by Mary Burton
KC folded his arms over his chest, shoving a sigh free. “So what’s the deal? She in some kind of trouble?”
“Does that surprise you?”
KC grinned. “My ex taught me never to judge a book by its cover. What did she do?”
“She’s a forensic artist back East. She volunteered to help with a case.”
“She came in and volunteered just like that?”
“Georgia asked for her help and Jenna agreed. I met her today.”
“And you’re trying to figure out why a young healthy cop would walk away from the job and end up drawing pictures in a honky-tonk.”
Rick rested his hands on his hips. “That’s about right.”
“She has always been nice to me and does a good job. She gives me a ten-percent cut of her take and I put that in the tip jar for the waitresses. She’s never caused trouble and people seem to like her.”
“No red flags?”
He scratched the stubble on his thick jaw. “The best ones never wave the red flag.”
“Right.”
KC shook his head and his shoulders slumped a fraction as if he lumbered under a great weight. “Look, Georgia knows people. If she likes her then she must be okay. Be nice to think not everyone has an agenda.”
Rick rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I hear ya. I just like to know who’s volunteering their services to me.”
“We’re not a very trustful pair.”
Rick laughed. “You ever met a cop who didn’t question an unsolicited gift or a kind gesture?”
“Not many. But I got to say, you’re one of the worst. You’re one hell of an untrusting soul.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“That broad Melissa did a number on you.”
He could hear her name now and not wince. “Takes one to know one.”
KC chuckled. “We’re a sorry couple of sacks.”
“Maybe.” He scooped up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar. “If you hear anything about Jenna that I should be worried about, tell me.”
KC considered the request before nodding. “Least I can do.”
Chapter Three
Tuesday, August 15, 6 A.M.
As the sun rose, Rick and Tracker moved through the woods near his house. They enjoyed this time of day, when the only noise was the chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves. Morning starts were slow-going for both as they worked the kinks out of their joints. Neither relished that first roll out of the hay, but neither would have passed on the morning routine. They could out-tough anybody.
This early, the heat of the day had not taken hold of the city, the phone had generally not started ringing, and each could move at their own, sometimes uneven, pace. There’d been a time when they’d climbed the rocks into the mountains and enjoyed the stress and strain of the uphill climb. There was a time when they would have been gone for half the day.
These days, Rick stuck to the even path that ringed the woods surrounding the Morgan family house. The Big House was a hundred years old and located on thirty acres twenty miles south of Nashville near Franklin. Prime real estate. The home had been a wedding gift to his parents from his mother’s parents. His father, Buddy Morgan, had been a legend in Nashville homicide and he’d had the good fortune to fall in love with a woman from money. They’d moved into the house days after their honeymoon and raised their three boys and daughter here. When his mother had died thirteen years ago, his dad had remained on the property mostly, he’d said, because he was close to his wife. Eighteen months ago, when Buddy had died of a heart attack after a steak dinner in his favorite diner, the house had gone to Rick’s older brother, Deke. Deke wasn’t a country boy and had taken the house out of family obligation, but he’d never loved the place. When Deke had finally opted to move into downtown Nashville, he had happily deeded the property to Rick.
A day after he’d moved in, he’d gutted the kitchen and knocked through the dining-room wall to make one large eat-in kitchen. As he’d pondered the next step in his life and he and Tracker had healed, he’d sanded floors, installed new cabinets, painted, and laid granite countertops.
Rick paused at the door to the screened porch and reached for a rag he kept on hand. Quickly, he wiped down Tracker’s damp paws and underbelly before the two walked the ramp into the house. Ramps for Tracker had been another part of his renovation.
In the kitchen, he filled the water and food bowl for Tracker and then made himself a cup of coffee. As he sipped from a favorite UT mug, he grabbed a piece of leftover fried chicken from the fridge.
He had plans to renovate the bathrooms but when Deke had offered him the slot on homicide, he’d taken it without a second thought. The bathrooms were functional but in need of an upgrade that would have to wait for his next vacation.
After his own breakfast, he showered and shaved with careful precision. Dark eyes stared back at him from the mirror. Hooded and a bit flat, they reflected the trademark stubbornness that had dogged him since he was a kid. That stubbornness had bred arrogance and prompted him to walk up worriless to that vehicle last year. That stubbornness had gotten his canine partner and him shot. And that stubbornness would not allow him to give quarter, no matter how much his bones ached.
He dressed and a half hour later, he and Tracker were headed north into the city. This morning, he drove across the Victory Memorial Bridge toward the medical examiner’s office. As he turned onto Rs Gass Boulevard, he passed the sleek offices of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation where his brother Alex worked as an agent. A little farther down the road past an old building there was an old brick building that had once been an orphanage run by the Masons. He pulled into a parking spot in front of the office of the medical examiner.
He brought Tracker inside and after they were admitted beyond the lobby, the dog was able to follow him as far as the hallway outside the exam room. Rick ordered Tracker to sit in the hallway while he pushed through metal doors. There he found the medical examiner standing at the head of a stainless-steel table sporting a sheet-draped body.
In her mid thirties, Dr. Heller had moved to Nashville two years ago. She’d quickly won the respect of the officers who admired her work. A tall woman, with the long, lean body of a runner, she rarely wore makeup on her smooth olive complexion and always twisted her long, dark hair in a tight knot. Her blue eyes had an almond tilt that gave her an exotic beauty.
“Where’s wolf dog?” Her lab coat covered a silk blouse and skinny jeans.
“In the hallway hanging out.”
“How long will he just sit there?”
“Until I return.” A handler and his canine operated as a single unit and much was communicated with a look or a sound.
“How’s his leg?”
“Not bad. No more running for him but he gets by.”
“And how’re you doing?”
“Me? I’m just fine.” And that had been the party line since he’d woken up from his first surgery after the shooting. He’d never considered himself permanently injured or disabled. Never. “I hear you have the house fire victim.”
“Finished the autopsy last night.”
The doors to the room opened and Jake Bishop appeared. As always, he wore a crisp dark suit, dark shirt, and those damn polished cowboy boots. He moved with swagger.
“Good,” Dr. Heller said. “The whole gang’s here. I won’t have to repeat myself.”
Detective Bishop nodded. “Dr. Heller. How goes it? Looking lovely as always.”
An amused brow arched as she removed rubber gloves from her white physician’s jacket and moved to a wall of refrigerated body-storage cabinets. She donned the gloves and opened the second from the left. Inside lay a draped figure. A sheet covered the body’s shriveled flesh and sinew eaten by the fire. She pulled back the sheet and revealed a blackened skull attached to a torso, singed black. Hands and feet had been burned away as had the arms to the elbow and the legs to the knees.
“Your victim was a female. I was
able to take X-rays and as luck would have it, she had a hip implant that had a serial number on it. I’ve sent off a request to the manufacturer for a name of the doctor who implanted it.”
“She was older?”
“No. Mid thirties. My guess is the implant came after an accident.”
“Good work,” Rick said.
“Your victim also didn’t die as a result of the fire. She was shot in the head. Judging by the hole made by the bullet at her right temple, I’d say she was shot at close range.” Dr. Heller reached for an evidence bag, which contained a single slug. “She would’ve died instantly.”
Rick took the bag and held it up. He guessed the gun had been a .45 caliber. “The fire was set to hide the forensic evidence.”
Bishop shrugged. “Or because the killer likes fires.”
A legitimate theory. Arsonists set fires for a variety of reasons. Some did it for profit, others to hide evidence, and others set their blazes because they liked to watch the flames dance and destroy.
“I X-rayed her bones and there’re no signs of older breaks or traumas other than the hip. I’ve run some tests on what flesh I do have and am testing for drugs but I won’t have toxicology test results for a few weeks on that.”
Rick stared at the bullet hole in the side of the skull and tried to imagine how the murder had played out. Murphy had said the fire had frozen her extremities outstretched, leading him to believe that when she’d been shot, she’d likely been tied to the bed. Had the killer planned the murder and fire all along or had the fire been an afterthought? If he had to guess, he’d say very planned considering the amount of diesel found at the scene.
“As soon as we’ve a name, we can start putting the pieces together,” Bishop said.
“Anything else you can tell me about her?”
“I estimate her height to be about five-seven. She was Caucasian.”
Rick pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled down the details.
Dr. Heller pulled the sheet back over the body. “Keep me posted. I want to know who would work so hard to destroy all traces of another human being.”
Rick nodded. “Sure. We’ll make sure you get updates. How about the little Jane Doe’s skull?”
“The child.” A bitter edge had crept into her tone.
“Yes.”
“I can’t tell you much. At a young age, bones aren’t fully formed so many of the markers that would tell me more aren’t there.”
“We spoke to the forensic artist yesterday,” Rick said. “She’s agreed to help.”
Dr. Heller’s solemn expression grew more severe. “Whom did you line up?”
“Her name’s Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “She’s a sworn officer in the Baltimore Police Department. She’s taking leave and will be here a few more weeks.”
“I’ve heard of Jenna Thompson,” Dr. Heller said. “She has a good reputation.”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“It’s a small world. She’s done some excellent work. I look forward to meeting her.”
“I told her to be here by two this afternoon.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Heller moved to another cabinet and opened the drawer. Lying on the large slab was a collection of tiny bones.
Rick’s chest tightened and, with some effort, he mentally took a step back to study the bones with a critical eye. “Georgia has the blanket and the bag and is going over both. Doubtful there’ll be much but she’s going over it with a fine-tooth comb. Missing Persons sent us files yesterday. We set aside files of all possible matches, but they need more information from you before we can narrow the search.”
Dr. Heller folded her arms. “Jenna Thompson will give you a good likeness. And when she does, consider the media. They work with us on missing persons cases, especially when we’re dealing with a child.”
“The press.” Rick kept the bulk of his frustration out of his voice. “Got to love ’em.”
Dr. Heller grinned. “They aren’t all bad, Detective.”
He thought about the dash-cam video of his shooting that had played over and over again on the news stations. “I’ll keep telling myself that.”
Dr. Heller’s phone buzzed and she checked the display. She answered the call and listened. When she hung up, she looked pleased. “We’ve a call back on the hip implant. The company was able to match the serial number of the implant with a name. Your victim is Diane Smith, age thirty-six.”
Rick wrote down the name. “Damn, that was fast.”
“The implant was installed ten years ago. I don’t know if the address is still good.”
“Hell, this is more of a break than I was expecting.”
“Better to be lucky than smart,” Detective Bishop said.
Rick heard the meaning simmering under Bishop’s words but let it pass. Sooner or later they’d have a showdown about whatever was chewing on his ass, but not today. “Now that we’ve a name, we can get moving on this.”
With Diane Smith’s name in hand, it hadn’t taken long to find her home address and employer’s name. They opted to start with her employer, Temperance Real Estate. Rick dropped Tracker off with Georgia as she ended her shift and then he and Bishop drove to Temperance Real Estate, located in an historic stone building resting in the shadow of several sleek office buildings in downtown Nashville.
Temperance Real Estate offices were on the third floor of the building. After speaking with the company’s receptionist, who seemed a little rattled by the arrival of detectives, they were escorted to a corner office.
As they entered, a man moved out from behind a tall desk, buttoning his suit jacket as he moved. He shrugged broad shoulders and extended his hand first to Rick. “I’m Trent Lockwood. I own Temperance Real Estate. My secretary tells me you’re homicide detectives.”
“That’s right,” Rick said. “Rick Morgan.”
Bishop held up his badge. “Jake Bishop. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Diane Smith.”
Lockwood’s unnaturally dark hair was slicked back, sharpening the angles of a tanned, long face. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but preliminary recon before the interview put him in his sixties. His expensive, hand-tailored suit and gold cuff links spoke to the success his firm had enjoyed the last few years. Temperance and Lockwood had influenced three of the top ten Nashville development deals in the last two years.
A frown furrowed Lockwood’s brow as he absently tugged on his cuffs. “She’s one of our most productive real estate attorneys. Been with us about ten years. Why? Has something happened?”
Bishop studied the office, silent and content to let Rick handle the interview. Bishop had been giving Rick lots of opportunities on the cases and he suspected it had more to do with giving him enough rope so that he could hang himself.
“Does your company own a property in the West End? It’s on Dover Street,” Rick said.
Gray eyes narrowed as if Trent didn’t appreciate the dodge to his question. “I’ve no idea. I’d have to look it up. Again, why?”
“Has anyone questioned why Diane didn’t come in to work yesterday or today?”
“She’s on vacation. She’s been planning a trip to her cabin in the Smokey Mountains for months and finally texted in Saturday night that she was taking a break. She’s closed big deals lately and deserved the time off.”
He wondered if Diane had sent the texts. “Diane Smith’s body was found in the burned-out ruins of the Dover Street house yesterday.”
The lines rimming Lockwood’s eyes and mouth deepened. “Are you sure you’ve the right person?”
“We identified her from a hip implant. The serial number matched up to her name.”
His face paled. “She wasn’t recognizable?”
Rick studied his face closely. He’d developed a nose for liars since he’d joined the Force. Amazing how shocked and sad a really good liar could look when the spotlight shone on them. “No, sir. Not after the fire.”
“My God.” Loc
kwood’s eyes held the right blend of surprise and shock, but no one earned this kind of money without a good poker face. “Did she have any trouble with coworkers or clients?”
Lockwood’s buffed fingernails caught the light as he drummed his fingers. “No. She’s a talented real estate attorney slated to be partner in this firm by the spring.”
Bishop stared out the tall window behind Lockwood’s desk. He took his time shifting his gaze back to Lockwood. “Did she have any business deals that went sour? Make anyone mad?”
“Not everyone wins in every deal. That’s par for the course. Of course she bested other agents. That’s why she was slated to be partner.”
“What deals was she working on?” Rick asked.
“A new strip mall out on I-40. Several condo developments and a proposed housing project. All her work was high dollar with large profit margins.”
“Anyone express anger over a deal recently?”
“Bob Boone wasn’t happy with her.”
“Bob Boone?”
“He works for a competitor. He lost out on a development bid last winter. He was angry and called Diane a few choice words. Didn’t like losing to a woman. She’s stepped on toes, but you’ve got to break a few shells to cook the eggs.”
Diane had been most likely tied to a bed and shot at close range, both indicators that the killer had enjoyed controlling her last minutes. “Where can we find Bob Boone?”
Lockwood looked through contacts on his cell and rattled off a number and address. “He’s got a reputation for his temper but he’s well respected in the community. Active in his church.”
Neither Rick nor Bishop commented, both knowing they’d arrested their share of respected, churchgoing men.
“Where did Diane Smith live?” Bishop asked.
“She just bought a new home near Franklin. It’s an older home and she’s restoring it. I do know she was having trouble with her landscape architect over a bill. I don’t remember the name but if you visit her home you’ll get the number from a neighbor. Also speak to her neighbors. I’m not sure it’s the one to her left or right, but one of them wasn’t happy with a tree she’d cut down a few weeks ago.”