Eyeshot by Lynn Hightower

bright out to see inside. Probably the wife, wondering if they were coming in.
    â€œI’m Specialist Blair, this is Specialist Delarosa.”
    Cheatham shifted his weight like his feet hurt. “Y’all like to come on in and sit down? Get out of the sun?”
    â€œI appreciate the offer, Mr. Cheatham. But what would really help is for you to tell us what happened and show us where you found the … the bag. Let us take a couple of pictures.” Sam held up a camera.
    Sonora put a fresh tape in her recorder. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. The heat was making her queasy.
    Cheatham nodded. His mouth worked in nervous little chewing motions. “My boat’s down this way, y’all want to see?”
    Sonora glanced over her shoulder—the sheriff’s car was out of sight behind the trees. She nodded at Sam. “Head on down. I want to check on Heather, then I’ll catch up.”
    â€œWant to bring her down?”
    Sonora glanced at Cheatham. He wouldn’t talk freely about dismembered body parts with a seven year old around. Neither would she.
    â€œNope.” Sonora headed back through the trees.
    A man stood next to the sheriff’s patrol car, his back to her, arms resting on the open window. She could see the top of Heather’s head, and Clampett sitting in the driver’s side. The front dash was fogged with dog drool and snout marks.
    The man wore a faded pair of Wranglers, a white cotton T-shirt. Cute butt, which didn’t stop Sonora from wondering what he was doing chatting up her seven year old, and why Clampett didn’t bark.
    Her feet hit gravel and the man turned.
    â€œGirl, you look like you’re going to tear my head off. Don’t recognize me?”
    She didn’t right at first. His hair was longer than the last time she’d seen him, thick and brown, and his face was tan. He looked fresh-scrubbed and cool, sunglasses hung from the neck of the T-shirt. His cheeks were pink from a fresh shave, arms more muscular than she remembered, coated with coarse tan hair.
    â€œSmallwood.”
    He gave her a sideways look, fluttered his lashes provocatively. “You can call me Deputy, if you want.”
    â€œI’m still trying to figure out why my dog doesn’t bark at you.”
    â€œI have a way with animals. Usually sheep.”
    She was going to shake his hand, but he gave her a hug instead. She caught the faintest whiff of scent. He smelled good. She liked it when men smelled good. She wished she wasn’t so hot and sweaty.
    He nodded at Heather. “These rookies get younger every year.”
    â€œIt’s take your daughter to work day.”
    â€œMom’s going to take me to the morgue when I’m older,” Heather said.
    â€œMuch older,” Sonora muttered.
    â€œ And teach me to shoot.” Heather gave him a cheerful grin. “Mommy, I’m hot. Can Clampett and me get out of the car?” A film of sweat coated her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed.
    â€œYeah, hop on out.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Smallwood asked.
    Heather was fumbling with the door handle, and he opened the door, gave her a hand out.
    Sonora stepped away from the car, voice low. “Got a find here that may match up to what you got in London.”
    â€œHead, hands, and feet,” Heather said. She looked at Sonora. “That lady in the office told me.”
    â€œGood of her to bring you up to date. What brings you out here, Smallwood?”
    He smiled. “This is Southern law enforcement. We all know what goes on in each other’s backyards. Plus, we did kind of find the leg on our watch, if it turns out to be a match.”
    â€œDid you know Julia Winchell?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œYou want to walk down with me, talk to the guy who found her, take a look around?”
    Smallwood glanced at Heather. “What you going to do with little bit here?”
    â€œTake her along.