Mason glanced at the victim’s fingers. No ring. And no sign that a ring had been removed. His fingernails were decently clean—not an automotive industry employee. At least not an employee that was hands-on with the vehicles. Would finding his identity help pinpoint the link between Carson Scott and Aaron King? Was this guy active in politics? “Anything else? No tattoos on this one?”

Dr. Rutledge grimaced and shook his head. “We’ll have to rely on the weight. I’ll have an accurate number for you later.”

Mason stood up and stretched his back. When Ava’s work phone had rung this morning, neither of them had been surprised. But why had the killer picked this bridge? He scanned the high forested hills on both sides of the river. The morning was cloudy, but the sun peeped through to shine on the Columbia River. The bridge was one of Oregon’s most beautiful. A steel truss bridge, it looked like a delicate children’s toy that spanned the river. It wasn’t a solid-looking, heavy-duty structure like those of the last two hangings. The Bridge of the Gods had always reminded Mason of the old Erector Set he’d had as a child.

“There’s a camera at the tollbooth,” Ray stated. “It’s set to capture images of the drivers and their license plates, but he could have driven onto the bridge from the Washington side, turned around after disposing of his victim, and skipped the tollbooth. That’s what I would have done. The small rise at the crest of the bridge in the center keeps the operator from seeing this end of the bridge.”

“It’s definitely not a busy bridge,” added Ava. “I bet they don’t have more than a few dozen vehicles cross each night.”

Mason nodded. The bridge was in a remote area. The tiny town of Cascade Locks sat at the foot of the bridge on the Oregon side, and a heck of a lot of not much was on the Washington side. In his opinion, the bridge was one of the highlights in the Columbia River Gorge. The river spanned the boundary between Oregon and Washington and showcased miles of steep, forested mountain slopes and waterfalls.

Ava stared up at the metal framework. “It’s truly gorgeous. I’ve driven out this way once since I’ve lived here, but I’ve never crossed the bridge. I remember seeing it from the highway as I drove along the Columbia. Why did they name it the Bridge of the Gods?”

“I believe it was an Indian name for a dam that was created by a landslide farther west of here,” answered Ray.

“Did they destroy it when they made this real bridge?” Ava asked.

“I think the Columbia River eventually wore it away. I don’t know who decided to carry on the name with the modern structure,” said Ray. “I heard Charles Lindbergh flew under it one time.”

Mason looked down at the water. Suddenly the bridge didn’t seem nearly high enough. The thought of aiming a plane between the bridge and the water made him dizzy. “Seriously?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

“Is there a sexual aspect to this death, Seth?” Ava asked the medical examiner.

“Not that I’m seeing, but”—he gestured at the cuts on the chest—“this has a different tone to it. If our victim were a woman, I’d say there was a sexual aspect. The upside-down triangles almost create breasts on him.”

Mason moved to stand at the feet of the victim and get a view from a different angle. “I see what you mean. But if I were trying to make him look more female, I would have made the triangles right side up.”

“The upside-down triangle is a female symbol,” Ray began.

“Jesus Christ,” blurted Mason, glaring at Ray. “You’re a handy walking Wikipedia, Ray, but I’m disturbed by your knowledge of certain topics. Why don’t you know hockey stats or John Wayne trivia?”

“Actually, I can quote a lot of John Wayne.” Ray looked hurt. “But hockey has never held much appeal for me.”

Zander laughed, and Mason raised a brow at him.

“You two are like an old married couple,” Zander said with a grin. Mason tried to remember if he’d ever seen such a broad smile on the serious agent.

“How long have you worked together?” he asked.

“Too long,” they stated in unison.

“Long enough to improve his clothing choices,” said Ray. “You should have seen him before he met me.”

“I keep flushing, but this one doesn’t go away,” muttered Mason.

“Oh, dear Lord.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Focus, people. He’s cutting his victims now. We’ll figure out the why of it later. What else does anyone notice?”

The men examined the corpse. Soon tired of staring at a large dead body, Mason looked at Ava and felt a calm sweep through him. There was a subtle magic between them he hadn’t experienced with another woman, which made him want to rush home to be with her in the evenings. She’d acknowledged feeling the same chemistry. Before they met, the two of them had been content to be alone, but now they’d stumbled on something addictive that’d changed their perspective.

It was a treasured gift.

She looked up and met his gaze. Her brows narrowed in question at first, but then she caught his intensity and fascination. She smiled, her face lighting up. Stunning.

Exchanging heated looks with Ava over a decaying corpse, Mason felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Later that afternoon Ava sat in the office of a women’s shelter. Across from her, the director leaned her arms on her desk and told Ava again, “We don’t discuss the identities of the women in our shelter. It could mean the difference between life and death for one of them.” Cindy Birkholz had dark eyes that were kind and welcoming, but as Ava was discovering, she also had a spine of steel and wouldn’t be bowled over by her FBI identification. The woman’s hand-knitted sweater and gray hair had misled Ava.