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She turned to see Officer Ortiz watching them. She raised a hand, tilting her brim to shield her eyes from the sun.
Then she called out, "Going to need to speak with James Veely. He still around?"
"Yeah... Yeah, he's in town. Now?"
"Forensics on the way?"
"Yeah."
"Then now. Keep a couple of uniforms stationed here. Don't let anyone touch the scene."
She turned, waited a second for Ethan to take another photo of the crime scene, and then the two of them hastened down the dusty trail to speak with the man who'd called in the murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun scorched the dilapidated facades of the ghost town, and its dry breath whispered through the swinging doors of Rosie's Last Stand Diner. Rachel squinted against the glare, her boots kicking up puffs of dust as she made her way across the deserted street with Ethan trailing close behind.
"Quite the set for our little mystery," Ethan remarked, his voice low, as they approached the diner that looked like a relic from a Spaghetti Western.
Rachel nodded, her gaze fixed on the building's chipped paint and the rusty tin sign that creaked on its hinges. She pushed through the doors, the smell of old grease and stale coffee hitting her nostrils.
Inside, the space was dimly lit, the walls adorned with sepia-toned photographs of better times. A jukebox in the corner stood silent, its lights dim. An officer across the street glanced at them, watching their progress. When he met Rachel's gaze, he gave a quick nod and thumbs up. He'd been the one to point out the diner as their temporary HQ.
Inside, two more officers stood against a wall, occasionally glancing towards the only other occupants in the diner.
Her eyes locked onto a couple huddled in a corner booth. James Veely's fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on the Formica table, his eyes darting around the room. Beside him, Lila Veely sat rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"Afternoon, folks," Rachel greeted, her tone even, betraying nothing of the tension coiled within her chest. She slid into the booth opposite them, Ethan taking a seat beside her.
"Detective," James managed, his voice tinged with a warble he couldn't quite control.
"Ranger, actually. Just here for routine follow-up," Rachel said, her words clipped as she observed the couple. "You seem unsettled, James. Anything the matter?"
Lila's gaze flickered between her husband and Rachel, a silent plea passing through her eyes. Her lips parted, then closed, no words escaping.
"Ah, just didn't expect company," James replied, a forced laugh escaping him. He wiped his palms on his jeans, leaving damp streaks on the denim. "Cops said I could head out pretty soon."
"You can. You will..."
Rachel leaned back, crossing her arms while maintaining her piercing stare. She could almost hear the cogs turning in James's head, see the beads of sweat forming at his temple. Lila's knuckles were white, her posture too stiff, too careful.
"Interesting choice for breakfast," Ethan chimed in, his voice casual but observant. He was eyeing the small bottle of green juice sitting by Lila's hand.
"Old habits," Lila murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes downcast.
Rachel just studied them. James had been the one to report the body, but the shoe prints she'd spotted back at the crime scene had been distinctly feminine. She had seen enough nervous suspects to recognize the dance of deceit. As she sat there, absorbing the Veelys' discomfort, her instincts told her they were on the brink of a breakthrough. Something about the weary lines of the diner, the haunted look in Lila's eyes, told her that this was not a comfortable setting for the two of them.
"We didn't do anything!" Lila suddenly piped up.
"Interesting. We didn't say you did," Ethan cut in.
"Do we need a lawyer?" Lila demanded.
"Hopefully not. Do you?"
"Let's keep this friendly," Rachel suggested, her tone light but authoritative. "Just a chat among... acquaintances."
James exhaled, the sound shaky, as if releasing a burden he'd been carrying far too long. Lila's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, a surrender to the inevitable.
