Jackass.

“Can you let her know—”

“What’s your business with her? She’s in the middle of an excavation and a murder investigation. I don’t think she’ll appreciate me bugging her ’cause some stalker is looking for her.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Michael took half a step forward and lowered his voice. “Pick up your radio and get someone back there to tell Dr. Campbell that Brody’s finally here. She’ll want to talk to me.” He glanced at the fleet of police cars and obvious unmarked American sedans. “Callahan here yet?”

The cop’s eyes narrowed at the detective’s name, and his hand moved to his radio. “Not yet.” He deliberately turned his back and spoke into his radio.

About time. Michael rubbed at the skin of his baking neck and wished for an icy bottle of water. Or beer. Would Lacey drag herself away to talk to him? When she was deep in a case, she had a tendency to forget about the outside world. Her cell was turned off; he’d tried to call a dozen times.

The cop half turned his head and watched Michael from the corner of his eye as he spoke quietly into his radio. Michael ignored him, studying the recovery scene in the ninety-degree heat. It was hot, dry, and dusty. Every time he inhaled, his lungs were coated with fine dirt.

Cops in navy-blue uniforms dotted the brown fields. God, they had to be dying in this summer heat. Small white tents hid private procedures from prying eyes and the news helicopters’ cameras. Too many tents. More tents meant more bodies. A tall figure in a Tyvek protective suit strode from tent to tent.

Aw, shit.

Victoria Peres. Identifiable at any range. The rangy forensic anthropologist probably wouldn’t let him on the site even if Lacey held his hand. Michael blew out a hot breath and felt sweat trickle down the center of his back. He slipped his sunglasses back on and turned away. Might as well start making some more calls instead of wasting his time trying to get into Fort Knox. He needed to know what they’d found buried beneath the dirt; he wasn’t here for a story. This was personal.

“Hey!”

At the cop’s bark, Michael looked over his shoulder. He’d finished with his radio and had crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging below the short sleeves of his summer uniform. His name badge read “Ruxton.”

“You’re the damned newspaper reporter who raised a stink about our overtime pay,” Ruxton sneered. “Had every suit on the city council pissed off about the overtime we get paid.”

Not again. Michael briefly closed his eyes.

Ruxton wasn’t nearly done. “If the city would loosen its ass to gives us some cash to hire more police, then we wouldn’t have to work overtime.”

“I didn’t—”

“You reporters just write headlines when someone decides to sue us because they dinged their head while running away during an arrest. Or because they broke a rib fighting against being cuffed. You don’t know—”

With two rapid steps, Michael closed the distance between them, eyes hot. “I’m also the reporter who helped hunt down that sick son-of-a-bitch cop killer last winter.”

The cop’s mouth slammed shut.

“Some of my closest friends are cops, and I’ve got nothing but respect for the job you do, but don’t judge me by what you read in the paper, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Unflinching, the men stared at each other.

“Michael?”

Michael turned at the female voice, his day instantly brighter and the cop completely forgotten. Lacey looked fantastic but tired. The petite forensic odontologist had just stepped out of a micro-thin, crispy jumpsuit and was holding it between one finger and thumb. Her nose wrinkled.

“In this heat, no deodorant can win against these damned plastic bags they make us wear.”

Her warm brown eyes looked Michael up and down. Lacey frowned and glanced at the glowering cop. Instant understanding crossed her face. She gave the cop her brightest smile, and Ruxton’s spine visibly relaxed. He lazily dragged his gaze from her hiking boots up those shapely tanned legs to her shorts and snug tank top. Wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and stuck out the back of her Seahawks’ cap.

Michael’s strongest ally. A woman who wasn’t tall enough to come up to his shoulders. Gorgeous, blonde, hot, kind, sexy, and smart. The whole package. Every man’s dream girl.

The cop didn’t have a chance. She’d wrap him around her finger just like that new gold band on her left hand. The band with the big-ass diamond.

Not Michael’s diamond.

Damn you, Jack Harper.

Lacey flashed perfect teeth at Ruxton. “Mind if I bring him in? Dr. Peres has been waiting for him.”

Michael coughed. Victoria Peres? Not fucking likely.

Ruxton blinked and looked at Michael like he’d appeared out of a genie lamp. Michael smirked. Lacey had that effect on men. “He needs to sign the log. Here.” Ruxton thrust the clipboard at Michael, a wry tilt to his mouth. He’d spotted the ring.

Lacey winked at Ruxton and pushed Michael toward the listing barn. Her steps slowed considerably after twenty feet. Michael pulled her to a stop and lifted her chin with a finger, taking a closer look at what the cop hadn’t noticed. Dark shadows hung below her eyes, and her lids were red and swollen.

“Is it bad?” He crushed his lips into a hard line. It took something truly horrid to upset this woman.

She briefly closed her eyes, all flirty pretense evaporating. “They’re all children, Michael. One after the other.” She sucked in a ragged breath. “At first, only one skeleton had been reported, but the cadaver dog keeps finding more.”