“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.” He was glad though. Grateful. It stung that his SAC had no hesitation in releasing him from the Ripper taskforce, but frankly it was a relief to get off morgue patrol. It wasn’t that he didn’t think they were doing useful work helping to compile the database of the Ripper’s victims for eventual possible federal prosecution. It was work a probationary agent could handle. Just about tolerable when he’d been partnered with Jonnie. He and J.J. Russell had been at odds from the moment they’d shook hands. Russell resented morgue patrol even more than Adam did, and Russell nearly was probationary. First office agent. Bu-ease for an agent who didn’t know enough to realize how little he knew.

Maybe what really bugged him about Russell was he reminded Adam too much of himself. Or at least the self he’d used to be.

“If they’re a substation then they’re too small to handle a homicide investigation, and they need to hand it off to the state police. Or to a larger sheriff department in the county,” Russell said.

Which was perfectly true.

“There’s nothing about this that justifies bringing in the Bureau.”

“Murder on federal property,” repeated Adam.

“We’re from Los Angeles. This is Portland’s case, if it’s anybody’s.”

“They asked for us. They requested our help. Portland signed off on it.”

“Because Portland doesn’t think it’s worth their time or manpower.”

Russell was probably right about that too. Adam said neutrally, “Maybe we should wait to draw any conclusions.”

Russell’s silence was stony.

So that was the drive from the airport. It took about an hour. Then another two minutes after they reached Nearby to locate the sheriff’s office tucked between the library and the optimistically named Tourist Center.

Over the past months Adam had been inside so many of these small town police departments and sheriff stations, he could have described the interior without ever opening the door. It was always the same setup: from the female deputy frustrated with being the one stuck manning the phones, to the bulletin board papered with the crimes and tragedies of distant metropolises. Be on the lookout for…other people’s problems. Because nothing bad ever happened in these small towns.

Until it did.

This time the deputy was tall and boyishly thin, with dark hair tied back in a tight ponytail that would be a liability in a street fight. Since she would probably spend most of her career doing paperwork and answering phones, her hair style was likely not a concern. Her eyes widened at the sight of Adam and Russell.

“Frankie!” she called without glancing at the identification Russell proffered.

From an office on the other side of the long wood-paneled building, Sheriff McLellan called back, “Yep?”

“They’re here.”

Russell put his identification back. Sheriff McLellan bustled out of her office to meet them. She was shorter, stouter, and redder than Adam remembered. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Agent Darling.”

It was always short notice. Nobody planned for a murder or a kidnapping or a bank robbery. Adam shook hands and said, “Of course, Sheriff. This is Agent Russell.”

McLellan nodded a curt hello to Russell. She looked haggard. Like she hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. Which was probably accurate. There were bags beneath her eyes and lines carved around her mouth. She pointed to the front desk deputy. “That’s Aggie. Deputy Hawkins. You know the rest of the team. Zeke is out interviewing residents of the homes nearest the museum. Unfortunately, we’ve got a number of vacation properties out that way with nobody home this time of year. Rob and I have been going over the crime scene photos.”

Adam didn’t like the way his pulse gave a kick at the mention of Deputy Haskell’s name. That was the last thing he needed. He’d enjoyed their previous encounter, but it had been a one off. It had to be.

“Help yourselves to some coffee.” McLellan led them into her office. “So far the media hasn’t caught wind. We’re hoping it stays that way.”

“That won’t last,” Russell said. “Some blogger will get hold of it. Somebody’s going to go on Twitter.”

Rob was sitting to the side of McLellan’s desk. There was a coffee cup and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate near his elbow. He was poring over a gruesome selection of crime scene photos. Glancing up, he met Adam’s eyes, gave a tiny nod, and returned to scrutinizing the photos.

That was a relief. Nothing to worry about there. Rob clearly shared his desire to keep things on a strictly professional basis.

So why he felt ever so slightly piqued, Adam wasn’t sure.

Funny thing: he hadn’t recalled Rob being so handsome. He was. From that strong, square jaw to those expressive, dark eyes, he was by anyone’s standards a very nice looking guy.

“Rob, you know Agent Darling. And this is Agent Russell.”

“Agent Russell.” Rob glanced again at Adam. His mouth quivered ever so slightly as he added, “Darling.”

“Who processed the crime scene?” Adam asked. “State police?”

“That’s right,” McLellan said.

Russell said, “Sheriff, why is a substation attempting to conduct a murder investigation? Why has this not been handed over to the Medford or—”

“Because Medford is Jackson County,” Rob said, and all good humor was gone from his face and voice. “You’re in Klamath County. And we’re not a substation. Nearby is an incorporated village. We’ve got our own civic charter, and we’ve been recognized by the state legislature. Frankie is the duly elected sheriff of this community.”

Russell turned red, met Adam’s eyes, and looked away.

Adam said, “Whatever advice or assistance you need, Sheriff. Say the word. This is your investigation.”

“Good,” Rob said. “Because one way to guarantee media coverage is inviting in the FBI.”

“Robbie,” McLellan cautioned.

Rob shrugged.

“You called us, remember?” Adam said.

“I didn’t call you,” Rob said. “If it had been up to me—”

“No, I called Agent Darling,” McLellan cut in. “Duly elected or not, we’re out of our depth. And the last thing we want is to have to turn this over to State or KPD.”

“Then let’s stop pissing on trees and start working the case,” Adam said.

Rob said shortly, “Suits me.” He pushed the photos across the desk. His hands were strong, capable. Nails clipped short, cuticles a little ragged. Adam experienced a sudden, vivid memory of those hands stroking his back, caressing his ass.

He swallowed and said to McLellan, “Is the body in the mortuary?”

“No. Not this time. The remains have been transported to Klamath Falls.”

Adam turned to Russell who said, “I’ll interview the ME.” Adam nodded.

Russell wanted to return to civilization ASAP, and Adam didn’t really blame him. Russell believed they were on a wild goose chase, and Adam thought he was probably right. The difference was he was grateful for the break. Russell, on the other hand, resented spending time on anything that would not potentially bring him to the attention of his superiors and possible promotion. Adam got it. Once upon a time he’d felt the same way.

As Russell left the office, Adam picked up the crime scene photos.

You got used to them, of course. You couldn’t do the job if you didn’t manage to develop a high threshold for other people’s pain. Not so high that you stopped caring, but high enough that you could look at the slaughter of a woman like Cynthia Joseph and not lose your lunch.

It did make it hard to sleep sometimes.

Cynthia Joseph had been about forty. A dark-haired woman with strong rather than pretty features. Granted, it would be impossible for anyone to look pretty with her throat cut.

He opened his mouth and Rob said tersely, “He hit her over the head with a metate. Hopefully he knocked her cold.”