Corpses, in Sawyer’s opinion, were always more honest than people.

“Tom,” Sergeant Faber said, jutting her lower lip beneath her pixie cut. “Can we just play nice for a few more minutes? Hmm?”

Detective Lopez was glowering over the smaller form of Sergeant Faber, his eyes fixed on Sawyer. Lopez had a square jaw and, Sawyer had been informed, was found handsome by most of the ladies in the department. The few times Agent Sawyer had worked with the locals, assigned by the Bureau office, he’d been paired with Lopez and Faber.

He didn’t mind them. Though he suspected Lopez didn’t share the sentiment, and Faber—while more patient—often got underfoot.

“No cigarette,” Sawyer muttered.

“Ah, he speaks!” Lopez said sarcastically. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Sawyer glanced back toward the car, back toward the body on the ground and the small green lighter which had been marked with a yellow number seven. He looked from the victim’s fingers to the front seat of the car, then shook his head.

“What do you mean, no cigarette?” Faber asked, with a resigned sigh.

Sawyer waved a hand at the lighter. “No cigarette. Lighter wasn’t for her.”

Faber blinked. “Wait—you think the killer asked for a light?”

Sawyer adjusted the brim of his cap and began to stalk around the car in the opposite direction. He noted a couple other evidence tags by the side of the road, where wheel tracks scraped dust onto asphalt.

A couple of the lab geeks gave him a long look as he walked over what they thought was their crime scene. Of course, that was their first mistake.

The crime scene was no one’s. Not yet. Not until the case was solved. And then Agent Sawyer felt certain he’d be the one to stake ownership. A suspect in custody as his claim.

“Agent Sawyer,” Lopez said, making no effort to disguise his frustration. “Where are you going now?”

Tom, though, was moving toward the tracks on the road, frowning as he did.

“Sawyer!” Lopez said, louder.

Tom glanced back, raised a prematurely silver eyebrow. He pointed toward the road. “Killer’s truck,” he said. “Same tread.”

Lopez blinked. “Same tread?”

Faber stood next to her partner, frowning. “As the other murder? The one from yesterday?” she asked.

Sawyer nodded. Faber was the smarter of the two. He liked smart. He addressed his next words to her. “Same truck. Same tread. Both necks slit.” He shrugged. “Serial killer?”

He inflected it as a question. Lopez’s frown became rather fixed at these words. The handsome, square-jawed detective glanced off into the trees for a moment, as if looking for a ghost.

“He’s not still here,” Sawyer said, feeling the urge to chuckle, but keeping his expression placid.

Lopez, though, wasn’t entirely useless as a sleuth, it seemed, as he detected the humor. The man scowled. “Didn’t realize they taught you BAU sorts how to track tread.”

“Didn’t learn that at the BAU,” Sawyer said. “Learned it fixing trucks. All right—I’ve seen what I need to.”