The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON
responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.
“Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.
“Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”
“He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”
“I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”
She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.
“Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.
“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”
“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”
“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.
Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”
“Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.
“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”
Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?
“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”
“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”
Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.
“Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”
Griff chuckled under his breath.
Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.
“There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”
Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the twolane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.
Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.
“Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”
Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.
Laughing, he opened his door and got out. Before he had a chance to round the hood and open her door, she jumped out and met him at the right front bumper. He nodded in the direction of the big tree.
“Ladies first,” he said.
She walked ahead of him, up the side of the road and into the area near the bridge. The two men standing there watched as she and Griff approached. The younger man, wearing a tan Stetson and brown leather boots stepped forward.
“Mr. Powell?” he asked as he held out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Touchstone.”
Griff shook hands with Dean Touchstone, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Texas-lean, and sported a thick, old-cowpoke mustache.
He turned to Nic, removed his hat, and nodded, “Ma’am.”
“This is Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She’s working with me on this case.”
Nic had to bite her tongue to keep from correcting him and saying that he was working with her and not the other way around. But she forced a smile and shook hands with the sheriff.
“This is Vance Coker.” The older man nodded to Griff and gave Nic an appreciative appraisal, the kind men give most women at first glance. “Vance is the one who found Gala Ramirez’s body hanging from that tree right there.”
Vance was probably sixty, short, wiry, and gray-haired. At least what hair he had left was gray. He had the kind of weathered skin that a person has after years of sun exposure.
“Vance owns this land,” the sheriff said.
“Been in my family over a hundred years,” Vance added.
“He found Gala’s body hanging from that maple tree there by the bridge, the first of August. Me and Ellis, one of my deputies, came out just as soon as Vance called us.” Dean Touchstone turned his head and stared at the tree. “It’s been over ten years since we had a murder in Durant County.”
“Sure was a troubling sight,” Vance said. “That poor little gal was strung up like a piece of beef, her ankles bound together and her head scalped. You can’t imagine what that looks like if you ain’t never seen it. Real troubling.” Vance shook his head back and forth.
“Was she naked?” Nic asked. “Was there any evidence she’d been sexually assaulted?”
“She wasn’t naked,” Vance said. “She was wearing shorts and a blouse, both of ‘em bloody. Real bloody.”
“She wasn’t sexually assaulted,” Sheriff Touchstone said. “The coroner’s report ruled out rape.”
“What did the coroner’s report tell you other than she hadn’t been raped?” Griff asked.
Ignoring Griff’s question, Touchstone looked at Vance. “Thanks for meeting us here. I appreciate it.” He turned to Griff. “You folks have anything else you want to ask Vance before he leaves?”
Beating Nic to the punch, Griff asked the farmer half a dozen questions. His answers were succinct, but not very informative.
“If that’ll be all, Mary Lou’s holding lunch for me.” Vance looked to the sheriff for permission to leave.
Touchstone nodded. “Thanks again, Vance.”
As soon as the farmer got in his truck and drove off, the sheriff faced Griff and Nic. “I’ll give you folks the basic facts of the case, but that’s all. I’m not opening my files to you and I’m not sharing privileged information. Understood?”
Nic smiled. “Yes, Sheriff, we understand. You can’t divulge privileged information to just anybody, not even private detectives.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Touchstone smiled at her, a flirting twinkle in his eye.
Griff cleared his throat. “As I mentioned when