by Mary Burton
He went to the trash in the kitchen and fished out the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper. He typed in the cell number and was ready to hit send when he paused.
There was no tracing the jar back to him. It was her word against his that she had stolen it from his house, and he was always careful to wipe his prints clean from the jar each time he handled it.
Bonnie was running low on money. Otherwise she would not have broken in and taken his cash. And if she used any of the credit cards in the stolen stack, she would bring the cops down on her, not him.
He fished a Ziploc bag from his pocket and opened it. He removed the bloodied wad of paper towels and carefully folded back the layers. Nestled inside was the severed finger. Gently he stroked the cool pale skin. It would not be smart to save this one. If Bonnie talked, the cops would come knocking and they would tear his place apart.
But he could not bear to part with his girlfriend’s gift. He had to find a better hiding place, and if Bonnie came at him again, he would add her finger to his collection.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, August 26, 11:30 a.m.
Melina called Matt for an update on the white van, but the forensic team was still taking it apart. Another call to Jackson told her Bonnie Guthrie remained in the wind.
She drove to the Mission and parked. It did not take long to find some of the regular girls roaming the streets looking for a john. She crossed the street to where two women stood. They were older, late twenties, and both wore very short skirts and halter tops that barely contained their breasts. Both wore wigs and high heels that made her own feet hurt just looking at them.
“Morning, ladies,” she said. “I’m Melina.”
The taller of the two women eyed her carefully. “You’re that cop.”
“That’s right. I’m friends with Sarah.”
“Just about got your ass dragged in a van, I hear,” the woman said.
“Correct. Speaking of the van, anyone seen any odd men lurking around?”
Both laughed. The shorter of the two lit a cigarette. “They’re all weird, honey.”
“Point taken,” Melina said. “Anyone hear from Delia or Joy? They turn up?”
The women looked at each other and then shook their heads. “We haven’t seen them,” the tall woman said.
Melina handed each her card. “If they turn up, call me, okay?”
“Should we be looking for the van?” the short woman asked.
“No. The cops have impounded it. But the driver is still on the loose. So be careful, okay?”
Melina spoke to several other women, but the story was consistent. No one had seen Delia, Joy, or the Key Killer.
“Where the hell are you?” she muttered. She started her car and drove toward the hospital, grabbing a couple of Happy Meals on the way. Her phone rang as she pulled into the parking lot.
“Agent Shepard.”
“This is Agent Ramsey. Nashville police arrested Bonnie Guthrie in an eastside motel. The credit card she was using was reported stolen last week.”
Her heart kicked into high gear. “Have you interviewed her yet?” Melina asked.
“No. Thought we could both share that pleasure.”
“She’s at the Metro-Davidson detention center?”
“That’s right.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She quickly pulled onto the road toward the detention center. It was a quarter after twelve, which put her ahead of any afternoon commuter tangle of cars filling the roads. She merged onto Interstate 24 and headed south. She ate both meals as she drove and saved the toys for Elena.
Melina pulled into the fenced parking lot of the brick facility and parked. She grabbed her bag and was out of the car, looping her identification around her neck. She found Ramsey standing in the lobby, phone in hand and reading.
“Agent Melina Shepard,” she said to the guard on duty.
The sound of her voice had Ramsey raising his gaze as the guard waved her through.
Without a word, the two passed through another set of doors, checked their weapons in lockers, and then made their way to an interview room.
“You said she was picked up in a motel?” Melina asked.
“A dive next to a bar called Max’s. The clerk said she stumbled in about midnight and wanted a room. He asked for a credit card and she produced an American Express Gold Card.”
“How did she pay for the drinks at the bar?”
“Officers spoke to the bartender at Max’s. Her card worked there.”
“Was it the Gold Card?”
“No.”
“She was too buzzed when she showed up at the motel to use the card that worked,” Melina said.
“When Bonnie’s card was declined, she handed the clerk another. It was declined. When the third came back stolen, she got an attitude. That’s when he called the cops.”
“So, three’s the charm with this clerk,” she said.
He smiled. “She put up quite a fuss. Took two officers to get her cuffed. When they searched her purse, they found a stack of credit cards an inch thick and bound together. Nashville PD is checking the cards right now to see when they were stolen.”
“With her record, she’s looking at more prison time.”
He opened a door. “That’s the least of her worries. If she can’t prove she has legal custody of Elena, she’s facing transporting a minor over state lines, which is a felony.”
“She’s been around the block enough to know what that means.” Bonnie would not see daylight for two decades if both those convictions held. “That kind of time might get her to open up about the pickle jar and Elena’s family.”
“That’s the plan,” Ramsey said.
“Do you want to take point in the interview?”
“You’re being polite. You want it,” he said.
“FBI trumps TBI, and my boss told me to play nice. But yes, I want first crack at Bonnie Guthrie.”
“She’s all yours then.”
They were met by a deputy who escorted them to an interview room furnished with two chairs in front of a glass partition. They each took a seat. When Melina heard the rattle of cuffs and keys on the other side of the door, she sat straighter, feeling an odd sense of nerves.
The door opened to a guard escorting a female inmate dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Her hands were cuffed in front of her while her head was high, with no signs of contrition in her direct gaze. Blond shoulder-length hair draped over narrow shoulders, the edges reaching the top of full breasts.
Bonnie approached the chair and looked first at Ramsey. She did not appear impressed and slowly shifted her gaze to Melina. A flicker of interest darkened the woman’s green eyes, and a crooked smile tugged the edge of her lips. She sat down, leaned back in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap.
“You two don’t look like local cops. TBI?” she asked Melina.
Ramsey answered. “FBI special agent Jerrod Ramsey.”
“And you, doll? You FBI, too?”
A grating sense of familiarity scratched the underside of Melina’s skin. “Agent Melina Shepard. Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
Bonnie’s head cocked as she studied Melina’s face. “Melina. That’s an unusual name.”
“Really?” Melina asked. “I never gave any thought to it.” But of course, she had thought about her name a great deal. The night she met her father, he had asked her name. Melina. It was the one link she had to her past.
Bonnie’s smile widened as she settled back in the chair. “I used to know a kid named Melina. But that was a long time ago.”
Most would not consider Bonnie beautiful, but she was striking. Square jaw, sharp nose, and full lips that curled into a wide smile.
Tension coiled in Melina’s belly as she stared at Bonnie’s face. It was unsettlingly familiar. She suddenly had no patience for nice words or rapport building. “You were driving a 2007 gray Ford seda
n.”
“Was I?” Bonnie asked.
“We pulled your prints from the underside of a child’s car seat,” Melina said.
“Did you?” Bonnie had played this game so many times she could keep this going for hours.
Melina was not known for her patience. “Can you tell me how you came by the pickle jar?”
“What pickle jar, honey?” Bonnie asked.
Melina sighed. “The pickle jar in the trunk of the car you wrecked on Cox Road on Monday afternoon. We found it and the little girl strapped in her car seat.”
Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The prints found on the underside of the car seat match those belonging to Bonnie Lynn Guthrie. The officers here identified you by your prints. You’re one and the same Bonnie Lynn Guthrie.”
Bonnie glanced at her long nails, painted a dark red. The ring finger and thumbnails were chipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think I’m entitled to a lawyer, if I’m not mistaken?”
“The county has contacted a lawyer,” Ramsey said. “He should be here soon.”
“Well, doll, I tell you what. Why don’t you come back and see me when I have my lawyer? Not smart to talk to the cops without one.” She wagged an index finger at them. “You folks can be so sneaky. Can take my words and twist them all around.”
“We’ve already identified the prints on two of the fingers of the murderer’s victims,” Melina said. “It’s a matter of time before we identify the others, but two will convict just fine.”
Some of the humor dimmed in Bonnie’s gaze. Absently, she clicked nail against nail and stared back.
“Your prints are also on the jar,” Melina lied.
Bonnie smiled as she rose. “I think it’s time we ended our little chat.”
“Where did you get the credit cards?” Melina asked.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The card you gave the bartender was stolen, but it’s not been reported yet. The name on the card is Jennifer Brown.”
“You can keep talking all you want,” Bonnie said, “but I don’t have anything to say.”
“You haven’t asked about Elena,” Melina said. “She’s been asking for you, BB.”
This time her smile looked more pained than amused. “I don’t know an Elena.”
“Elena is small for her age. And when you see her lying in her hospital bed holding that stuffed dog, it’s kind of heartbreaking,” Melina said.
Tension stiffened Bonnie’s shoulders, but Melina sensed it had nothing to do with missing the girl. Bonnie was worried about what the girl would say.
“I don’t know any kid named Elena.” Bonnie pounded on the door.
“She’s been talking about Sonny.”
Bonnie shook her head. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
“DNA will tell us if you and Elena are related, but I’d say not.”
Bonnie faced the door but did not speak.
“If you can walk away from Elena this easily, makes me think you have a habit of leaving children. What other children have you abandoned?” Melina wanted to worm her way under Bonnie’s skin so that she would drop her guard just for a second or two.
Bonnie slowly turned and studied Melina with narrowing eyes. Then very slowly the smile returned. “Baby, sounds like you aren’t talking about Elena anymore, are you?”
The room felt as if it had dropped from underneath her feet. An unwanted edge crept into her tone. “Who would I be talking about?”
“I don’t know, baby. You tell me.”
“Did you wreck your car intentionally?” Melina asked.
“Who would do such a thing?”
The guard opened the door and Bonnie stepped through it, glancing back and winking at Melina before she vanished. The door slammed behind her.
Melina sat back in her chair, her fingers curling into fists. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” Ramsey asked.
“I let my personal feelings get the better of me,” she said.
“Maybe. But you did get under Bonnie’s skin. Tension in the eyes and a slight flattening of her lips suggested stress.”
“She looked pretty comfortable to me,” she said.
“BB puts on a good show. That’s what she does for a living.”
“She can try to look as cool as possible, but she won’t be able to talk her way out of forensic evidence. We have her prints on the car seat but not on the steering wheel or front seat. There’s also credit card fraud.”
“That should be enough to hold her,” Ramsey said. “But I’ve been surprised by judges before. She’s safer in jail right now,” he said. “One thing to sell out a kid. Quite another to betray a serial killer.”
As Ramsey and Shepard retrieved their weapons from the jailhouse lockers, he glanced down at her. Her lips were compressed, and her brow was knotted. As she shoved her gun in its holster, he was close enough to see the fast pulse of her carotid artery. She was still shaken by her encounter with Bonnie.
He opened the door for her and followed her across the lobby to the front steps. “Bonnie Guthrie has returned to Nashville not just because of Sonny, but because she has been here before. She’s familiar with Nashville.”
Though Shepard’s face appeared outwardly stoic, he noted the microexpressions, the shift of her stance and her breathing, which all pointed toward her unsettledness.
“I agree,” she said.
“We can assume she has been using Elena as a means to an end. The child is likely a good distraction that enables Bonnie to manipulate and steal. She might also have some kind of appeal for Sonny.”
She raised her chin a fraction. “Agreed.”
“Bonnie tilted her head to the left slightly when you mentioned Elena’s name. She knows the girl, but she’s calculating if the child is still of use to her.”
Shepard removed her sunglasses from her backpack and slid them on. “No argument here.”
“Bonnie has used other children just as she has Elena. Do you think Sonny might have been one of those kids?”
“It’s very possible.”
“The mother figure is a powerful force in a child’s life, and children naturally want to please,” Ramsey said.
Shepard remained silent.
Ramsey added, “Bonnie pointed out that your name is unusual.”
“I picked up on that. She was trying to get into my head. She’s not the first.”
“I can dance around this a little longer, but I don’t have the patience.” He dropped his voice a notch. “Is there any way you and Bonnie are connected from back in the day? Was she the woman who left you on the side of the road?”
Shepard stared at him from behind her dark glasses. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Did she seem familiar?”
“Yes. But this isn’t the first time I’ve looked at a woman and wondered if we were related or if she were the one who abandoned me. It’s common for adopted kids to wonder about their birth parents.”
“I don’t think she’s your birth mother,” he said.
He sensed her interest had sharpened to a fine point. “A DNA test would answer that question. I’m game to provide a cheek swab.”
“Have you ever had your DNA tested?”
“Yeah. About a year ago, I sent it off to one of those sites that promised to tell you about your ancestry.”
“Did you ever follow up and look for family matches?”
“No. I can tell you that I’m sixty-seven percent European, and the remaining thirty-three percent is Native Mexican.”
“I would think you would want to know. Investigating people is what you do.”
“Easier to peel back the layers of a suspect’s life than my own. I decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Does meeting Bonnie make you curious? A lot of cases are getting solved via DNA these days.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” she said.
&nb
sp; “And?”
Shepard laughed, but it sounded joyless and hollow. “Honestly? Meeting Bonnie makes me want to bury my test results. I’m not sure if I want a personal connection to her or her little pal Sonny.” She shoved out a sigh. “But you’re right. I need to think like a cop.”
“If it helps, Bonnie isn’t in town for you. She’s here for Sonny because he has something she wants. Safe bet it’s money.”
“I hope it is just about money for her. I don’t want to be connected to Bonnie or Sonny.”
His phone rang. Irritated by the interruption, he glanced at the number and recognized it as his contact with the Nashville Police Department. “I better take this.”
She looked relieved. “Certainly.”
“Jeff, what do you have for me?” Detective Jeff Granger was with Nashville Homicide and had worked with Ramsey a couple of years ago on a case.
Ramsey watched as Shepard pulled her phone from her back pocket and dropped her gaze to it.
“We did a search on the credit cards that were found with Bonnie Guthrie. We contacted one of the victims and found something you’re going to want to see.”
“That was fast,” he said.
“There was one card that was not reported missing. We started with that one.”
“And?”
“Like I said, you better come and have a look for yourself. I’m texting you an address.”
“I’ll leave now.” When he hung up, he noted the slight shift in Shepard’s posture. She’d been listening. She was inquisitive by nature. That made her avoidance of her own past even more curious. “Nashville police have located the owner of one of the stolen credit cards. They want us to come and have a look.”
“Interesting,” she said.
“Care to join me?”
“You couldn’t keep me away.”
Shepard stayed close on his bumper as the two made their way north up I-24 toward the west side of Nashville. GPS guided him off the interstate and then down a collection of roads until he found himself in a small neighborhood filled with clapboard houses that looked as if they had been built in the twenties and thirties.
When Ramsey rounded the final neighborhood corner, he spotted a half dozen cop cars parked in front of a small one-level blue house. Yellow crime scene tape marked off the front and side yards.