I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville)

by Mary Burton

  “This struck a major nerve. Somewhere along the way . . .”

  “What . . . ?”

  “I don’t know.” In his pocket, he fingered a receipt for the tank of gas he’d bought that morning. “But I’ll figure it out.”

  As the medical examiner’s van arrived, Leah Carson shuttled to the edges of his thoughts. The mystery of Leah would have to wait.

  Alex and Deke stood outside the town house as the medical examiner’s technicians entered the house with the gurney. The crowd of residents ringing the edges of the crime scene tape watched as if they were on the set of a cop show. Out here, it was easy for a bystander to pretend it wasn’t all that real.

  Twenty minutes later, the technicians rolled out the gurney carrying the body bag. A few startled gasps rose up from the crowd. A couple pointed. One or two took pictures with their cell phones.

  Alex moved toward the crowd, wondering if the killer lingered to watch the chaos. At the edge of the tape he caught the gaze of a tall man with a thick stubble of beard, wide-set eyes, and short, dark hair. He wore plaid pajama bottoms, a UT sweatshirt, and a thick sheepskin-lined jacket.

  Carefully, Alex pulled out his badge. “Alex Morgan, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Mind if I ask you a few questions.” A question that didn’t sound like a question but an order.

  “Sure.” The guy lowered his phone and tucked it in his pocket.

  “Your name?”

  “Tim Rogers.”

  “You know the resident of that town house?”

  “Leggy tall brunette. Liked to run. She just moved in a few weeks ago.” He leaned in a fraction. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit.”

  “Seen anyone coming or going from her town house?”

  “No.”

  “But you noticed her.”

  “I mean, I’d steal a look or two when she jogged. Hot. But I didn’t track who came and went.”

  “Anyone around here who would have noticed?”

  “You could ask Carol. She lives next door. She pays attention.”

  “She here now?”

  “No. Likely at work. She’s a lawyer.”

  “Okay. Carol got a last name?”

  “Rivers. But I don’t know the name of the law firm.”

  Alex glanced at the town house next to Deidre’s and noted the address. “Are all the places here furnished?”

  “No. The guy who owns that unit works for a bank. Got transferred to New York or Charlotte. He’s renting because he can’t sell. Left a few pieces of furniture, hoping it would rent.”

  “Thanks.” He walked back toward Deke, careful to keep all trace of emotion from his face. The less fodder for the news crews and cell phone cameras, the better. They didn’t need footage ending up on the Internet or networks.

  Only when he turned away from the crowd and stood shoulder to shoulder with Deke did he speak. “I’m going to nail the prick who did this, Deke.”

  His brother’s face resembled chiseled granite, but his eyes sparked. “I’m letting you off the chain on this one, Alex. Good hunting.”

  After the medical examiner removed the body, Alex took a few minutes to stand in the cold and allow his mind to inventory and process what he’d seen.

  None of the furniture, drapes, or carpet appeared to have been disturbed in Deidre’s town house. Of course the killer could have taken something, but he had no way of knowing now. No signs of sexual assault. Whoever had come into her home appeared to have come with one goal in mind: kill Deidre and cover his tracks.

  He turned and strode back toward Deidre’s place. “Have you searched the premises yet?”

  Deke nodded. “We’ve got officers going through her room and the back end of the house, and then they’ll move into the living area. Georgia is still working the kitchen. She’s dusting for fingerprints now.”

  Alex imagined Leah’s pale face and the very faint scar that ran down her cheek. It had darkened the longer they sat in the car. He hadn’t noticed it on their date. No doubt she used a special makeup to hide it. “She’s rattled. But she had a good command of the facts.”

  “Does she have any theories?” Deke asked.

  “Deidre told Leah the divorce wasn’t easy. Her car was keyed. It won’t be hard to find her husband and pay him a visit.”

  “Regardless of what she did, I want her killer found,” Deke said. “I want to know what she was doing before all this happened.”

  “Understood.”

  Deke eyed Alex. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say this didn’t affect you at all.”

  Alex arched a brow. “You’re more emotional than I ever was.” His voice monotone, he might as well have been reciting the alphabet. “You hide it well, but it’s there, boiling below the surface. But for me, emotion has never been a significant factor when I’m on a case. It clouds my judgment.”

  Deke’s eyes blazed darker. “RoboCop has nothing on you, Alex.”

  “That’s the perfect description for Alex since Miller’s Falls,” Georgia said as she exited the kitchen. She’d stripped off her Tyvek suit and booties and now wore her khakis and a long-sleeved, collared forensics shirt. She still wore rubber gloves. “But my all-time favorite Alex description is ‘Iceman.’”

  Alex didn’t like references to Miller’s Falls and refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he flipped through a mental catalogue. “Should we share some of the nicknames we had for you?”

  She shrugged. “Carrot top, daywalker, ginger. Give it your best shot, bro. Mine are hair-related. Yours stem from a much deeper place.”

  If outsiders were eavesdropping on their conversation now, they’d peg them all as heartless and unfeeling. But jokes and jibes at times like this eased the pressure valve on explosively deep emotions.

  “You’re the only person I know who can take your emotions, put them in a box, and lock them away until you need them. And, I might add, you need them almost never.”

  “Don’t forget agent orange,” Alex offered.

  Georgia stuck out her tongue.

  Alex only tolerated this kind of guff from Georgia. She was a pain in the ass, but, as he and his brothers often noted, she was their pain in the ass. “How many knife wounds did you count, Georgia?” Alex asked.

  Her lips flattened in a stark line. “At least a dozen, but there could be more.”

  “I would say this is a case of overkill,” Alex said. “It wasn’t just enough to stab her once or twice, which would have done the job, but the killer stabbed her at least twenty times. Legs, arms, the face several times. This attack carries all the hallmarks of rage. This killing was personal.”

  “She’s arrested and pissed off a lot of very bad guys over the years.”

  “And, so far, the killer hasn’t left any trace evidence,” Georgia said.

  “Nothing?” Deke asked.

  “If you plan it right, you won’t leave evidence,” Georgia said. “All cops know about Tyvek suits.”

  “So it could be Deidre’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Tyler Radcliff?” Deke asked.

  “Statistics suggest Radcliff, but time and evidence will tell,” Georgia said. “There’s always something.”

  “When will you have a report?” Alex asked.

  “Need time to sort, bro. Will keep you posted.”

  “I expect this case closed,” Deke said.

  “It will be.” Alex moved past Georgia into the kitchen to stare at what remained of the blood evidence.

  Not only was there blood on the floor but it had also splattered the walls and the ceiling. A thin red spray of blood indicated the killer had struck an artery. And the dots and dashes of blood on the back wall had flicked off his knife as he drew it back before plunging it again.

  This killer would have been covered in blood. There’d be no way to escape unmarked. But the blood trail stopped outside the back door. Georgia’s theory of a Tyvek suit made sense.

  He opened the refrigerator and found it undisturbed. Stocked wi
th three bottles of white wine and one red, cheese, eggs, and a loaf of bread. Its clean, nearly unused surfaces glistened. A check of the cabinets revealed standard inexpensive dishes that might be stocked in a rental. Made sense.

  “Georgia, when do you estimate the time of death?”

  “About ten last night.”

  Alex looked out the back door and noticed it backed up to the woods. A killer could easily have come through the brush undetected. Deidre’s town house was an end unit, and there was a clear path from the back door, around the unit, and up to the parking lot. Easily accessible.

  He moved out the back door and walked down the stairs.

  “Footprints?”

  “It was blistering cold last night and the ground was rock solid.”

  “So no footprints?”

  “Blood smudges by the back door. I think the killer went toward the woods and stripped off whatever protective gear he was wearing. We’ve got a scent dog coming.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Lots, but I don’t know who they belong to. I’ve checked all around the outside of the door as well as the countertops, the cabinet handles, and the refrigerator door handle. I pulled a few good thumbprints from the counter. But if my suit theory holds true, he’d have been wearing gloves.”

  “You’re going to want to see this,” Deke called out from outside the kitchen.

  Alex turned and moved into the living room, where a uniformed officer knelt by a coffee table. He watched as the officer, with gloved hands, removed what appeared to be a listening device mounted to the underside of the table.

  All the personnel in the room grew quiet as the officer rose and held it out for Georgia to inspect.

  She took the small device in her hands and studied it closely. “Someone has been listening to Deidre. This device is wireless and has a range of about a mile. I’ve heard recordings made by such gadgets, and they emit a crystal-clear sound. Whoever was listening would have clearly heard Deidre in this room.”

  “Keep your voices down while we need to search the rest of the house,” Deke said, lowering his voice. “My first choice would be the bedroom, another favorite spot for creeps who like to listen.”

  Alex pulled on a fresh set of gloves before crossing to Georgia. He held out his open palm, “May I?”

  Raising a brow, she handed it to him, whispering. “So polite.”

  Alex ignored the comment and inspecting the listening device, said quietly, “This isn’t cheap. And it’s sophisticated. Can also be purchased on countless Internet sites.”

  “Stalking made easy,” Georgia quipped.

  “Soon-to-be ex-husband?”

  “Top of my list.”

  Georgia glanced back at the kitchen as emotion flashed in her eyes. We’ve got to figure this out. We’ve got to.

  Alex laid his hand on her shoulder. “He’s already caught. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  Monday, January 16, 11:45 A.M.

  Leah’s hands trembled as she tried to insert her key in the front door. She fumbled with her keys and then dropped them. Muttering an oath, she picked them up and finally got the key in the lock. She undid the dead bolt and hurried inside. Without hesitating, she locked the door behind her. Beyond tired, her nerves were shot.

  A glance out the front window and she saw the cop car parked across the street. She drew in a steadying breath, trying to break the bands of tension in her chest. The cop would be Alex’s doing. She’d been as careful and controlled as she could be when she’d spoken to him, but he’d sensed more lingering in the silence between her careful sentences.

  Slowly, she turned from the window and down the hallway. She was halfway to the bathroom when her legs gave out and she lowered herself to the floor and buried her face in her hands.

  Sadness and fear. Dear God, Deidre was dead. Stabbed.

  She groped at the scarf now constricting her neck and jerked it free. She unzipped her jogging jacket so that she could draw in a deep breath.

  Leah traced the scar slashed across her palm. It had been a defensive wound, just as Alex had said.

  She never remembered grabbing the knife. Even now, the attack only came to her in flashes. A knife slashing, whooshing through the air. The prick of a blade against her throat. The softness of Philip’s final words. I’m sorry.

  What really lingered with her were the emotions of that night. Bone-crushing fear. Pain. Weakness.

  She dug her fingers in her hair, limp and stringy from running, crying, and vomiting. She wanted to sleep. Needed to sleep.

  Leah rose from the floor and with shaky legs made her way to the bedroom, where the rumpled comforter of her unmade bed waited. She crawled between the cool sheets and curled on her side, pulling the blankets over her head. Was she ever going to feel safe?

  She closed her eyes, wanting only to sleep for a few hours to escape the horror of what she’d seen today. Breathe in. Breathe out. She reached for the bottle of sleeping pills she hadn’t used in months. Taking one now felt akin to failure. She shouldn’t need it. But she did. Cutting one in half, she popped it in her mouth. Eventually, her heartbeat slowed, and sleep grabbed hold of her.

  She wasn’t sure how long she drifted just above the waves of deep sleep. It felt good to drift. Weightless. Light. Not afraid, if only just for a moment.

  The whispered song tugged on her and brought her deeper to a sleeping no-man’s-land where she couldn’t separate reality from the past and the unreal.

  The gentlest touch of a finger skimmed across her brow. So soft most would have ignored it. But not her.

  Even with her system on overload, alarm bells sounded a warning in her head. The only person who had ever sung to her had been Philip.

  A rush of adrenaline surged through her body. Her eyes popped open, and for a moment her eyes couldn’t focus. Groggy, she blinked against the day’s dimming light and focused her gaze. Silence. Her eyes adjusted as her heart pounded against her ribs and she restrained her panic. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 5:21.

  “Damn.” She moved to the bathroom, where she stripped off her clothes. She turned on the shower and brushed her teeth as she waited for the spray to heat up before she stepped in and allowed the warmth to wash over her very chilled bones.

  Tipping her head back, she allowed the water to slush over her naked breasts, which still bore the scars of the attack. She traced the thin pinkish scar that slid across the top of her left breast. The doctors had said the scars on her chest would be the worst. Thin tissue had been the reason.

  “Philip is dead,” she muttered. “He can’t hurt you.”

  Shutting off the water, she grabbed a towel. She dried her hair, arms, legs. She swiped the fogged mirror clean and did what she rarely did anymore . . . she stared at the scars, tracking each of the twenty-three with her fingertip. No longer pink and raised, they had whitened over time and faded. Just like her memories should have done, but would not.

  Finally, she slipped on a robe before padding into her room. The blinds were closed, just as she always left them. Some sunny days tempted her to let in the bright sunshine, but she never dared, remembering how Philip used to sit outside her apartment and watch her.

  Hair dripping, she moved to the small desk in the corner of her room and pulled out a calendar. The days had all been marked off except for today, so she took her red pen and put an X through it. They signified all the days since Philip had died: 1,430 days.

  Leah dressed and carefully applied a silicone-based concealer that filled in the indented slash across her cheek. It was a five-minute process that had been a part of her regimen for almost four years. Once the filler had set, she applied a base makeup. As she stared into the mirror, she traced her finger along her cheek, wishing memories could be erased as easily.

  According to the emergency room doctors, she’d been lucky. After the surgeon had operated and she was stabilized, a very talented plastic surgeon had been on-site, and he’d
carefully stitched up her face. He’d minimized the damage, which could have been disfiguring.

  For a long time, she hated the scars. Resented them. But now in an odd sort of way she saw them as a gift. Deidre would never have to worry about scars, fillers or makeup. These scars were now a reminder of how lucky she was to be alive.

  God, Deidre, who would do this to you?

  If anyone could find the truth, it was Alex Morgan. He had the eyes of a predator, a hunter. The way he’d stared at her had reminded her a little of Philip. Cold, direct, and assessing.

  Though Philip’s gaze had never been so steady. There’d always been an edge, a fear he was missing out, when he looked at the world. They’d met in a bar on Broadway just as she was finishing up college. He’d been with a group of friends and they’d been laughing. Her father had just died and she’d been feeling lost. She’d needed to feel connected to life and strength.

  The instant he’d seen her, he’d picked up his drink and moved toward her. He’d told her she was beautiful, and if she wanted to dance, he’d be waiting for her at the bar.

  Her friends had called him cheesy, but she’d been charmed. He appeared to be a man who knew what he wanted. And so a half hour later, she’d gathered the courage and asked him to dance. To this day, she’d remembered the song: “Every Breath You Take” by The Police. How many times had she looked back on that moment and wondered if the universe had been sending her a warning.

  Their courtship had been a whirlwind, giving her no time to think or take a step back to see the warning signs.

  Leah filled her cup with coffee. Deidre would never have taken that kind of guff from Philip. She’d have tossed away a guy like that in seconds. Philip never would have gotten close enough to Deidre to undermine her as he had Leah.

  She sipped slowly. She wanted to keep her past locked away. No good came of anyone knowing, though she feared Alex sensed it. Today, in the squad car, his gaze had been peeling back the layers of her defenses. He knew there was more to her. He sensed a problem. A past. Odds were that he would get to the bottom of it.

  What happened to her four years ago had nothing to do with Deidre. Nothing. Philip was dead.