Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [140]
Several detectives searched the vehicle and the surrounding area for clues. Other officers measured skid marks. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the area, and a few curious passersby had stopped their cars and climbed out to rubberneck at the scene in morbid fascination.
“No one did survive.” Thane scanned the surrounding area. Sparse trees, deep canyons, red boulders peeking out of snow that was melting under the brilliant rays of sunshine.
“Why did Renee have Mary Theresa’s Jeep?”
“Who knows?” Thane lifted a shoulder and rubbed his jaw. Another car parked along the road, and he scowled at the man and woman who’d obviously decided to stretch their legs while viewing the accident scene.
Wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a heavy jacket with the collar turned up, Maggie hoped not to attract any attention. The excitement of stepping into her sister’s shoes, of being Marquise, had faded, and, like every other reclusive celebrity, she knew what it felt like to want to blend into the crowd, to avoid recognition, to guard her privacy. Maggie McCrae was already tired of being Marquise—she just wanted to find her sister.
The wind was fierce, though the day was clear, and she had to hold on to her hat as gusts tried to snatch it away from her. Detective Henderson had donned boots and a parka and was trudging through the snow, snapping orders to the men who were on the detail of searching the area. Dogs on leashes barked madly, trying to pick up a scent, as officers held them in check. Maggie crossed her fingers that Mary Theresa wasn’t dead, that her body wouldn’t be recovered from this desolate canyon. “Please let her be safe,” she whispered under her breath, and shivered as she glanced up at the sky.
“Pardon?” Thane stood beside her, mirrored aviator glasses hiding his eyes, his head bare, his sun-streaked hair ruffling in the wind.
“Nothing.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and heard strangers’ voices filled with idle curiosity, but no sense of despair or fear.
“Wonder what all the fuss is about?” a female voice, raspy from years of smoking cigarettes, asked.
“Someone died. A woman.” Her companion, maybe her husband, wasn’t into conjecture. “From the looks of it, she might be that newswoman—look at the plates.”
“Must be why there are so many cops here…uh-oh, here come the vultures—damned press.”
Maggie craned her neck and spied the white van with KRKY splashed in blue letters across the door. A satellite dish and other equipment were visible, and, as the van rolled to a stop, a cameraman and Jasmine Bell in a full-length blue coat climbed out. Her shiny hair, perfectly coiffed, fell victim to the wind. She scanned the crowd, spotted Maggie, and waved.
“I think we should leave now,” Thane said, noticing the news crew.
“It’s just the press.”
“But they’re gonna want an interview.”
“So we’ll give them one,” Maggie said, and without waiting for his response, wended her way through the crowd to Jasmine.
The reporter flashed her toothy smile. “Thought you might be here. What’s going on?”
The cameraman stood at the ready, and Maggie frowned. “Not yet, Phil,” Jasmine said.
Maggie gave her the rundown, and Jasmine told her that KRKY was giving the story number one priority. “We’re very concerned, you know,” she said, “and there’s talk of KRKY putting up a reward for anyone who has information about Marquise. No questions asked. When she’s discovered, the person who gave us or the police the lead that led us to her will collect ten thousand dollars.”
“Whose idea was this?” Maggie asked, mentally checking off Craig Beaumont.
“Ron Bishop and Tess O’Shaughnessy came up with it.”
“Figures,” Thane muttered.
Jasmine ignored him, her attention centered