Free Shiver by Lisa Jackson Page B

asked, stating the obvious.
    “He’s naked, but she isn’t. He was tied to the chair, I think, in the submissive position.” Brown eyes looked at him again. “And the white bridal dress isn’t the usual dominatrix attire.”
    Montoya asked, “How would you know?”
    “Hey, Montoya, there are a lot of things about me that you don’t know. Dog collars, whips, lace-up gloves are only part of ’em.” She flashed him a smile suggesting she was joking, then double-checked her drawing, her expression turning professional again. “I’m still banking on Mr. Size Twelve, but we’ll know more when we finish processing the scene.”
    “Good.”
    “So I suggest you find out everything you can about our victims.”
    That went without saying, but rather than pick a fight with her, he asked, “What about the rest of the house?”
    “Looks undisturbed, but we’re checking every room, including the attic.”
    “The lock on the door?”
    “Old and rusted. Broken. The fingerprint and tool guys are going over it.”
    “Anyone know who owns this place?”
    She shot him another don’t-mess-with-me look over the tops of her half-glasses. “Someone does, but it’s not me. Another thing you’d better check out.” She began drawing again and careful to disturb nothing, he took one last look at the victims in their macabre position dead center in the middle of the small room before checking his watch, logging out, and walking outside. Though the morning air was still thick and sticky, it felt crisp compared to the stagnant, foul atmosphere inside the cabin. Picking his way around an investigator making casts of tire tracks and footprints, he headed to the old red pickup.
    A barrel-chested black man was seated on the driver’s side, his radio turned on, his thick fingers tapping against the steering wheel in an impatient rhythm.
    “Ray Watson?” Montoya asked and flipped his ID in front of the open driver’s window. He cast a glance at the back of the truck. Beside the canoe was a fishing creel and a few poles, tackle box, oars, safety vest, and bucket of bait. Everything was strapped down as the tailgate of the truck was open to accommodate the length of the canoe.
    “That’s me.” Watson was around fifty. He had a flat face with dark skin, wide-set eyes, and teeth that, when he talked, showed off a bit of gold. A tattered Saints cap was pulled low over nappy salt-and-pepper hair. Wearing big overalls over a T-shirt, he seemed agitated and tired. On the seat next to him were a pair of hip waders, a flashlight, and a tin of chewing tobacco.
    “Mr. Watson, can you tell me what you found? How it happened?”
    “You saw for yourself,” Watson said, his big eyes rounding. “I didn’t touch nothin’. That place”—he pointed past the bug-splattered windshield toward the house—“is just like when I first opened the door. I came up here fishin’ like always, but this time, somethin’ looked different about the place. Just kinda…I dunno…not right. I checked, noticed the door open, and stepped inside. That’s when I saw them, the dead people.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean the guy’s naked as a jay bird and the woman’s dressed up as if she’s goin’ to her own damned wedding.” He glanced away from the cabin and straight into Montoya’s eyes. “I took one look, saw that they were dead, then I came back to my car and used the wife’s cell phone to dial 911.”
    “Do you know either of the victims?”
    “No, sir,” he said emphatically and shook his head.
    “What time was that?”
    “About an hour and a half earlier,” he said, checking his watch. “Five A.M . So I can start fishing at dawn. I come early before breakfast. It was still dark when I passed by the house, but I shined my flashlight on it, like I always do, and as I said, somethin’ looked strange, gave me a weird feelin’, you know? Can’t really explain it, but I come up here quite a bit and I could tell