by Mary Burton
For an instant, she recoiled as her heart raced and her chest tightened. She inhaled deeply and steeled herself. She peered in the bag. It was a doll’s head and scrawled across the forehead was the word BITCH.
The eyes staring up at her were blue, bright, and lifeless. White hair stood straight up, spiking as if the electricity had raced through the doll, or what remained of her.
In a snap, her brain shifted to cop mode. Who had sent her this? Her work with the Nashville Police Department came to mind. She’d created the sketch of a child’s face. Instead of being afraid as she was of Shadow Eyes, she knew this doll’s head was tangible and she understood tangible. “I’ve struck a nerve.”
Mindful not to touch the doll, she retrieved her phone from the house, took pictures of the doll’s head, and then called Rick Morgan.
He answered on the third ring and his voice was gruff and deep. A dog barked in the background. “Jenna.”
“I’m texting you a picture. It’s of a doll’s head left on my back patio.”
“A what?”
“A doll’s head. I think my drawing has gotten someone’s attention.”
Silence crackled on the line. “The child’s grandmother saw the picture you drew on television last night and called us. We questioned a woman last night who we believe might be the child’s mother. We’re running a DNA sample of the mother and the child. We also arrested a man who we believe was the child’s father.”
“You arrested him?”
“He drew on us.”
The understated words hinted at what must have been a heart-stopping scene. She’d had a gun drawn on her once, when she’d patrolled in Baltimore. She remembered holding her gun steady and shouting for the man to put his gun down. She’d been lucky. He’d listened and laid his gun down before kneeling with his hands behind his head. She’d shaken for two days after. “So you have them both in custody?”
“We had to release Loyola Briggs, the alleged mother, early this morning. We can’t charge her until we prove the child is hers. Danny Briggs, the father, was just arrested and won’t be getting out anytime soon.”
The thrill of success hummed in her body. Another sketch. Another arrest. “You think they’re the parents?”
“Your picture looked exactly like photos the grandmother had in a scrapbook. And Danny Briggs had scratches on the side of his car. Looked like he might have sideswiped someone.”
“He ran me off the road?”
“Looks like it.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, grim satisfaction giving her little pleasure. “Good. You have a lead.”
“It’s a hell of a lead. How long do you think the doll’s head has been on your porch?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t out on the porch yesterday.”
“Danny Briggs wasn’t arrested until a couple of hours ago. He could have left it.”
She turned from the bag and the doll’s head. Moments like this made being a cop so satisfying. “You’ll tell me what the DNA reveals?”
“Of course. Without you, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“Want me to bag the doll’s head?” she teased.
“No.” His voice radiated with force. “I’ll send an officer.”
Disappointment snapped. “I can do it.”
“I’ve no doubt, but we don’t want any defense attorney saying you tampered with the evidence.”
He’d all but called her an outsider. “Okay. But I’m watching when they do their thing.”
He chuckled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
She laughed.
“Jenna, be careful.”
“Always.”
Seconds after she ended the call, her phone rang. She glanced at the display on her phone and saw the Baltimore area code. Mike. Straightening, she considered ignoring him but at the last, hit ACCEPT. “This is Jenna.”
“You’re sounding fairly formal.” His deep voice rumbled with fatigue.
Two weeks ago she’d have been glad to hear Mike’s familiar voice. Now, well, his calls triggered a jolt of tension. “I wasn’t sure who it was.”
Her lie didn’t exactly ring true but he didn’t bite. “Wouldn’t want you talking dirty to the wrong guy.”
Mike could always break the ice even if it were thick, but not today. “No. That would not go over well.”
Mike cleared his throat. “Remember the kid you found in that closet?”
She stilled. “Yes.”
“I checked in on her. She’s in a good foster home and she’s doing well.”
Well. Jenna couldn’t remember what it had been like after her rescue. But her aunt had said she’d been quiet and withdrawn for months. “How is she physically?”
“Malnourished. But the docs and the foster parents are working on that.”
All her good humor trickled away. “Do they know how long she was in the closet?”
“Months at least.”
Months. Tear welled in her eyes. One tear escaped. She swiped it away.
“Jenna?”
“I was just processing.”
“You can see her if you want.”
Her heart clenched. “Why would I want to see her?”
“I saw the Nashville news report. You understand where she is mentally.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Who else in Baltimore knows?”
“Not too many.”
“Translation: everyone.”
He dropped his voice a notch. “It’ll be fine. We all understand it happened a long time ago. It’s a part of you and you’re a good cop.”
“Maybe.”
“We miss you, Jenna. You’re a hell of an asset. When are you going to get tired of country music and come back to the real world?”
A tentative laugh stuttered across her lips. “Nashville isn’t real?”
“Nope. It’s all about Baltimore as far as I’m concerned.” He sighed into the phone as if hurt. “Come back to Baltimore, Jenna. Your old job is yours for the taking.”
She cradled the phone close to her ear. He was again coaxing her back into the group on the other side of the blue line. And right now, she wanted back in; she wanted to take down lowlifes that killed children and raped women. But did she want Baltimore? “I don’t know, Mike.”
A breath seeped free. “Not knowing is better than a flat-out no.”
“I do miss the work. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
“Damn straight you miss it. You miss us. You miss me.”
She frowned. “Don’t get carried away.”
“You do. You miss me, Jenna. I sure as hell miss you.”
She moistened her lips and rotated her head from side to side. “Mike, we’re not talking about us. We were never an us.”
“Not in my mind. Leaving was your idea, not mine. I thought we were finally headed in the right direction.”
“I told you the sex didn’t change anything.” It never changed anything.
“Your body sure responded to me.”
She closed her eyes, not sure what to say to that. She cared deeply for him, always would, but she’d never sleep with him again. Whatever they had, wasn’t enough. She’d never been able to tell him about the loss of her family. She’d been more candid with Rick Morgan over one meal than she’d been with Mike all the years they’d worked together. That wasn’t Mike’s fault. So many times he wanted her to open up to him.
He cleared his throat to break the silence. “Look, I don’t want to throw us into the mix. That wasn’t why I called. I just wanted to pat you on the back and tell you the kid is doing well.”
She didn’t quite believe him but she was willing to pretend. “What’s her name? The little girl, what’s her name?”
“Sarah.”
Sarah? She dragged a ragged hand through her hair. Shit.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She straightened. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Does that mean you’ll think about returning? Your lea
ve is almost up.”
The clock ticked. Soon, she’d have to make some decision. She couldn’t afford the two apartments and she owed it to her friends back home and the Baltimore Police Department to make a decision. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
When the doorbell rang, Jenna expected to see the uniformed officer that Rick had sent. She’d not glanced in the peephole or peeked out the window. It wasn’t like her to be distracted.
She opened the door to Susan Martinez. The reporter was dressed in a black pencil skirt, a white tailored shirt, red four-inch heels, and large, dark glasses. Pearls hung from her neck and a gold watch winked on her wrist. “Jenna.”
Jenna’s hand gripped the edge of the door and straightened as if someone had taken an unexpected swipe at her. She needed formality with this woman. “Ms. Martinez.”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?”
“We received quite a few calls and e-mails on that piece. People were touched you survived and thrived. If you would let me interview you, I think quite a few people would be inspired by you.”
“I don’t think so, Ms. Martinez. I’m not interested in rehashing my family’s tragedy for everyone to see. But feel free to tell your own story and how you were tangled up with my family.”
A wrinkle formed between the reporter’s eyes. “No one cares about me. They care about you. You’d be going full circle if we spoke again on television.”
“I don’t need to go full circle.”
“The cops, hell, even the reporters, worked nonstop for weeks until you were found. Believe it or not, there were seasoned cops crying when you were found alive. I think you owe it to them all to show that you’re doing well.”
She understood what those cops had gone through emotionally. She’d been in their shoes before. She’d wept tears for children like Sarah.
“The case was solved and closed. Leave it alone.”
Jenna thought about the uniformed officer whom Rick was sending. She did not need Susan Martinez here now. One thing to dig up the past but it was quite another to talk about an active case with the media. “Now’s not the best time. I have a client coming by to talk about a portrait.”
A spark in Susan’s eyes suggested a shift in tactics. “KC Kelly was one of the cops on your case. I could interview you together. It really would be a great story.”
The woman didn’t know when to let go. “KC’s not a fan of interviews.”
“He had his share of troubles last year but I won’t bring them up. I promise.”
The sincerity underscoring the last word rang false. “No. Not now.”
The reporter didn’t blink or budge. “How is it that you came to draw in front of KC’s bar? Was that a one in a million?”
“It happens.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You came back to Nashville for a reason. You found that girl in the closet and started to remember. You’re still remembering more and more each day.”
“I needed to make sense of a terrible thing. That’s all.”
“And you’re at peace with what happened to your family?”
“I have to be. Look, Ms. Martinez, I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to do an interview. I need you to leave.”
Susan stood her ground. “Is it because of what I told you about your father and me?”
“You’re too close to the story.”
“I’m not. I’m a reporter first.”
Jenna shook her head. “No, Susan. I can’t do this now.”
“Every day on the anniversary, I put flowers on your family’s grave.” She whispered the words as if in confession.
“Why?”
“Because they were good people. They should be remembered. Helps me to remember them.”
“I do remember them. I don’t need to relive the past in public.”
Susan’s eyes danced with desperation. “I’ll be at the gravesite tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there too.”
“Good-bye, Ms. Martinez.” She closed the door. For a few long, tense minutes, the woman stood on the doorstep and didn’t move. Then finally, she turned and left.
Jenna watched her leave but sensed she’d not seen the last of her.
Rick got out of his car and studied the high-end dress shop Pamela’s. The one-story building was painted in blues and grays and a gilded P decorated the glass front door. He didn’t know much about the place but had been willing to visit when the uniformed officer had called him an hour ago. “Lady says she’s got a stalker. A guy that’s always just there. Seeing as you’ve had two murders thought you’d want to know.”
Rick had searched the woman’s name, Pamela Grayson, and discovered she’d had no priors and had not filed any stalking claims before. When he did an Internet search on her and saw the picture of her standing in front of her store, he realized she fit the profile of Diane and Nancy.
Jangling his keys, he moved into the shop immediately assailed by the scent of expensive perfume and bright colors.
A tall woman with dark hair glanced up at him. She stepped around the counter, a pink dress hugging her slim figure. Clearly, she realized he didn’t belong in a place like this. “May I help you?”
He removed his badge. “Detective Rick Morgan. Nashville Police Department. I’m looking for Pamela Grayson.” A dress here would cost more than most cops made in a month. “I understand you filed a report yesterday.”
Relief softened dark eyes. “Yes, but I wasn’t sure anyone was really listening.”
“I’m listening. What’s going on?”
Pamela sighed. “A few months ago, I got the feeling that someone was watching me. At first, I just dismissed it. My mother always said I could make a production out of nothing.” Absently, her right hand went to the gold watch on her left arm. “So I just kind of blew off my worries. But my skin kept tingling.”
“Tingling?”
“Yeah, I know. Sounds dumb. But there you have it. Tingling skin. Anyway, I really started to pay attention to my surroundings. I read that book on fear. I know you’re not supposed to dismiss it.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I was driving to work a few weeks ago and I see this red truck. It’s old and beat-up. Before I can really worry about it, it’s gone. No big deal. Then two weeks ago, I saw the same kind of truck parked across the street. It was just there for a few minutes but it was there. So, I’m at the mall, scoping out the competition when I see a guy. Grungy. Kinda weird. Again he’s there and then he’s not.”
So far, nothing much Rick could use, but he let her keep talking. “Two days ago, I’m buying coffee in Nashville, twenty minutes from here. Same truck. And same guy. When I came out of the shop I look up and he’s staring at me. I know that was no accident.”
“I understand you snapped a picture of the truck with your phone camera.”
“I did.” She turned to the counter and picked up a phone in a bejeweled case. She punched in the security code and scrolled to the image. “I caught him as he was getting into his car. I don’t think he saw me take the picture.”
Rick studied the picture. A man faced away from the camera so there was no clear image of his face. He was dressed in jeans and getting into a pickup truck. He was a classic Nashville character. “Can you describe him?”
“Not really. I just got a glance at him. I mean I remember thinking he wasn’t nice-looking, but that’s all I can remember.”
His thoughts turned to Jenna and her talent for giving a face to images trapped in the subconscious. “What if I hooked you up with a forensic artist? She might be able to help you create a picture.”
“I don’t know if I got that good a look at him.”
“Would you try?” He had two dead women and now a third woman, who fit the profile, being stalked.
“Sure. I’ll try.” She shook her head. “So I’m not losing my mind?”
He shook his head. “Y
ou were smart to listen to your instincts. I’ll be in touch.”
Jenna sat in her car cradling a hot cup of coffee she’d bought at the drive-through. Despite the day’s rising heat, a deep chill iced over her bones. The officer had come by and taken the doll’s head away, but its arrival coupled with Susan’s visit had unsettled her more than she was willing to admit.
Her phone rang and she tensed, ready to ignore it, and then she saw Rick Morgan’s name. Despite herself she smiled. “Detective.”
“Did my officer come by?”
“He did. Took care of business.” She considered telling him about Susan but decided there was no point. She was a big girl who could handle a reporter.
“Can I call in a favor?”
She closed her eyes and savored the heat of the sun. “I thought you already did that?”
“Okay, you got me. But I was hoping I could call in a second favor?”
A smile tipped the edges of her lips. “I think this will be the third.”
“Rachel asked for the other favor. Technically, this is my second.”
“By the way, did anything come of the sketch I did for Rachel and her client?”
“No. Not yet.”
A DUI case from a nobody wasn’t at the top of anyone’s list. Nice if every case got the same priority treatment but the reality was that time was precious and cops had to pick and choose. “So what do you need?”
“Another sketch.” He explained what was happening.
Jenna rested her head against the headrest. Just the idea of a job calmed her racing nerves. “Give me the address.”
It took Jenna thirty minutes and a few wrong turns before she found the dress shop in Franklin. It was a cute place, though she decided that wasn’t her style. It had the look of money, and she’d be willing to bet the dresses cost more than she’d ever be able to afford. She grabbed her sketchpad and slid out of the car. Rick Morgan emerged from the front door, looking much like a fish out of water. She had to smile.
“I thought your tastes weren’t pastel.”
He laughed. “Don’t underestimate me.”
The smile again transformed his face from stern and severe to almost handsome. She cleared her throat. “You need a sketch?”