, as though the subject had moved just as the photo was snapped. It showed a young man with a straight nose, arching brows, and a lot of dark hair slicked back from his face. A young man who was Marine Corps poster good-looking.
“This was taken as Cloke passed through passport control.”
Monck placed his palms on the blotter, preparing to rise.
A sudden thought struck me.
“Ishe?”
“Is he what?” Monck held position.
“Outside the victim profile? He looks young.”
Monck said nothing.
“Or maybe we’re going at this all wrong. Maybe there are other victims we’ve missed.”
Monck gave me a look I couldn’t interpret.
“Iwillfind Cloke,” he said. “But right now, Uri Stribbe is out there and I’m going hot on his ass.”
“But—”
“I appreciate your coming, doc.” Monck pushed to his feet. “But how about you do your bones and leave the sleuthing to me? At least for one day?”
A day is not what he got.
26
The rest of the day was a study in disappointment.
I’d been in the autopsy room less than an hour when the door swung open.
Startled, I turned from the scope.
Monck looked like he’d just come from an all-you-can-eat buffet of frustration.
“I finally caught up to Willis. The jackass claims he was in Houston when Musgrove died.”
“Milo Willis?” Focused on cut marks, my mind was scrambling to make connections. “Musgrove’s ex?”
Monck nodded. “Willis says he was teeing off with buddies Wednesday through Sunday.”
“He was at a golf resort?”
“Yep. According to him and his three fairway pals he never left.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Let’s just say I plan to corroborate. I’ll check his credit card charges, airline tickets, talk to the clubhouse manager, the restaurant staff, the guys in the caddy shack, border patrol on both ends, you know the routine.”
“If Willis wasn’t in Provo he couldn’t have killed his wife.”
“That”—Monck shot a flesh finger at me—“is what I like about you.”
Surprised that he valued any of my character traits, I raised questioning brows.
“Your bullet-quick thinking.”
