Page 73 of Long Gone

Chapter 17

“Okay,” I said with a deep sigh. “We need to establish cause of death without disturbing his body.”

The light rain continued to fall as he moved over to the body and squatted next to the head. After a couple of seconds, he said, “That part’s easy. Bullet to the back of the head.”

Burying my nose into my arm, I joined him, squatting to see the round hole that was partially obscured by hair.

“No crime of passion here,” I said. “Execution style.”

“Punishment. Or revenge.”

“So it was an investor.”

“That would be my guess.” He moved to the side of the body and grabbed a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket. After putting them on, he squatted and leaned over, reaching into the pocket of the dead man’s dress pants and removing a wallet.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him he was disturbing evidence. That was the purpose of this endeavor, not that it made accepting it any easier.

He flipped the bifold wallet open and wiped off a film on the plastic covering the license. “The ID says Hugo Burton.” He opened the side to reveal several bills. “There has to be close to two hundred dollars here, so robbery wasn’t a motive.” He dropped the wallet onto the ground next to the grave and reached into the pocket again.

“You can’t just drop that there!” I protested. “I realize we’ve agreed to do this, but we have to pretend to care about the evidence at least a little bit.”

He looked up at me, his hand in the dead man’s pocket. “The sheriff won’t need evidence if you solve the murder.”

I noticed he didn’t say we. I would solve the murder. Was that because he didn’t plan on helping me or was he hoping to puff up my ego? Whichever the reason, he was challenging me. When I solved the murder. Not if.

“Just try to be careful,” I said, wiping the drizzle from my face into my shoulder. There was no way I was wiping my face with my hands. “I don’t want it looking like I pilfered his body before I report it.”

He grinned up at me, water droplets beaded in his hair. “You didn’t pilfer his body. You’ll be able to swear to it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Semantics.”

“They matter,” he said, returning his attention to his search.

I supposed they did to a guy like him. As long as he chose his words carefully, he could lie to the police without actually lying. It made me wonder for the umpteenth time why I was working with this man. He had an agenda, and he was using me to fulfill it. My gaze shifted to the Jeep. Then again, I was using him too, so as long as I acknowledged the fucked-up nature of the situation, I was less likely to become collateral damage.

“Found his keys.” He held up a ring with several keys hanging from it, then made a production of setting them carefully on the ground.

“Asshole,” I grumbled.

He grinned and continued searching.

The keys might be useless, but I was reserving judgment, then a new thought hit me. “They drove his car to the airport.”

“Yep.” He shifted his search to underneath the body.

“But they left his other keys behind.”

“They might not have been attached to his car fob,” Malcolm said, lifting the fabric of the pants.

“How can you do that so nonchalantly?” I asked as a new wave of stench rose from the pit.

He released a short laugh. “I suspect you don’t want to know.”

“Experience with other decaying bodies?” I asked against my better judgment.

He looked up and winked. “I plead the fifth.”

Once again, I questioned the wisdom of being out here alone with him. I knew he was a cold-blooded murderer, so why was I cooperating with him? Was it because I thought Daniel Sylvester had gotten off easy after watching my sister’s torture and not alerting anyone to save her? Had the anger festering inside of me made me more like James Malcolm than the detective I used to be?

---