Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

some damp-looking chips, a container of yogurt, a beer, a burned-down cigarette. “I know that you’re wondering about the time of death,” she said. “Because of Kirk’s homicide, I mean. So listen to this. When I used Timms’ phone to call nine-one-one a little while ago, the message light was blinking. After I made the call, I played the messages back.”
    “Damn it, China,” Sheila said. “You know better than—”
    China raised a hand. “Yes, I know. Not my job. But hear me out. There were four. The first was a girl, at twelve twenty, saying she’d left a gold bracelet here and hoping that George had found it. The second and third were from Charlie Lipman, at two forty-five and three fifteen, wondering where Timms was. The fourth one was from Charlie, too, at threefifty. He was pissed. He told Timms that if he didn’t show up for the surrender, he could kiss his lawyer good-bye.”
    “But by that time,” Sheila said thoughtfully, “Timms must have been dead for several hours.”
    “Exactly,” China replied.
    “He didn’t pick up at twelve twenty,” Sheila went on. “So maybe he sat down around noon to eat a sandwich, with chips and beer. Saw something at the bottom of the hill, went to investigate, and died there—well
before
Kirk was killed.” That twelve-twenty phone call might eliminate him as a suspect in Kirk’s homicide.
    China pursed her lips. “Wonder if that girl will ever get her gold bracelet back.”
    Sheila went out to the Impala, where she radioed Dispatch and was patched through to Meacham. Without going into detail, she asked Martha to telephone the sheriff’s office, find out what was going on, and get her assignment. She signed off, knowing that the dogs and their handlers would be on their way as quickly as possible, with a backup team ready to go if they were needed.
    While Sheila was down at the creek with the deputies, an EMS van had pulled in and the medics were waiting beside it, talking to another pair of deputies who had just arrived. As she finished with SAR and got out of the car, Jack Bartlett pulled into the parking area. He stopped beside her and got out, patting the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket.
    “Got the warrant,” he said. “The judge was happy to oblige.” He looked over his shoulder. “In fact, she’s not far behind me. The sheriff’s office notified her of the death while I was there with the warrant. She’s on her way out here to officiate.”
    “Good,” Sheila replied. “Did you bring your camera?”
    “Yep.” Bartlett lifted his briefcase. “Am I photographing the body?”
    “No,” Sheila said. “We’ll let the sheriff’s team take care of that.” She beckoned. “Come on—we’re going inside.”
    As she spoke, she heard the sound of a chopper and looked up to see a news helicopter from Channel Four in San Antonio circling overhead. The sheriff’s office obviously hadn’t been able to keep the story contained. Timms’ killing by a mountain lion would be the lead story on the network news that night.
    As they walked, Bartlett said, “Blount called as I got about halfway out here, Sheila. She’s been working for the past hour on Timms’ computer. She’s found some photographs that she thinks might have been a motivating factor.”
    “Lewd?” Sheila asked quickly. “Pornographic?”
    “I haven’t seen them yet. All she would say was that she thinks she’s got something. Plus, she says that the photos are linked to names in Timms’ email address book, which may be helpful. Butch dusted before Annetta got started,” he added. “He said he picked up several prints. He didn’t have any luck with Hatch on AFIS, though. Looks like he’s not in the system.”
    “Disappointing,” Sheila said. The AFIS fingerprints and criminal history information were submitted voluntarily by state, local, and federal law enforcement agencies. Smaller jurisdictions didn’t always submit.
    “Yeah,” Barlett said, as they went around the house. “We’re calling this a separate investigation?”
    “Yeah,” Sheila said. “We don’t know where it’s going or how it’s connected to our other two cases. The Kirk homicide, the break-in.”
    “Agree,” Bartlett said. “You’re taking the lead?”
    “On this one, Jack,” Sheila said. She’d already thought about this. It wasn’t that she was giving in to Blackie—this just made sense, that’s all.But she felt the need to add an explanation. “There’s likely to