The Bones She Buried

Thirty-One

Back at the station house, they updated Chief Chitwood and Gretchen, and then ordered takeout. Josie checked her cell phone, but there were no messages from Noah. She tried calling him but got no answer. She sent him a text threatening half-jokingly that she was going to send a unit to his house to check on him if he didn’t let her know he was alive. It took ten minutes, but finally, he texted back, I’m alive. Packing Mom’s house today. Josie felt part relief and part anxiety. She was happy he was responding, of course, but she missed the genial and even flirty nature of their usual exchanges. He used to end nearly every text to her with a series of smiley faces or a ‘love you’. Inwardly, she chastised herself. Noah had just lost his mother in a horrifically violent way. The least of his concerns was making Josie feel reassured. She felt selfish for even thinking about it. She turned her mind to another worry—would Noah be safe alone at his mother’s house? They still didn’t know what the killer was after, and in only a matter of days Beth Pratt had been murdered, her house burned to the ground, and Mason Pratt had been attacked in his sleep.

She picked up the phone and dialed dispatch to see if Officer Hummel was still on shift then called his cell phone and asked him to run checks on Colette’s house.

Without looking up from her computer screen, Gretchen said, “Good call.”

When Mettner appeared next to her desk, it was a welcome relief. He handed Josie a list of what looked like antique dealers and pawn shops. “I had Hummel work on this today. He got nowhere with your belt buckle.”

With a heavy sigh, Josie studied the list. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”

Gretchen looked up from her computer. “What do you mean?”

“The year has to have some significance. It was forty-five years ago.” She looked at Mettner. “Have someone go over to Rockview.”

“The nursing home?” Mettner asked.

“Yes,” Josie said. “Get someone to talk to the residents. Show them the photos of the belt buckle. Many of them would have been young to middle-aged in 1973. Someone might have an idea as to its significance or where it came from.”

“You got it,” Mettner said, walking off.

Gretchen stood, stretched her arms over head, and called after him. “Don’t go too far. I got you two a meeting with Lance Fraley.”

Chitwood appeared in his open doorway. “Palmer can go,” he said.

Mettner, who was almost at the steps, froze and looked back at the Chief.

Gretchen’s face filled with hope. “I’m off the desk?”

Chitwood raised a brow. “No, not entirely. But we’ve got two murders—and I consider Beth Pratt’s to be pretty damn high-profile—and now an arson and another Pratt in danger. So Palmer can help very quietly with some of the leg work. Quinn, you’ll take Palmer to see Lance Fraley. Mettner, you track down that belt buckle yourself. I’ve already got the ERT working overtime to process the evidence from the Pratt murder scene, and now the Pratt arson scene plus Mason Pratt’s house. I have more crimes than I have people. But Palmer, I swear to God, if you step out of line even one time, even just a little bit, your ass is on the desk until you retire.”

Gretchen could barely contain her grin as she answered, “Yes, sir.”