Free Break No Bones by Kathy Reich Page B

into the case?"
    "Yes."
    "I'l do it if you promise to go straight home to bed."
    "How about this?" Emma counterproposed. "I deliver the NCIC forms to the sheriff, get him working on the Dewees skeleton. You supervise recovery of my hanging victim. We keep in touch by phone."
    "After your nap."
    "Yeah, yeah."
    "Sounds like a plan."
    9
    THIS IS WHAT EMMA KNEW.
    Matthew Summerfield IV was a troubled kid from a family that didn't tolerate imperfection. Mama was Saly, nee Middleton, of the First Continental Congress Middletons.
    Daddy was a Citadel grad and reigning monarch on the Charleston City Council.
    Matthew IV tried foot-stepping Matthew III, but got bounced for smoking pot as a plebe. Deciding on tough love, Daddy booted Sonny from the family homestead.
    Matthew IV bunked in with friends, made spare change by buying rice and dried beans at the Piggly Wiggly and repackaging them as thirteen-bean soup and hoppin' John mix for the tourists. On February 28, young Matt left his stal at the Old City Market near East Bay Street, walked to Meeting Street, and vanished. He was eighteen.
    Emma's directions sent me over the Wando River and north to the Francis Marion National Forest, a quarter-milion-acre triangle of coastal plain bordered on the north by the Santee River, on the east by the intracoastal waterway, and on the west by Lake Moultrie. Slammed hard in '89 by Hurricane Hugo, the flora in the Francis Marion had rebounded with al the vigor of a Brazilian jungle. The whole drive I worried about finding the action.
    I needn't have. Vehicles lined the shoulder. Cruisers with their lights flashing. A coroner's van. A park ranger's Jeep. A battered Chevy Nova. Two SUVs, their occupants bumper-leaning in tanks and cutoffs, faces bearing identical expressions of eager curiosity, already teling the story in their heads.
    I was pleased to see no media trucks, but, given the crowd, doubted that would last.
    Besides the gawkers, the only people visible were a uniform and two black kids. Grabbing my pack, I climbed from the car and headed toward them.
    The boys had shaved heads and looked about sixteen. Both were gangstered up in enormous basketbal jerseys and butt-hanger jeans. From Emma's report, I guessed this was the lucky pair that had blundered upon the body.
    The cop was a smal man with brown-black eyes. His name tag said H. Tybee. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, Deputy Tybee's creases were razors and his hat sat perfectly squared to his brows.
    Hearing me approach, Tybee stopped his interview and looked up. His nose was pointy with a high, narrow bridge. I imagined his buddies caling him "Hawk."
    The kids regarded me with arms crossed, heads canted so their ears almost touched their shoulders. Tybee kept his expression neutral so I could read it any way I chose. I read it as arrogant.
    Three boys acting tough.
    I introduced myself and explained my connection to the coroner.
    Tybee crooked his head toward the woods.
    "DOA's yonder."
    Yonder?
    "These homeboys claim they don't know squat."
    The homeboys shifted their slouches to smirk at each other.
    I spoke to the taler of the two. "What's your name?"
    "Jamal."
    "What happened, Jamal?"
    "We already tole him."
    "Tel me."
    Jamal shrugged. "We seen something hanging from a tree. That's it."
    "Did you recognize the person hanging from the tree?"
    "Dude's messed up."
    "Why were you in the woods?"
    "Enjoying nature." Traded smirks.
    Hearing a motor, we al checked the road.
    A white Ford Explorer with a blue star on the side panel was rounding the curve. We watched it pul to a stop behind one of the cruisers. A man got out, folowed by a dog.
    The man was tal, maybe six-two, and broad-chested, like a boxer. He wore pressed khakis and aviator shades. The dog was brown and had retriever somewhere in its parentage.
    I was beginning to feel underdressed. Next outing, I'd bring Boyd.
    The man strode toward us, carrying himself like someone who might speed-dial the governor. The words