Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

  “And I was found.”

  He leaned toward her a fraction. “I’ve had two murder victims in the last week and a half. Both were shot and both of the crime scenes were burned to the ground.”

  “Sounds like a pattern.”

  “You’d think, but we found the first killer dead of an overdose before the second victim died.”

  “So it’s not the same guy.”

  “No. In fact, we’ve film from a delivery-store surveillance camera just an hour ago. It showed a man cutting in front of a woman named Nancy Jones, who we think is our second victim. The two got into an argument. We’re looking for him now.”

  “You think he was working with the first guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So why’re you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know. The whole setup reminds me of your family. Stalking. Shooting. Fire.”

  Hope flickered, but she tamped it out. “A bit of a stretch.”

  “There’re lots of similarities between these two cases and your family’s.”

  There’d been a time when she’d have laughed off his theory. Her case was closed. End of story. But in the last few weeks, with the appearance of Shadow Eyes, she didn’t feel much like laughing or calling him a nut. “The anniversary of my family’s death is coming up.”

  “Four days.”

  The tow-truck driver called Jenna over and she went immediately, suddenly wanting to be home and away from all this death and violence.

  The driver was tall, lean, and wore a red T-shirt covered in grease smudges. “The Jeep appears to be drivable,” he said. “You didn’t do any damage to it. Just got it stuck.”

  Escape. As long as her wheels were functional she could deal. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. What do I owe you?”

  The tow-truck driver named a price and she went to the Jeep, got her purse, and dug cash out of her wallet. The cash had come from the bride portrait. She paid him one hundred dollars.

  She tossed her purse back on the passenger-side seat of her Jeep. “I’m not sure what to say now, Detective Morgan.”

  “Where are you headed?” Rick asked.

  “Home. I need a cold glass of wine and a hot bath.”

  “Is that smart? Going home alone?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The deputy returned and gave her back her gun. She tucked it in her purse.

  “I don’t like you going to that cabin alone.”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. I managed to survive working on the streets of Baltimore for nine years. I think I can get myself home. Besides, this guy has got to be long gone if he has even half a brain.”

  “You don’t have to be smart to be mean and determined.”

  “Well, I’m smart. And I’m a good shot. And going forward, I’ll have my antenna up.”

  “I could leave Tracker with you. He’s not fast but he’s got a mean bite.”

  The offer touched her deeply. She understood the depth of the gesture. “Thanks. I know he’s a tough dog. But he’s better to stay with you. I’ll be fine.”

  Jenna stopped at the hardware store on the way home long enough to ask a clerk where she could find nails and a hammer. Following instructions, she strode to aisle six, walked down the row until she came across a wall of nails. She selected a heavy gauge and then tracked down a hammer.

  After checking out and looking twice before she crossed the parking lot, she slid behind the wheel of her Jeep, wincing only a little as her bruised shoulder reminded her that two hours ago, she’d been tumbling down a hill.

  In that moment, the weight of the accident caught up to her. She sat there, key in ignition, wondering again why she’d returned to Nashville. Ronnie’s motive had been as simple as insanity. He was dead. She had justice. She should have peace and a sense of well-being.

  Maybe Shadow Eyes was just a figment of her imagination, a representation of her doubts or delayed post-traumatic stress. Maybe, as a therapist had once suggested, the past might one day catch up to her. Now that she had dealt with Ronnie, maybe Shadow Eyes would go away.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  She fired up the engine and drove back to her house. Soon, her leave would end and she’d leave Nashville behind. There’d been a time when it conjured only bad memories but going forward, many of the new memories would be good. Georgia, KC, and Rick.

  Jenna liked Rick. Liked his swagger, his deep, rough voice and the way he looked at her as if she were the only person on the planet. His gray eyes reflected loss and worry that she knew mirrored her own. He understood facing death. Understood having your life ripped out from under you. Understood that on a cellular level it could all go sideways in a beat.

  Rick or no, it didn’t make sense for her to stay here much longer. She had a job, friends, an apartment, and a life waiting for her. Nashville wasn’t real life for her. And sooner rather than later, she’d have to get back to real life.

  Rubbing her tense neck with her hand, she exercised the stiffness now creeping in after the accident. She needed a hot shower, as she’d originally planned, and a good glass of wine. But first, she’d pound a nail in each window frame on the first floor so that no one opened her window without her knowing it.

  Rick and Bishop got the call an hour later: unidentified male, dead of an overdose in a downtown alley. The lights of Broadway winked against his windshield as he drove past the tourists toward the river. A right on First Street and he spotted the collection of cop cars.

  He and Bishop got out of the car and made their way to the uniformed officer standing at the edge of the yellow crime-scene tape. Rick shook his hand as did Bishop.

  “What do we have?” Bishop asked.

  “The victim’s name, according to the driver’s license in his pocket, is Ford Wheeler. He’s thirty-six years old and works as a busboy in a chain restaurant. Lots of scrapes with the law.”

  Rick scribbled down the details in a notebook. “How did he die?”

  “He’s got the look of a drug addict. Old needle marks on his arms. Medical examiner will have to make the final call. But if I had to guess, he overdosed.”

  “Thanks.” As the officer looked away, Rick said, “Another overdose on the heels of a murder and fire.”

  “Fits the pattern.”

  “I know.” Again his thoughts circled back to the Thompson murder, and the fire and death of their killer. Was that a part of this pattern or a strange coincidence?

  The detectives ducked under the tape and, donning rubber gloves, moved toward the body covered with a blue tarp. Rick knelt down and lifted the edge to find the body faceup. “Have a look.”

  Bishop studied the man’s face. “He’s the dude from the package-delivery-office video. The one that cut in front of Nancy Jones.”

  “He sure is.” Rick studied the guy’s arm and noted the track marks.

  Bishop searched the man’s pockets and pulled out a hardware store receipt. “He bought gasoline two days ago.”

  “Another successful woman and another loser guy who kills her. What do you think we’ll find when we see his home?”

  “Pictures of Nancy.”

  “It would be my guess.” Rick searched his pockets but only found a gum wrapper and a few pennies. “What the hell is this? Some kind of murder club?”

  “I don’t know what it is. But Tuttle and Wheeler are connected in some way. These two cases are just too damn much alike.”

  “Wheeler could have read about the first murder in the paper.”

  “He got too many details right that weren’t released.”

  “Let’s have a talk with his boss.”

  The drive to the brightly colored restaurant took twenty minutes and when they arrived, the parking lot was full. They found the hostess who, seeing their badges, took them to the manager. He was squirreled away in a small office, counting receipts.

  The manager was a tall, heavyset man with dark hair parted deeply on the right side. His white shirt was cri
sp, his name badge polished and level straight. The badge read BOWER. “I’m Seth Bower and I’m the manager.”

  Rick noted the extra emphasis on the tail end of the sentence before making introductions. “We’re here about an employee. Ford Wheeler.”

  “Ex-employee as of one o’clock yesterday. He said he had to go to the package-delivery office and would be here for the afternoon rush. He never showed, so I left him a phone message and told him not to come back.”

  “How long did he work here?”

  “A year, give or take. He was good at first. Seemed to try hard and did well with the customers. Then about four months ago he started to get belligerent. Started acting like he was the boss. I couldn’t have that.”

  “What do you think caused the change?”

  “That’s about the time he started dating his girlfriend.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Nancy, I think.”

  Rick reached in his coat pocket and pulled out the DMV photo of Nancy Smith. “She look like this?”

  The manager studied the image and nodded. “Yeah. That’s her. Maybe she can tell you what ideas she was putting in his head.”

  Bishop scratched behind his ear as if annoyed. “She never came by the restaurant?”

  “Not once. I saw other photos of her and I never would have put a gal like her with a guy like him. He was nice enough but he didn’t attract an A-list kind of woman, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did he have any other friends here at work?” Rick asked.

  The manager glanced toward a waitress who held up a bill, her gaze questioning. He held up a finger as if asking her to wait. “Friendly, but he never went out drinking with the other waiters when they did go. Kind of a loner until Nancy.” The manager studied the two detectives. “So, what’s this about? This some kind of domestic problem?”

  “Ford Wheeler was found dead in an alley a few hours ago. Drug overdose.”

  “No shit.” He rested his hands on his hips. “I knew he’d had problems with drugs a couple of years ago. He told me straight up when I interviewed him. I told him I appreciated his honesty and he seemed relieved, as if my approval mattered. He appeared clean until a few months ago. Maybe this Nancy chick got him into drugs.”

  “We don’t believe he was dating Nancy,” Rick said. “We believe he was stalking her. Do you know where he lived?”

  The manager blinked and shook his head. “This is the kind of crap that happens on television.”

  “It happens everywhere,” Bishop said. “You got that address for Wheeler?”

  “Yeah.” The manager ran tense fingers through his hair. “I got one on file.”

  “I’ll need that,” Rick said.

  The manager shook his head. “To think the guys were a little jealous of him. All his talk about how wonderful his girlfriend was and all the fun they were having was psycho crap.”

  “We think so.”

  The manager snorted. “Did she file a complaint against him? Did she catch him looking in a window or something?”

  “No,” Rick said. “She was murdered.”

  “What the hell. Did Wheeler do that?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out.”

  The detectives arrived at Ford’s small apartment a half hour later. Rick drew in a breath as he pulled on a fresh set of gloves. Keys in hand from Ford’s coat pocket they opened the door and flipped on the lights. The living room was barren, and there was not a stick of furniture except for a recliner and a television balanced on a couple of crates. However, the room’s lack of furnishings was lost immediately in the shadow of four walls covered with thousands of images. They all featured Nancy. Hundreds and hundreds of images of Nancy. Smiling. Talking. Rushing. Jogging.

  “Holy crap,” Bishop said.

  Rick walked into the center of the room as his gaze scanned. “He’s been following her for a while. Several seasons.”

  “Tuttle started stalking Diane last fall.”

  Rick shook his head. “No way this is coincidence.”

  “Medical examiner has still not identified Nancy. It’s taking time to track down dental records.”

  Rick moved to the wall filled with endless images of Nancy Jones. “Really think our victim isn’t Nancy Jones?”

  “No.”

  Rick studied the photographic collection. “Think it might have been some kind of pact between the two men?”

  “Neither had the brains for this kind of organization.”

  “I agree. But maybe together they figured it out?”

  Bishop looked around the dirty room filled with pizza boxes, trash heaps, and too many empty beer cans to count. “I don’t see this guy planning much of anything.”

  “So someone got ahold of these two men and set them on this path.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Rick turned from the images. “We’ll search everything in both men’s backgrounds and compare. Maybe we’ll get a hit.”

  “Maybe.”

  Rick studied Nancy’s pictures and his thoughts returned to the Thompson case as he reached for his phone to call a forensics team. He called in their discovery to the team and then slowly slid the phone in his coat pocket.

  He watched as Bishop took pictures of the room with his cell. He’d been careful about opening up too much to his partner, knowing the guy wasn’t crazy about his appointment. Though wiser not to say a word, he heard himself saying, “I read through the Thompson murder files.”

  “Jenna Thompson’s family.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bishop turned his gaze, teetering on amused. “So is that your idea of a good time? Reading up on old murder cases?”

  “Just struck me as odd, her being in town so close to the anniversary of her family’s death and her hooking up with KC and Georgia.”

  “I’ll admit there’re too many coincidences for my taste, but why dig into the murder? You feel guilty about Martinez sharing Jenna’s history?”

  Bracing, he said, “I wasn’t happy about it. Irritated me that she found something I missed.”

  “Jenna Thompson is a big girl. She knew what she was risking by talking to the media. Hell, she might have agreed to it knowing she might be exposed.”

  “The point is,” Rick said, “reading the files set off alarm bells.”

  Bishop didn’t speak, but his attention didn’t waver.

  “I see similarities between the Thompson case and these two.”

  Bishop laughed. “Boy Scout, you’re really reaching. The Thompson case is twenty-five years old.”

  “I know. It sounds nuts.”

  Bishop folded his arms. “But—”

  “First,” Rick said, holding up his index finger, “the victims were shot in the head. Second, there was accelerant in the house and scorch marks. The fire didn’t take. Sara Thompson was sexually assaulted. And the killer was found dead of a drug overdose.”

  Bishop’s smile faded a fraction. “No kids involved in any of these new cases.”

  “August twenty-six is the twenty-fifth anniversary. Might have triggered something in someone.”

  “Triggered something? Like in Jenna?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be too quick to dismiss the idea, Boy Scout. She could be pulling the strings of these men. She has the brains and know-how to kill someone.”

  “Shit, no! That’s not where I’m going at all.”

  “You should be. Think about it. She returns out of the blue, sets up her easel in front of KC’s bar, befriends Georgia, and volunteers to help on a case. Well isn’t she the model citizen.” He shook his head. “Perfect setup. Maybe what happened twenty-five years ago damaged the hell out of her and the anniversary is some kind of trigger.”

  The logic fit. But he couldn’t swallow it. “No.”

  “Dude, make sure the big head is thinking right now.”

  Rick shoved out a breath. “The big head is doing the thinking.”

  “If it’s not Jenna
, then who? This mystery manipulator has been off the radar for years.”

  “Hell if I know. But it wouldn’t hurt to check into old homicides involving fires.”

  Bishop rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Old homicides involving fires. You got any idea how long that will take?”

  “A lot of time.”

  “Time neither of us has.”

  Rick imagined the number of dusty files that would have to be read. “Then let’s narrow the connection. Who was in the Thompsons’ life who had an influence on Tuttle and Wheeler?”

  “It’s a needle in the haystack.”

  “Those parameters narrow the haystack.”

  “Not by much.”

  Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and thought about his two victims. Successful. Female. Mid thirties. And then, he remembered something Linda Nelson, Nancy’s neighbor, had said. He flipped through his notebook until he found her contact information, a personal cell. He called and she answered on the third ring, “Linda Nelson.”

  “Ms. Nelson, this is Detective Rick Morgan. You said Nancy’s mother was moved into a nursing home.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened to her house?”

  “Nancy sold it.”

  He pictured the trampled FOR SALE sign in Diane’s yard. “Do you know which realtor she used?”

  “No, sorry. All the records would have been in her house.”

  “If you think of it, call me.”

  “Sure. Have you found Nancy yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Call me when you do.”

  “Sure.”

  He hung up. “Nancy sold her mother’s house and Diane was selling her house.”

  Bishop snapped his fingers. “Now that’s a connection that makes sense.”

  Rick flipped through his notebook again. “The sign in Diane Smith’s yard read ‘Nashville South Realty.’”

  Bishop shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to this group.”

  He plugged the name of the agency into his phone and after a few seconds a website appeared. “I’ve got an address.”

  “Unless they have an all-night realty service, it’s going to have to wait.”

  Rick checked his watch. It was well after midnight. “Right.”