She smirked. “That wasn’t all you got, from what I understand.”
I tried to keep from blushing, but with no success. “Spicer and Truman blabbed.”
“There was a report on my desk this morning. You featured prominently. That must have been quite a dress you were wearing.”
Lord.
“And then, of course, they volunteered to go back this morning to dig the bullet out of the wall and question the neighbors. They happened to mention that your car was still there.”
“I’m an idiot,” I said.
“If you spent the night with Mr. Collier, you’ll get no argument from me.”
When I didn’t answer, she added, “I thought you intended for District Attorney Satterfield to propose.”
“I did. He did.”
“And you left Sweetwater and went to Mr. Collier’s house?”
When she put it like that, it sounded pretty bad.
“I didn’t say yes.” At least I hadn’t accepted Todd’s proposal and then gone to find Rafe.
“I suppose that’s something,” Tamara Grimaldi allowed. “Why are you telling me this, Ms.... Savannah?”
“I don’t know. Because I can’t tell anyone else? Because I feel like I made a really big mistake last night? And it would be nice to have someone to talk to about it?”
“Lucky me.” She sighed. “Go ahead.”
“No. That’s all right, but... no.”
“I promise I’ll be nice.”
“It isn’t that.” I sniffed. “I didn’t come here to talk about Rafe. I wanted to ask whether Spicer and Truman learned anything this morning.”
“Other than that you and Mr. Collier spent the night together?” She smirked.
I fought back a blush. “Yes, other than that.”
“You’re in luck.” She leaned forward, opening a folder on top of the stack on her desk. “The bullet is the same caliber as the one that killed Mrs. Johnson, and appears to be from the same gun. We’ll confirm that after a more thorough comparison.”
“Whoever shot at us yesterday is the same person who shot Marquita?”
“It seems so, yes.”
“It has to be the man I saw a few days ago, don’t you think?”
“It’s possible,” Grimaldi said.
“Well, who else could it be? He told me he was looking for Rafe, and it sounded like it would be so he could try to kill him, and he did look at me like he was thinking of using me to send Rafe a message. And there isn’t much stronger of a message than to drop a dead body on someone’s doorstep. Maybe he didn’t know that Rafe is living with Mrs. Jenkins. Maybe that’s why Marquita’s car with Marquita’s body was parked behind the Colliers’ old trailer in the Bog. To send Rafe a message.”
“That’s certainly one explanation.”
“What other explanation could there be?”
She looked apologetic. “For one thing, he did know about Mrs. Jenkins. That’s how he found you. He followed you from the house in the morning. That’s what you said, right? And if so, he must have known that Mr. Collier stays there when he’s in Nashville.”
“Unless he didn’t realize that until Marquita told him. Or maybe he thought that because Rafe wasn’t with Mrs. J, he’d be in Sweetwater.”
“Sheriff Satterfield told me the trailer park is empty. Unless this man is stupid, he must have realized that no one lives there.”
Especially when the trailer itself was sitting wide open and was obviously empty of furniture. “Maybe he just assumed Rafe would be there, and when he realized he wasn’t, he lured Marquita down there and forced her to tell him where Mrs. Jenkins lives, and then he shot Marquita and came to Nashville.”
“It’s possible,” the detective allowed. “Although if he didn’t know about Mrs. Jenkins, how did he know about Mrs. Johnson?”
I shrugged. I had no explanation for that. “Did Spicer and Truman discover anything else? Did anyone see this guy?”
“I’m afraid not. The lady who heard the shot and called it in, also heard the car going down the street. Or perhaps I should say a car. She said it was light colored. White or tan. Perhaps light gray or light blue.”
I shook my head. “The car that followed us the other day was a black SUV.”
“That’s what you said. So perhaps it isn’t the same man after all.”
“Or perhaps the Hispanic man is driving a white Honda or Toyota. I’ve seen one of those around, too.” In that case, he hadn’t been in the black SUV the other morning.
“You and everyone else,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “There must be at least fifty thousand white Hondas and Toyotas in Middle Tennessee. It could be a coincidence.”
“The car just happened to be driving down the street two minutes after someone tried to shoot us?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Detective Grimaldi said. “People do drive around, even at eleven o’clock at night. While someone else is shooting off a gun.”
I leaned back. “So what happens now?”
Her voice became official-sounding. “The investigation is ongoing. If you would like to look at mugshots, I’ll be happy to let you do that. Now that there’s a proven connection between the gun that killed Mrs. Johnson and the gun that shot at you, I’d like to try to identify the man you saw. And since we don’t know whether he was aiming at you or at Mr. Collier—”
“He was aiming at Rafe. Of course. Who’d want to kill me?”
I meant it to be rhetorical. She answered. “Someone who wanted to hurt Mr. Collier? By targeting the people close to him? Mrs. Johnson, who worked for him. You, who are obviously a person of importance. His grandmother.”
“She’s not around. He said he sent her to a safe-house.”
“Ah.” She made a note on the folder. “Spicer and Truman didn’t mention that.”
“It probably didn’t come up. I asked last night. Before...”
“Of course.” Her voice and face were studiedly bland. She wasn’t as successful with her eyes. They were maliciously amused.
I blushed. “He must be worried about the same thing you are.
“I daresay he is,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “He’s seen far too much of what can happen in these situations. I’m surprised he let you through the door at all.”
“He said he thought I’d be safer inside.” I shivered. “He told me, you know. About the TBI.”
For a second she looked surprised, before her face went back to bland.
“I already knew most of it,” I added. “I just hadn’t put it together yet.”
She nodded.
“How long have you known?” And why didn’t you tell me?
“Since shortly after I met him. While we were investigating Mrs. Puckett’s death.” She avoided my eyes. “I was looking at him for it, seriously at first. He had everything: motive, means, and opportunity. A history of violence. A criminal record. He even had a connection to you. A tenuous one, for sure, but it was there.”
“What happened to change your mind?”
She made a face. “I got a visit from a man named Wendell Craig, who explained why I shouldn’t waste my time. He’s Mr. Collier’s handler. Or contact, or something. I had to keep treating Mr. Collier the way I would have if I didn’t know. It’s what’s kept him safe so far. So when Ms. Vaughn died, and you figured out that he was involved, I had to make it look like I was investigating him.”
So just a few days ago, when I’d been worried that she thought Rafe had shot Marquita, Tamara Grimaldi had already known the truth. “You couldn’t have told me?”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Tamara said. “I’m surprised he did. He isn’t supposed to tell anyone.”
“I guess maybe...” I hesitated. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to sleep with me under false pretenses. Or maybe he’d just been worried that if I continued to think he was a criminal, I’d change my mind. Maybe it was all just further insurance that he’d get me into bed. “It doesn’t matter.”
Grimaldi nodded. “No
w you know why he was able to move around Nashville without being arrested after the robberies and Ms. Vaughn’s murder. And why I haven’t arrested him yet in connection with Mrs. Johnson’s death.”
I thought of something. “Todd doesn’t know this, does he?”
She shook her head. “And you can’t tell him. This is something you can’t tell anyone. Mr. Collier’s safety depends on the fact that no one knows the truth.” Her eyes drilled into mine. “If you want him to be safe, you’ll keep this to yourself.”
As if I’d do anything to put Rafe in danger. “This should make it easier for you to figure out who’s after him, though. Shouldn’t it?”
“One would hope,” Tamara said, pushing her chair back. “And on that note, let me get you set up with a computer and a program of mugshots. Find me the man you saw. As soon as I know who he is, I can find him. And then I can keep your boyfriend safe.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, but I got up and followed her out of the office.
Chapter 14
The man with the dragon tattoo proved to be elusive. I went through a couple of hours of mugshots without seeing him.
There were plenty of other Hispanic men in the files. The Hispanic population of Nashville—of all of the Southeast, really—has exploded over the past few years, as is the case across most of the country. And a fair few of them seem to commit crimes. I didn’t see the man I was looking for, though. There were several that looked similar—for that matter, they all looked similar, with the same glossy black hair, golden skin, and dark eyes—but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. Not until I’d been sitting there for close to three hours. By then, I’d moved from the local database to the national. Detective Grimaldi had hoped it would be simple, and that the man was from Nashville, but nothing’s ever easy, is it?
“Detective?” I leaned my shoulder in her door, watching her pore over some papers on her desk. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes. The same kinds of shadows I’d seen in my own mirror this morning, that were now hidden under concealer. “I think I’ve found him.”
“Really?” She pushed her chair back. “Let’s see.”
We walked side by side down the hallway toward the room where I’d been working. I had to hustle to keep up with her long legs and low heels.
“Hmmm,” she said when she bent over the computer terminal I’d been using, peering at the picture. “This is the guy?”
“I’m pretty sure. It looks like him, and the description says he has a tattoo of a dragon on his back.”
She glanced at me over her shoulder. “You’re not totally sure?”
“As sure as I can be. Ninety nine percent. It could be someone else, but I don’t think so.”
“That’s too bad.” She straightened.
“Why?”
“Because this guy is bad news.”
I snorted. “Thank you, I know that. I met him.”
“What I mean is, I was hoping the man you saw would turn out to be some two-bit hood with a grudge. Obviously that’s not the case.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “This is Jorge Pena. He’s wanted in several states and foreign countries. Columbia. Venezuela. Brazil.”
“An international hit man?” Surely they didn’t exist in real life?
She hesitated. “It’s mostly in books that you get the shadowy assassin with the sinister nickname.”
“So what is he, then?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, he’s a hit man. Of sorts. Someone who gets dispatched to take care of business. Mr. Collier must have pissed off some pretty bad people if it’s come to this.”
I felt a chill go down my spine, like a caterpillar with cold feet. “He’ll be OK, won’t he?”
“Mr. Collier? He’s good. He can take care of himself.” She hesitated. “Although I’m not sure he’s this good.”
The caterpillar moved, and settled like a clump of ice in my stomach. “You’ll tell him, right?”
“That we’ve identified Mr. Pena? Of course. Or you can.”
I shook my head. “I’m staying away from him.”
Her mouth quirked. “Afraid you’ll grab him and drag him back to bed?”
I blushed. “Something like that.”
She smiled. “It might be just what you need. A couple of nights of sex hot enough to knock your socks off. Lose some of those inhibitions. Join the human race.”
“I lost a few inhibitions already, thanks. And believe me, I’m very human.” Human enough to regret the fact that I wouldn’t be losing more. But the truth was that a couple more nights with Rafe wouldn’t just knock my socks off and let me lose the rest of my inhibitions, they’d also ensure that I’d be hooked but good, and that I’d spend the rest of my life lamenting what I couldn’t have. Sleeping with him once had given me something to remember; sleeping with him more than once would be self-indulgent and dangerous. No matter how much I wanted to.
Tamara Grimaldi shrugged. “Your loss.”
“If you like him that much,” I said, “go for it. He’s available.”
“You think?” She shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I told you, he’s not my type. I need someone steady, someone who doesn’t court danger every day. He’s all yours.”
“I don’t want him,” I said, but we both knew I was lying.
I left the news about Jorge Pena for Detective Grimaldi to tell—she’d warn Rafe, and he’d take proper precautions—and then I went to the office. I still hadn’t heard anything from Gary Lee and Charlene’s loan officer about the results of the appraisal, and after several days, that had me a little worried.
Brittany was behind the front desk as usual, her blonde hair in a cute little ponytail, her cute little face in its habitual pout. “What’s the matter?” I asked when I stopped inside the front door to check my mailbox.
Brittany tossed her head. She’s in her early twenties, barely out of college, and still has the teenage attitude down. “Tim’s driving me crazy.”
Tim drives everyone crazy. Of course, I didn’t say so. “What has he done now?”
She sniffed. “He thinks I forgot to set the alarm last night.”
“What makes him think that?”
“It was off when he got here,” Brittany said with an annoyed shrug. “And it wasn’t me. I had a date with Devon yesterday—” Devon was the boyfriend, a long-haired musician type, “so I left right at five. And I set the alarm!”
The last person out the door at night is supposed to set the alarm. We all have the code; I keep mine in my wallet and on a piece of paper tacked to the bulletin board in my apartment. Along with a spare key.
Brittany rolled her eyes. “One of the agents probably came back after hours to pick something up or drop something off, and forgot to set the alarm again when they left. It happens all the time.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said.
“Wasn’t anyone else, either. Or no one who’s come in this morning.” She shrugged. “He probably turned it off himself, and just forgot.”
“Maybe so.” I gathered up my mail—nothing exciting, just some postcards and fliers. “Any messages?”
“I would have sent any calls directly to your cell,” Brittany said.
“Of course. Thanks.” I headed for my office.
While I waited for the computer to boot up, I checked my voicemail and found I had none.
Sometimes I really wonder why I bother coming in to the office. I mean, there’s nothing here that I can’t do from home with my laptop and my cell phone. There’s just something official about going to the office as opposed to working from home, I guess. It’s more legitimate, somehow. Even if I do exactly the same work. And in any case, Officer Slater was living in my apartment, so I felt a little weird being there.
I opened the file on Gary Lee and Charlene Hodges—the only file on my desk; clients have been hard to come by in this tough economic time—and dialed the number for the mortgage broker who was working on the
Hodges’s loan.
“Brandon? This is Savannah Martin with... um... LB & A.” I was still having problems remembering the most recent name of the company I worked for. It started out as Walker Lamont Realty, then became Lamont, Briggs & Associates, and now that had been abbreviated to just the initials. Tim was doing everything he could to make people forget that Walker Lamont was a murderer, yet without actually dropping Walker’s name from the company he still owned.
“Yes, Savannah,” Brandon’s smooth voice said, “what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if there was any news on the appraisal for Gary Lee and Charlene’s place. I let the appraiser in three days ago. He should have filed his report by now.”
“Let me see,” Brandon said and put the phone down. I could hear him rustle through papers, and click on the keyboard, and I could hear him mutter—and I probably wasn’t supposed to hear that, since I think he was muttering about me bothering him. After a minute he came back on. “I got it. Yesterday.”
‘And you didn’t call me, why?’ trembled on the tip of my tongue. I bit it back. “Any problems?”
“Actually, yes. It didn’t appraise.”
Uh-oh. “What do you mean, it didn’t appraise?”
“Mr. Cobb looked at it and determined it isn’t worth the amount the bank has been asked to loan.”
“Thank you, Brandon.” My voice was rather heavy with sarcasm, I’m sorry to say. “I do, in fact, know what the expression means. I was hoping you’d explain how that could be. I followed Mr. Cobb around the place. I pointed out all the upgrades. I told him what the other units in the development sold for. I provided comps for the area.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said.
I took a breath. And another. “How far apart are we?”
Brandon dug through his papers. I could hear the rustle. “The contract price is $145,000. The appraisal came in at $139,000.”
“So six thousand dollars difference.”
“Uh-huh,” Brandon said, not sounding if he cared.
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