Silver's Bones by Midge Bubany Page A

asked.
    â€œYes. The Dawson girl was wearing jean shorts, a pink T-shirt, sandals—all of which match what was recovered.”
    She opened the file folder and spread out five eight-by-ten colored photos encased in plastic protectors. They were close-ups of an earring, a ring, a necklace pendant, a scrap of dirty pink cloth, and a section of a jeans pocket.
    â€œI think everyone in Minnesota remembers this high profile case,” she said. “Her identity has to be officially confirmed, of course, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s Silver Rae. Now comes the hard part: finding out who murdered and buried her after fifteen years.”
    Troy asked, “Why bury her in that location?”
    I said, “It was an undeveloped area. The only residence on the north side of Lake Emmaline at that time was the Mitchell lodge, which was seldom used. I’ll talk to Del to see if he noticed anything when he did the remodel.”
    â€œCal, did you get the Mitchells’s current contact information from the daughter? We should talk to them,” the sheriff asked.
    â€œI did.”
    Troy interjected, “Maddie said her parents were friends of Silver Rae’s boyfriend’s parents. Dr. and Mrs. Bentley Gage.”
    â€œWhen did you find that out?” I asked.
    â€œJust last night. I also found out that Silver’s boyfriend, Parker, recently joined his dad’s medical practice,” Troy said.
    â€œGood. Easy to get him in for an interview,” Patrice said.
    The sheriff’s phone rang. She listened for a short time then said, “Take them to the blue interview room. We’ll be right there.”
    She looked at us in turn. “The Dawsons are in the lobby, demanding a meeting. Let’s go.” She rose from her chair.
    I moved to leave but Troy hesitated.
    She noticed and blinked a few times. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œYou’re micromanaging this investigation.”
    Patrice didn’t respond, and I wasn’t going to step into that fire pit.
    Troy turned his hand palms up. “I’m just sayin’.”
    â€œAnd I’m just saying it’s my ass if you don’t solve it, so yeah, I’m involved.”
    â€œYour ass? That’s all your worried about?” Troy said.
    Oh shit. Troy. What are you doing?
    â€œNo, of course not. We need to give this family some justice.”
    I pulled my lips in and nodded agreement.
    â€œYou got it . . . Sheriff Clinton . . . your ass and justice ,” Troy said.
    She huffed and said, “By the way, I think it’s about time you both call me Patrice to my face.”
    Then she walked out. I raised my brows to Troy and said, “Are you gonna sit there and pout—or are you joining us?”
    He gave me the finger, but followed behind. Patrice held the elevator door for us. An uncomfortable silence ensued in the short ride to the first floor. I refused to try to smooth things over for the asshole by making conversation.
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    As we approached the interview room, I felt nauseated, like I always do when I meet with families of victims. The Dawsons were already seated at the round table when we arrived. They were both short and round, and had brown hair with a sprinkling of gray—an average Midwest couple with a less than average life story.
    Mr. Dawson stood as Patrice reached out her hand to say, “Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, I’m Sheriff Clinton. Thank you for coming in. These are my deputy investigators, Cal Sheehan and Troy Kern.”
    Saying my name first was a definitive shot to Troy.
    â€œI’m Ray, and this is my wife, Franny.”
    We shook hands and took our places at the table.
    â€œThank you for seeing us without an appointment,” Franny said.
    â€œNo problem,” Patrice said.
    Ray sat forward, matching Patrice’s body position. “We think the person you found at Emmaline is our Silver Rae. It’s only a couple miles