Beneath the bones, p.1
Beneath the Bones, page 1
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BENEATH THE BONES.
Beneath the Bones
A Kate Holland Suspense
Hidden Valor
Book 3
Candace Irving
1
They were still staring.
Kate Holland had no need to glance over the top of her menu for visual confirmation. She could feel it. The two, twenty-something, Middle Eastern women who'd paused their conversation to covertly study the man who'd escorted her into Persepolis five minutes earlier were now openly admiring that same man. She couldn't blame them. Last weekend, wearing a threadbare, Razorback-red sweatshirt with his dark hair and distinctive Persian features coated with shreds of calcified glue and recently stripped wallpaper, Arash Moradi had been attractive. But this afternoon? Dressed in the tailored, charcoal gray suit and slate-blue tie he'd donned for his day job? The Mazelle detective was downright riveting.
If only she could keep those women focused on him.
But, no, the two had finally shifted their attention. The women were zealously examining her features now. Comparing. And they were talking again.
Whispering.
Given that Arash had offered her the preferred "cop seat" at their bistro table in the corner, it was bound to happen. Just as Kate possessed an unobstructed view of the only other patrons in the restaurant aside from the trio of men who lingered over coffee by the door, the willowy, partially veiled woman and her curvier companion at the center of the room had a full-on view of her.
Unfortunately, it wasn't her lack of modest hair covering, much less the Braxton PD deputy's uniform or the 9mm Glock that she'd holstered in at the right of her utility belt this morning that held either woman's attention.
It was her own face. One that no one would have ever deemed model material. Not before her final tour in Afghanistan—and definitely not after.
She knew full well the mishmash of mottled scars and burns that she'd brought into this intimate, Little Rock restaurant were anything but palatable.
Which was why she'd fought this for so long. Him. The fellow police officer seated just around the curve of the table on her right, politely pretending a similar fascination with a menu he had to know by heart, since his friend owned the place. She could tell Arash was doing his damnedest to remain calm and cool amid the shift in scrutiny, but he was failing. Every stretch of sinew beneath that suit had become taut. She didn't need the services of a UN translator to know why.
Those feminine whispers had become louder. Pointed.
Cutting.
Granted, her Arabic was sketchy at best, and her Farsi was non-existent. It didn't matter. Kate knew exactly what was being said at that nearby table.
What is he doing with her?
The moment the ire in those normally easy-going features of the man beside her turned molten, she was certain.
She reached out. But by the time her fingers connected with the sleeve of his suit, Arash had risen halfway out of his chair.
"Don't. Please."
Those dark eyes, so much like the feminine ones across the way—yet nothing like them—dipped to hers. "Kate, you don't understand—"
"Yeah. I do." More than he'd ever know. Though she was certain the detective had been referring to his decision to put an end to the mortifying conversation across the way, rather than her own lack of ability to translate that conversation.
She squeezed his forearm. "Arash, it's not worth it." She wasn't worth it. Even if she hadn't been wearing a Braxton PD uniform, and this wasn't his friend's place.
"Yes, it is. You're worth it."
There was no arguing with the iron in that decree. She didn't even try. She shifted her fingers instead, trailing them over the back of his hand. "Please."
She could feel the battle within as every muscle in his body remained rigid. She didn't think he was going to let it go.
But he had to. Because those two young women? They weren't the only ones staring now. The trio of men near the entrance had dispensed with their conversation. Coffees ignored, all three were observing the interplay across the restaurant, curious to see what the patron in the suit decided to do.
"Arash?"
He finally clipped a nod and sank into his chair, albeit stiffly.
Relief eased in…until Kate realized that Hashem Baku had stalked out from the kitchen. He headed straight for the women's table. The decree that accompanied the older man's arrival was quiet, but firm. Hashem also spoke in Farsi, but like before, there was no translation required. His meaning resonated within the narrowed glint of the taller woman's stare, as well as the outright pinching of glossed lips as both stood: this was his establishment and they were no longer welcome within. Leave.
To Kate's utter humiliation, Hashem made a point of walking the seething duo to the door, which he firmly closed behind them. If he returned to his friend's table now to take their order, she'd be forced to slide all the way underneath.
As for Arash? Kate couldn't even look at him.
She stared at her menu instead, her entire body heated and flushed as she attempted to study the glossy photos within. It was useless.
She hadn't felt this exposed since she'd woken up as a POW in an Afghan, mud-brick hovel four years earlier, abused, bleeding and naked.
Thankfully, the trio of gentlemen accepted their host's proffered round of fresh coffee, their lively conversation and teasing camaraderie restored by the time Hashem retreated into the kitchen.
As for the camaraderie that she and Arash had been experiencing of late, that had been obliterated.
Undaunted, he leaned close to tap the photo of an elaborate stew over rice. "You might like this one. It's similar to khoresh bademjan, the eggplant dish I brought to the house. Except with beef."
She forced a smile. But the breezy, you're right; we can get through this disguised as the mundane "sure" that should've accompanied it refused to materialize. The one her impromptu, late-lunch date was hoping to hear.
Kate caved into the growing agitation instead, and stood. "Excuse me. I…ah…need to use the restroom."
The man's lips tensed, but whatever he was about to say remained trapped. Inclining his head, he eased the back of her chair from the table as he, too, stood. Those same archaic, yet charmingly attentive manners of his had been in full force from the moment she and Arash had linked up out in the parking lot. The ease with which they and that warm, smoky smile of his had been extended to her as they'd entered Persepolis was probably what had set the two women sniping in the first place.
Hell, who was she kidding? One look at her face was all the fodder those two had needed.
Kate threaded her way around the abandoned table and turned into the hall that led to the restrooms, intent on the privacy she'd begun to crave from the moment she'd sensed the disgust in those stares. She pushed through the second door and threw the lock. Bypassing the floral settee and hand-painted wooden partition that shielded the toilet, she stopped in front of a sleek pedestal sink at the far wall. But as she turned on the water to splash a palmful over her still-heated features, she realized her error.
Hashem's wife had hung an oval mirror above the faucet. One large enough for a diner to take in her entire face should she want to touch-up her hair and makeup.
And the face that greeted Kate?
There was no escaping it now—much less the four-inch mottled scar that bisected her right cheek, along with the smattering of smaller scars and pockmarks that marred the curve of her jaw and the entire length of her neck. Fortunately, her uniform hid the ravaged shoulder and torso beneath.
She'd woven the russet strands of her hair into a French braid that morning. Perhaps if she'd left it down—
Right. Hair swinging past her shoulders or not, there was no escaping the fallout from her final tour with the Army.
It wasn't as though she wasn't used to the encroaching fascination and outright rude stares the mutilated side of her face tended to engender in others. Especially very attractive adults. But the crass comments that occasionally accompanied them? Those tended to roll off her equally battered back.
So why had they mattered today? With those women?
Except, she knew. Arash.
She and the Mazelle detective had gotten to know each other as he'd helped begin the remodel of her father's old bedroom. They'd gotten along so well, he'd taken to nudging her openly. Oh, Arash had been smooth and diplomatic enough, but the message had been clear: after nearly a month of nightly visits to her secluded split log home, he wanted to take her out. In public. Make the idea of them public.
Her shrink had backed him up. After all, she'd completed seven of the twelve cognitive processing therapy appointments designed to conquer her PTSD. And those sessions? They were working. She truly believed her best friend's beheading was not her fault and that she couldn't have prevented it. Although she still woke from the occasional nightmare, the acceptance had dulled their intensity. Much to the relief of Ruger, since her German Shepherd took his guard-dog duties seriously.
Especially when Ruger was forced to protect her from herself.
She was even able to wear Max's dive watch again without twisting it so hard that she ended up excoriating the skin beneath.
And the best part? Her confidence in her professional judgement had returned. Which was…a profound relief.
But the rest?
During their sessions, Dr. Manning had zeroed in on the distancing from her mother and the flat-out active emotional abuse from her father. Both of which had evidently laid the groundwork for her eventual PTSD. Fortunately, Manning had also promised that the fallout from the abuse could be reversed. And that enjoying a public date with Arash was a step toward becoming the happy, well-adjusted person he believed she could be, on the job and off. Manning was determined to heal the entire person.
She wanted that too. So she'd called Arash and had invited him for a late lunch prior to her pending meeting with a colleague out at the Little Rock Airbase. It was two o'clock on a dreary Thursday in mid-January. Persepolis should have been deserted. Yet she'd still ended up the star of the freak show.
Arash had to be having second thoughts about them by now.
Time to find out.
She turned her back on the image in the mirror and crossed the room to unlock the door. Two steps up the hall, her phone rang.
She stopped to retrieve it from her utility belt, surprise filtering in as she spotted the name on her caller ID. "Hey, boss. What's up?"
"Howdy to you, too. Sorry to interrupt your meet with Agent Wynne—unless you're still with Arash. In that case, I'm interruptin' lunch."
Yeah, there was no way she was confirming the latter. Even if a pair of sniping women hadn't tainted this outing, Lou Simms was a stickler for breaks. He believed they kept his deputies happy and healthy. Which meant, she'd just been handed a get out of a humiliating lunch free card. "What happened?"
"We got a skull."
Shock had her snapping to attention. "In Braxton?"
"Yep, that was pretty much my reaction, too."
"Can you tell—"
"If it was murder? Not yet. It's still mostly buried. Looks to be human, though—and old. Cecil Newbury's kid found it on that sandbar that reappeared durin' the last passel of water releases upriver at the Toad Suck locks. Colton and his metal-detector totin' buddy were huntin' treasure. The kids got more than they bargained for. Anyways, Seth and I just strung the tape. Nester and the rest of the crime scene boys ain't even here yet, and Tonga's roughly forty minutes out, too. So if you're needin' a bit more downtime—"
"I'm leaving now."
She could hear the stream of tobacco juice as it shot from her boss' mouth, hopefully landing well away from yet another potential crime scene in town. Their sixth since this past November. If foul play had been involved in the burial of that skull, what the heck was going on in their supposedly sleepy southern town?
Then again, if the skull was old, the crime was too.
But how old?
"If you're sure ya don't need—"
"Absolutely." Even if her lunch with Arash had been steaming along fantastically, her curiosity had locked in the moment she'd heard skull. "See you in thirty, boss."
Kate hung up before the sheriff could argue, her boots clipping up the remainder of the tiled hallway and into the dining area beyond. She caught sight of Arash in quiet conversation with his friend.
Both men came to their feet as she reached the opposite side of the table, with Hashem smiling and nodding before he retreated to his kitchen.
Arash waited beside the chairs. That searching stare of his took in the energy humming through her and sharpened. "What happened?"
"Lou called. We've got human remains on our hands."
"Wow. Foul play?"
"Don't know yet. Though if it was murder, Lou's initial impression suggests it's likely to be a pretty old one." Which meant they'd be lucky to solve it. Something Arash was well aware of due to his own experiences on the job.
"Damn." He shook his head, then waved a hand over the fragrant naan and humus Hashem had delivered in her absence. "Rain check?"
"Looking forward to it."
And there was the first bald-faced lie she'd ever kicked this man's way. With that pointed lift of his brow, he'd let her know that he knew it, too.
Thankfully, he didn't call her on it.
His dusky fingers curled over the closer chair, biting into the darker wood as the tension returned. It was clear he didn't want her to leave. Not with the ugliness of what had happened with those sniping women still tainting the air. Fortunately, Arash was a dedicated public servant. He bit back what he wanted to say and nodded. "I'll see you to your SUV."
She shook her head sharply. From the way his frown deepened, too sharply. "You stay. Enjoy what's left of your lunch. Chat with your friend. I'll, ah—"
Her phone rang again, saving her from the awkward remainder of that drawn-out excuse, and an even more awkward goodbye. She retrieved it and held it up. "Sorry. I need to—"
"No problem. I'll swing by tonight. Usual time. To start the painting?"
"Sounds good." She accepted the call as she turned to the door.
It was Agent Wynne from the airbase, needing to postpone this afternoon's meeting and the evidence hand-off from their previous case. By the time she'd assured Wynne that something had come up on her end too and agreed to meet the following week, she'd cleared the door to the restaurant and climbed inside her Durango.
Two minutes later, she'd turned off Markham Street and was headed out of Little Rock and north to Braxton.
With traffic light on this stretch of I-40, just under half an hour passed before she reached the access point closest to the reappearing sandbar that Lou had referenced. Pulling into the gravel lot beside the stand of trees that shielded this bend in the Arkansas River, she spotted nearly every vehicle in their department, save for the medical examiner's meat wagon. At least she'd beaten Tonga to the scene.
Clearing Nester's crime scene van, she turned into the slot that Seth had left for her between his official Braxton SUV and the sheriff's sedan. Lou's graying girth was braced against the rear of his trunk, texting on his phone.
Kate glanced at the orange face of the Doxa dive watch strapped to her left wrist just before she killed the engine. 2:39. On a Thursday. Crap.
Since it was scraping the wrong side of forty degrees outside and threatening to resume drizzling, she snagged her Braxton PD jacket and navy-blue ball cap from the passenger seat as she climbed out. "You're late."
Her boss glanced up from his phone long enough to shoot a stream of blackened tobacco juice toward the opposite end of the lot and shrug. "The mayor won't mind the wait—once I explain why."
Yeah, but the head of the city council would, especially if that was who was on the other end of the text stream that Lou had promptly returned to. Woody Skelling had had a blister on his butt with Lou's name on it ever since the man's son had swept into town last fall to schmooze the remaining council members in an effort to convince them to fire Lou so he could take his job.
Fortunately, the bid had failed.
Skelling Jr. might hold an impressive arrest record with the Jonesboro PD, but he was also a sanctimonious snob. The day she was forced to call that man boss would be the day she'd be turning in her notice, along with Seth, Owen, Drake and the rest of their "hick" department—except, possibly, for their most recent hire, Deputy Brice.
The verdict was still out on Brice, personality and job-skills wise.
According to Lou, Tab Brice had been an up-and-comer out west with the Phoenix PD, until a family setback had precipitated the deputy's move to Arkansas. And since the previous hire Lou had lured down from Fayetteville had been forced to quit before his first day, Lou had deemed the department and town damned lucky to get Brice. But other than her and Lou, no one'd had a chance to get a bead on the new guy. Brice wasn't even on the roster yet. She'd just met the man herself last night, and only because she and Ruger had swung by Lou's to return half of his wife's Tupperware collection on their way back from the dog park.
But those ninety seconds with the town's newest deputy? As with Skelling Jr., she'd been admittedly less than impressed.
Hopefully, the impression would improve upon further exposure. Which she was about to have, given that she could see Brice's squared-off, closely shaven towhead and crisp, navy-blue uniform bobbing through the trees buffering the river beyond.
