by Mary Burton
The man paused and appeared to be looking at something in the window and then, glancing in Elisa’s direction, he began walking again.
DNA had been collected from Elisa’s body but it would take weeks at best to get the results. Was Elisa an unexpected diversion? Was she simply his type? And Bethany? The girl in Texas? For whatever reason, this guy liked killing smart women.
“So what the hell is it with you?” he muttered. “Why girls like that?”
“People will think you’re insane if you keep talking to yourself.” Georgia’s words were glib but the undertone drifting beneath telegraphed nervous energy.
The sound of her voice had him smiling and turning. As much as he wanted to rise and pull her to him, he kept his emotions in check. He leaned back in his chair, allowing his gaze to move over her. “I found the guy following Elisa.”
“Really?” Interest cut through the nervous edge that had sharpened her tone.
He tapped his finger on the screenshot he’d just printed. “Have a look.”
She moved close, but not so close that their bodies touched. She smelled of his favorite soap. He liked that she wore his scent.
Nodding, she rested hands on her hips. “Damn. Good hunting.”
“The needle is always there if you’re willing to toss a lot of hay.”
“So why’s he in Nashville?”
“I’ve been asking myself that question.” He could almost smell an arrest coming.
Georgia’s cell buzzed with a text and she glanced down at the display. “KC is calling.”
“More stage time.”
“Let’s hope.”
“I love to watch you sing. I get so damn hard.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m onstage.”
He cupped his hand behind her head, deepening the kiss. “We’re going to have a real date. One that involves those high heels.”
“Count on it.”
* * *
Georgia was in her office when she called KC back minutes later. He picked up on the first ring. “KC, what’s going on?”
“Georgia, I’m worried about Carrie. She didn’t come in to work last night and I’ve called her cell a dozen times and she didn’t pick up.”
Worry darkened her light mood. “I thought she had a cold.”
“I’m not buying her cold story anymore. Can you go over there? I know you’re at work.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” She moved toward her desk and pulled her purse from her bottom drawer. “Call the police, and I will meet them there.”
“She was talking about leaving him,” he said.
“What?”
“After Hal came at you in the parking lot something in Carrie shifted.”
An abused spouse was at most risk when they were leaving. Abusers, sensing a loss of control, often struck out more violently than ever to regain control. “On my way. Text me her address.”
Second doubts hounded her as she drove across town to the small three-room house. Jesus, she was so afraid of showing weakness that she pushed Hal hard when he’d confronted her in the parking lot. Had she had a hand in pushing him over the edge?
Her worst fears were confirmed when she pulled up and saw three marked cars, lights flashing, and the yellow crime scene tape strung by the first responders.
She bolted out of her car and rushed up to a uniformed cop, quickly showing him her identification. “What the hell happened?”
“Looks like a murder/suicide.”
A baby’s cry cut through the chaos and she realized a uniformed officer was cradling Carrie’s baby, trying to calm her cries. “The woman who lives here works at Rudy’s bar. Her name is Carrie Jacobs.”
“That fits the name on the driver’s license I found in a purse by a suitcase. It looks like she was going to leave him.”
“Her boyfriend is Hal West.”
“That also fits. He appears to have died of a single gunshot wound to the head.”
Tears burned the back of her throat. Had she caused this?
“It’s a holy mess in there,” the officer said.
“And the baby?”
“Neighbors heard the baby crying and called 911. She was found in her crib, very upset but physically fine.”
She crossed to the young officer jostling the crying baby. She knew next to nothing about babies but figured she knew more than this rookie did. She reached out and he gladly handed her the child. She nestled it close and began to rock her body as she’d once seen her mother do with a neighbor’s child. She spoke softly to the child until she settled. “Oh, baby Sara, I am so sorry. I should have made your mommy listen to me sooner.”
“Young female is in the kitchen,” the second officer said. “She’s been beaten to death. A male is in the living room with a single gunshot in the mouth.”
Invisible fingers clenched around her heart as she thought about her birth mother, Annie, who had been beaten when she was only days old. Instinctively, she made sure the baby’s face wasn’t smothered under the blanket. She smiled at the child. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“We’ve a call into social services and are trying to track down family.”
“Okay.”
The forensic van arrived and Brad got out. As he moved to the back of the van to suit up, an unmarked black SUV arrived and Deke and Rick got out. Her brothers strode to her. Both appeared taken aback by the image of her holding an infant.
“Deke,” she said.
His face softened with concern. She could barely hold back tears as she recapped what had happened.
Georgia looked at Rick. “If you can take the baby, I’ll suit up and go inside.”
Immediately, Rick reached out for the child. “Yeah, sure, of course.”
“You’re not going inside,” Deke said. “If you knew the victim, then you need to be out here and let Brad and another tech work the scene.”
“I can put aside my feelings. I can do this.”
“No. I wouldn’t let another officer in this situation go in there and I’m not letting you go. Stand down.”
Sadness cut and sliced her. “I kept telling her to leave the guy. He’s been putting bruises on her for months.”
“You didn’t cause this, Georgia,” Deke said.
She ran a trembling hand over her head. “I pushed her too hard. Every time I saw, her I pushed. I never know when to stop pushing. I’m always pushing. Goddamn it!”
* * *
Jake closed the door behind him, rattling keys in his hand as Georgia stood in the foyer of his house. She had called him from the crime scene, shaken and so upset he could guess at the tears threatening to overtake her. He told her to come by his place and where to find the spare key. He would be right over.
Her hair was damp from a shower and she wore only a towel. She’d called him thirty minutes ago. The murder scene was processed and she needed to see him.
Slowly, she dropped her towel to the ground, moving toward him. She didn’t smile. Didn’t flirt.
Instead, she closed the gap between them, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressing her naked body against his, kissed him on the mouth. He banded his arms around her, pulling her close. Whatever emotion she couldn’t express with words, her body conveyed. The unspoken need reached out to him and connected.
His body throbbed hard against her as she reached for his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. He kissed her on the milky pale skin at the nape of her neck and savored the soft moan in the back of her throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “No. Not one word. Or I’m leaving.”
He unclipped his gun and locked it in the entryway table. When he looked back at her and saw the raw yearning in her eyes he nearly lost control. God, he wanted her.
He smoothed back her damp hair spiraling in ringlets and draping over her shoulders. He kissed her shoulder and then the top of her breast. They would talk later, but right now, he wanted to be
inside her so badly he didn’t dare risk losing her to unwanted talk.
He unfastened his pants and pulled his shirt free. Her hands, desperate and needy, slid up his torso as he unbuttoned his shirt. She pushed it off his shoulders and kissed him. He cupped her breast. Squeezed until she moaned.
He shed the rest of his clothes and ran his hand up her flat belly over the curve of her breast. She closed her mouth and swallowed. “Bedroom, now.”
Taking her by the hand, he pulled her to his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. She lowered to her knees in front of him and smoothed her hand up his muscled legs. When she leaned over and put her mouth on him, he arched back, moaning her name. She seemed to crave anything at this moment that would bring her pleasure and erase the murder scene.
He cupped her shoulders and guided her onto the bed. She scooted up on the pillows and laid back as he straddled her. She reached for him.
“No,” he said.
Frustration darkened her gaze. “No?”
“Slow and easy, baby. We’re gonna enjoy this.” He would touch and kiss every part of her body and chase away, at least for a little while, all the evil she’d witnessed today.
“I can enjoy fast.”
He shook his head. “You’ll like slow better.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to stop?” He kissed the hollow between her breasts.
“No.” The word escaped on a growl.
“Then, slow it is.”
She moved her hand down his body, but he captured and kissed it before lowering his mouth to her neck. He pulsed hard against her and she wiggled as if the emotions were so powerful that they scraped against the underside of her skin.
“You’re a sadist,” she said.
He laughed. “Yes, I am.”
“Don’t men want it fast?”
“Sometimes.” He kissed her neck. “Sometimes, not.”
He moved his hand over her flat belly and she sucked in a breath. He circled his fingers over her belly button and then deliberately moved his hand lower. When he pushed his hand into her folds, she whimpered. “I’m not going to make it much longer.”
He chuckled. “We’ll find out.”
* * *
Tim parked almost a half mile away from Dalton Marlowe’s house to ensure that no one saw him on the property. With darkness around him, he worked his way through the wooded backyards until he reached the fence circling the large green backyard.
In the far back right corner there was a gap in the fence that offered just enough space between two iron slats through which his body could squeeze. He and Mike had used it too many times to count when they snuck in and out of the house. That dumbass Mike was always in some kind of trouble with his old man and grounded so they’d resorted to sneaking. Mike had never cared about rules or restrictions. He came and went as he pleased.
Sucking in a breath, he wedged through the iron rods. In the last five years, his body had thickened with muscle, forcing him to push harder. Iron scraped over the buttons of his shirt.
Once inside the fence, he tugged his shirt back into place, taking time to make sure it was neatly tucked into his pants. He jogged across the manicured lawn to the back door. It was five minutes after midnight.
Now standing on the back porch, he stared at the brick mansion that had been such a big part of his teen years. Five years had passed since he’d last stood here. So much had changed since then. Mike and Bethany were dead. He’d followed Amber to Texas and now back to Nashville. He’d grown up. Gotten smarter. And yet this place was exactly as he remembered it. The gardener still trimmed the hedges in a straight line, flower boxes remained filled with the same kind of red flowers, and the grass was as thick and lush as a flawless green carpet.
Everything changed and yet nothing changed.
He considered testing the basement window with the faulty latch. Had his old man fixed it? Mike used that window often to sneak out of the house. His mother and father’s excessive restrictions and her unending pressure for him to be perfect always sent him running.
Mike really had been a pussy. He’d been a spoiled brat who had it all handed to him on a silver platter, but he’d never been satisfied. Always wanted more.
A week after Mike’s mom died, they lifted a few bottles of bourbon from Marlowe’s study and snuck through the fence. They ended up along the banks of the Cumberland River, sitting on the riverbank and tossing stones into the rushing waters. Amber had joined them. She’d hugged him and then kissed Mike on the lips. While Mike’s eyes were closed, she looked at him, staring, teasing. He was jealous, angry that such a great girl wasted her time on a moron like Mike. His family didn’t have the Marlowes’ wealth, but his prospects were so much brighter.
As they drank more and more, Mike started to talk about his mom. She forbade him ever to see Amber again. She called her white trash. Mike’s eyes went vacant as he said with no hint of emotion, “I shoved her hard and she crumbled like a rag doll.” He explained with cold precision how she staggered back and lost her footing at the top of the stairs and fell down the entire staircase. The three of them sat in silence, digesting the weight of his words.
Later, the doctors would say Mrs. Marlowe’s advanced stage of cancer killed her, but it was the fall that shattered her remaining strength and ended her life. Both Mike and his father mourned her passing in public. They wept openly at the funeral. They made donations in her name. They kept her portrait hanging in the study. And both were glad she was gone.
He pressed his finger on the back doorbell. As bell chimes echoed in the house, he pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the doorbell button clean. Lights clicked on inside. Fast, determined footsteps approached. By the sound of it, the old man wasn’t happy about the interruption.
Good.
A small flutter of doubt dug into his gut as the latch on the other side scraped free and passcode numbers dinged as they were punched into the pad.
He straightened just a fraction as the door jerked open to Dalton Marlowe’s frowning face. An instant passed as the old man stood and stared. Like the house, he was the same. The hair was still black but streaked with gray, the frown lines still bracketed his mouth, and his dark eyes were always searching for the next threat. Fit, he still favored nice clothes and even wore his wedding band. Mr. Marlowe understood the importance of appearances.
Tim grinned. “Mr. M. How’s it going?”
Mr. Marlowe blinked. The anger that always buzzed behind his gaze softened. “Tim. What are you doing here?”
He removed a silver flask from his pocket. “I thought we could drink a toast to Mike.”
Mr. Marlowe stepped aside, a sad smile easing the lines in his face. “Come on in, son. It’s good to see you.”
The door closed behind Tim. Mr. Marlowe clamped a hand on Tim’s shoulder and then pulled him into a hug. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Sure thing, Mr. M. The funeral was nice.”
“Mrs. Reed planned it. She’s good at that kind of thing, and I knew she’d do a fine job so I let her.”
“I’m surprised you joined forces with her. I didn’t think you were friends.”
“I didn’t want to, but the cops convinced me. They were hoping Mike’s killer might have shown.”
Cops by nature were slow moving, but even the dull witted got it right occasionally. “I bet they’re watching the house now.”
“They are. A patrol car drives by every fifteen minutes. I’m not sure what good it will do, but that’s what I pay taxes for.”
They moved down a carpeted hallway into the brightly lit kitchen. Smooth gray granite countertops glistened beneath custom-made cherry cabinets. Stainless-steel appliances glistened in the glow of pendant lights over a wide island sporting a large handblown glass bowl filled with oranges. “Can I get you something to eat?”
Tim twisted off the top of his flask. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’d like to. You and Mike w
ere best friends and having you here is a little like having him at home.” Marlowe hugged Tim again, holding him close as if the old man actually meant it, which of course, he didn’t. The old man might be hugging him now, but he was an evil son of a bitch. He used everyone. Mike said so, but more importantly, Amber said so.
Tim patted Mr. Marlowe on the back, willing to play the surrogate son. A sigh shuddered from Mr. Marlowe as he stepped back and tugged the cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt.
Tim drank from the flask and then handed it to Marlowe who also took a pull. “To Mike.”
“To Mike.”
Tim supposed this would be the time he felt a twinge of guilt, but there was none. “Weird to see you sitting next to Amber at the funeral.”
Mr. Marlowe stepped back as if stung, the hard lines of his face deepening. “That woman is poison. She’s a liar.”
Tim bristled as anger stirred and burned under his skin. How dare this animal speak about Amber? “I talked to her briefly at the funeral. She sounds like she’s doing well. She likes Texas.”
He folded his arms. “Don’t believe it for a minute. She’s back here for a reason.”
“She was kind to me.”
“Don’t kid yourself.” Marlowe seemed to catch himself and shook off the rising tide of fury. “Look, I don’t want to talk about her. I want to visit with you. It’s been too long. Let me make you a sandwich.”
“I’d like that.”
As Marlowe turned to the refrigerator to dig out deli meats, bread, and condiments, Tim’s gaze roamed the kitchen, letting it settle on the framed pictures of Mike on the wall behind a long farmhouse table. All were black and white and framed in sleek mahogany frames. “What’s with the pictures? They’re new.”
“I had them done about two years after Mike . . . left. A reminder, I guess. I wanted to remember that times were once good between us.”
Mr. Marlowe retrieved a plate from the cabinet and laid two slices of bread on it. “You still like spicy mustard?”
Tim took another drink from the flask, replaced the cap, and stuck it back in his pocket. He settled on a bar stool in front of the large island. He was careful not to touch anything. “Yeah, you have a good memory.”