I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville)

by Mary Burton

  “Philip, please—”

  For a moment, he sat as still as a statue, his terrible beauty etched in calm repose. And then, like a rattler roiled, he struck, moving with lightning speed. He climbed on top of her, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against her thrashing legs. He pressed the knife blade to her throat.

  Their gazes locked as he smoothed the steel tip over her chest to her flat belly. She flinched. Braced.

  “Philip, don’t. Please.”

  This close, his eyes, red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, bore into her. “I’ll never let you go. You belong to me. I love you.” His body hummed with need. Need to own her. Need to possess her. Need to hear her words of love.

  More tears spilled down the sides of her face. He controlled so much in this moment. Life or death rested solely with him. All she controlled was her words. The truth. If she died tonight, Philip would know her heart. “I don’t love you.”

  He flinched, as if the statement bit like a rattler. “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mother and your friends filled you with lies. Poisoned you against me.”

  “I don’t love you.” Defiance pricked as sharp as the knife’s tip. “You don’t own me.”

  Pain deepened the lines of his face, even as his teeth bared into a snarl. He lowered his lips to her ear. Warm breath against her skin raked over her nerves.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you. Why can’t you understand that?”

  Out of habit, not love, she raised her hand to his muscled arm, her touch gentle, as if soothing a beast. “Philip, this isn’t love.”

  He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck. His hand fisted her blond hair. “It’s love. It is.”

  “No, Philip.” A pathetic lie crept from the shadows. “You deserve better.”

  A fist pounded on the apartment’s front door. “Ms. Carson! Ms. Carson! This is the police!”

  The officer’s voice cut through the door and relief collided with tension. The cops!

  He flinched. “Shh. It’s just us, the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Her fingers hardened into a grip. “Help me! He’s going to kill me!”

  Philip rose up, eyed her, disappointment mingling with anger. “Carson. You told the operator your name was Carson. You took your maiden name back.”

  The anger-coated words stoked a flicker of guilt. His temper, abuse, was not her fault, but even after all the pain, he could so easily press the button that triggered guilt. Her weakness shamed her. “The cops are here. Go! Run while you can, Philip. Leave through the window. Just go! You don’t want to go to jail.”

  He pressed the knife’s tip to the hollow of her neck. “That would suit you just fine.”

  “I don’t want to see you in jail.” She prayed the directness in her gaze covered the lie. “You helped so many people as a cop. Let someone help you.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. I only need you!”

  “Ms. Carson!” the officer shouted. “Are you in there?”

  Nothing would sway Philip. Nothing. “Yes!” she screamed.

  Philip winced and pressed the tip of the knife to her neck. The tip scraped skin and drew blood.

  How much longer before the cop got into her apartment? How long to slice skin? Seconds?

  Blood flickered along the narrow column of her neck and dripped on her hair. “Please.”

  “We’re meant to be together.” Desperation tinged the anger.

  “Just leave. While you can.”

  He dragged the tip of the knife over her belly, etching a red scratch along her milky-white midline.

  Fear contorted her gut as keys rattled in the front door. Had the cops gotten the apartment manager’s master key? Hurry! A door opened but caught on the security chain. Her life depended on just a few more seconds.

  Philip wiped the blood trickling from her neck with his forefinger and smeared it across his lips and forehead. “We live and die together.”

  He raised the knife and plunged it into her gut. At first shock and then agony sliced and burned through her insides as she stared into blue eyes that danced with satisfaction. He pulled the knife back and drove it down toward her neck. It skidded over her collarbone before he sliced her cheek and her arms.

  Cops pounded on the door. “Ms. Carson!”

  Screaming, she grabbed the blade. The edge cut her palms. Blood gushed from her hands as he pulled the blade free and raised it again. She lost count of how many times he stabbed her before he rose breathless and stood over her. He stared a long moment at the blood blooming on the bedsheets. With his rage spent, his eyes filled with fresh tears. “What have I done? God, I’m sorry.”

  In the next instant, he vanished through the window, leaving her alone and dying. Stunned by pain, she lay still, feeling the warm blood pool around her body.

  A scream caught in her throat as her hands went to her belly, now crimson and wet. The front door finally yielded. The silhouette of the cop appeared in the door frame. “Leah Carson?”

  The cop’s gaze froze momentarily on the mass of blood pooling around Leah and then swept the room for threats. When he determined the room was clear, he holstered his gun and pushed a button attached to the mic on his vest. “I need an ambulance . . .”

  His deep voice drifted away as her insides burned and she fought to stay awake. She lay as still as possible, fearing Philip had severed an artery.

  Her mind drifted to a sandy beach where the breeze was gentle, the sky a bright blue, and the sun warm.

  “Ms. Carson, can you hear me?” Desperation edged the words. “Open your eyes.”

  She looked up, the blurred face of an officer with dark graying hair. Kind, worried eyes.

  “Stay with me. Help is coming. Can you tell me who did this?”

  Air hissed from a slice in her chest as she struggled for a breath. “My husband. Philip Latimer.”

  The room chilled quickly and she could hear only faint noises. A shiver passed through her body, and she imagined her spirit leaving, drifting above, looking down at a pale, lifeless body.

  Her eyes closing, her mind traveled to the warm beach, where the sky winked crystal clear and the waves lapped against fine sand. A seagull squawked. A gentle breeze. So far away from the pain, Philip, and death.

  Chapter One

  Four Years Later

  Saturday, January 14, 7 P.M.

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Tennessee Bureau of Investigation Agent Alex Morgan arrived at an abandoned warehouse located on the frigid banks of the Cumberland River. Weeds and yellow crime scene tape circled the warehouse, which was scarred with black scorch marks from a recent fire. Each window was smashed.

  On cold nights, the homeless broke into abandoned structures like this one, and set paper and sticks on fire for warmth. He guessed flames had jumped, spread too quickly, and licked up the wooden rafters.

  An unseen door banged open and closed in the bitter wind that cut across the mile-wide river, flapping the tape and chilling him to the bone. He turned up his charcoal-gray overcoat collar and burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets fingering a pocketknife he always carried. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d been on his way to Rudy’s, a honky-tonk on Broadway. Not a normal haunt for him, but tonight was a rare night off. And surprisingly, a date. Both rarities.

  Blue lights from three cop cars flashed as three officers huddled near the ring of yellow tape.

  Frozen dirt crunched and crackled under his neatly polished wingtips. Brittle grass brushed the sides of his freshly dry-cleaned suit pants as his long legs ate up the ground separating him and the abandoned metal building.

  This part of the river, in East Nashville, didn’t enjoy the vibrant beat of the city’s West End, where the famed Broadway strip sported the neon lights of honky-tonks and restaurants. Even on a night as cold as this, Broadway had its charm, and though the streets weren’t as packed as they would be on a summer night, the honky-tonks remained filled with laughter and the music of aspiring artists.


  On the East Side of the river, no lights or live music beckoned. The architecture was neither charming nor historic. Instead, not-so-sexy garages, scrap metal companies, and storage facilities housed in boxy one-story metal and industrial brick buildings lined the streets.

  A uniformed officer stood at the edge of the crime scene tape. The officer’s thin frame, thick blond hair, and ruddy cheeks gave away his youth. He rubbed two gloved hands together and stomped his feet to stay warm.

  Alex pulled his badge from his breast pocket. “Alex Morgan, TBI.”

  The officer frowned. He knew Alex. All the cops knew Alex. The traitor. The turncoat. The agent, who for the last three years, investigated cops. “Yes, sir. Your brother is waiting.”

  Mindful that the other officers were also staring at him, Alex moved toward the yellow tape. The uniformed officer didn’t bother to raise the tape for Alex. Uncaring and accustomed to this kind of chill, Alex ducked under the tape and crossed the cracked and potted asphalt. If he really cared about their opinion, which he didn’t, he’d have asked them to explain their resentment. Like them, he had joined the force to catch bad guys. The only difference was that he tracked bad guys who hid behind a uniform. If he cared . . .

  By the building’s entrance stood a tall, broad-shouldered man powerfully built, and wearing a perpetual frown. He wore a knit cap and a thick, black, well-worn overcoat that covered dark pants and heavy muddied boots. He was Alex’s older brother, Deke Morgan, and he headed up the Nashville Police Department’s Homicide Squad.

  “Deke,” he said.

  His brother turned, the scowl on his face easing a fraction. “Thanks for coming.”

  “This is a first. A murder scene?” As an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, it had been a couple of years since he’d shifted away from murder investigations to internal affairs. “What do you have?”

  Deke handed Alex a set of black rubber gloves. “A burned torso. No hands, no feet. No head.” Each word puffed out in cold clouds as he spoke.

  Alex’s tall, rawboned frame topped six three. Deke had been gifted with strength and bulk, whereas Alex enjoyed speed and agility. Despite physical differences, each matched the other in raw determination.

  Alex yanked on the gloves. “There’s a homeless problem down here. And normally, the death of a vagrant doesn’t rate this kind of attention.”

  They’d both been in police work long enough to understand that politics followed, even in death.

  “Not so sure this guy is homeless.”

  Deke clicked on a heavy-duty flashlight, and the two moved into the building. The scent of gasoline and charred flesh hung heavy in the room. In the far right corner, portable lights glared over the blackened remains of something that didn’t resemble anything human. Fire could do that. Melt away all traces of humanity.

  One forensic technician dressed in a jumpsuit and a jacket shot pictures of the body while another sketched the scene.

  Alex stared closely at the body. In an intense fire, flames ate away the hands and feet first. “Extremities burned by fire?”

  “Dismembered. Bone cuts are clean and precise.”

  Interesting. “Cause of death?”

  “Gunshot wound to the chest. No large bloodstains, which makes me think murder and dismemberment happened at another location.”

  “Male or female?” Alex asked, his interest growing.

  “Appears to be male,” he said. “Someone tossed gasoline or diesel on him and then set him on fire. The flames burned quickly and hot, ate up his skin before it fizzled out.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Body was stripped.”

  “Any sign of the extremities or head?”

  “No. I’ve got an officer coming with a dog in the morning to search the area.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “A couple of homeless guys called. They didn’t give names but said where the body could be found. Officer O’Connor responded and reported it.”

  “No identification on or near the body?”

  “No.”

  “Time of death estimates?”

  “Don’t know yet. Cold is making that a tough call. Could be a couple of days if not more.”

  “I’m surprised the fire wasn’t reported.”

  “We had that snowstorm last week. Could have been missed, and judging by the looks, the building contained the fire. I expect the medical examiner will be able to tell us quite a bit more.”

  The facts processed, Alex met his brother’s gaze. “Why am I here for a dead guy who may or may not be homeless?”

  A smile flickered on Deke’s bulldog face. “Always warm and fuzzy.”

  Small talk wasted time. “I’m trying.”

  That jostled a laugh. “Right.” Deke shined the light toward a distant corner filled with rubble, where moonlight leaked in through the building’s patchwork roof and cast eerie slashes of light across the cement floor. An animal scurried across the floor.

  “It’s what I found near the victim.” The two moved toward a midsize, worn brown leather bag.

  “Looks like a tool kit,” Alex said.

  “Might be. I’m guessing it belongs to our guy.”

  Alex knelt and studied the case’s weathered exterior. Inside it looked as if it had once held wrenches, screwdrivers, and an assortment of other items but now was empty. Deke wouldn’t have mentioned the bag without reason. “Has this been photographed?”

  “And dusted for prints.”

  With a gloved hand, he reached inside the case and, in a side pocket, found a 9mm Beretta. “He stashes the bag and gun in the corner.”

  “He wasn’t expecting trouble, or he had another gun on him that was taken.”

  Alex glanced back at the charred body. “I’d say trouble found him.”

  Deke rubbed his chilled hands together, seeming to replay the crime in his head. “Company shoots him. Strips the body and cuts off head, hands, and feet. Sets the torso on fire.”

  “Nothing to identify the victim.” A lot of trouble to go to for a homeless guy.

  Deke squatted in front of the bag and shined the light inside. “There’s a card tucked in the side pocket. Easy to miss the first time.”

  Alex fished through the pocket until his fingers brushed the dog-eared card. He pulled it up into Deke’s light. The card read DEIDRE JONES, POLICE OFFICER, NASHVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. “What the hell.”

  Deke read the card. “Shit. What’s her card doing here?”

  “You called me about Jones last week. Wanted me to do some digging. Think she’s skimming money. But you gave me her rank as detective. This is an old card. This guy knew her from the past.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Could he have been a confidential informant?”

  “Maybe.” Deke allowed his gaze to drift. “Keep talking.”

  “The two had a meet. This guy gets shot and dismembered. You think Jones could have shot him?”

  “A cop would know how to make an identification difficult. And this is going to be a difficult identification unless we’ve got DNA for a cross-check.”

  Alex had dug only a little into Deidre Jones’s past and work life. What he had learned so far was that she was smart. She closed a lot of cases and was well respected.

  Deke shifted his stance. “You’d think she’d also have the sense to search the area first. Sanitize it completely.”

  “Jones has been with the Nashville Police Department for eight years. Top in her class at the academy. Worked as a uniformed officer for four years before being promoted to detective. Impressive closure rate. Good cop by all appearances. But that’s skimming the surface.” Alex sifted through more Deidre Jones facts. “She’s in tremendous shape. Organized a marathon training group. Well liked. I considered joining the group but decided against it. These days when I show up, people clam up. I’m trying to make friends with a member of Jones’s running group.”

  “Make friends?”

&nb
sp; “Miracles do happen.” Alex’s waking hours were spent working, and the one or two folks he called friends dated back to middle school. “She’s recently separated from her husband. Divorce wasn’t friendly.”

  Deke grunted. “Which ones are?”

  “You should know.”

  Deke absently rubbed his thumb against his naked ring finger. “Two divorces is my limit.”

  “You have two strikes already so does that mean you’re not getting married again or divorced again?”

  “Divorced again.” Deke shoved his hand in his pocket. “I asked Rachel to marry me.”

  “And?”

  “She’s chewing on it.” Deke and defense attorney Rachel Wainwright had been living together for almost a year and a half.

  “She’s a lawyer. They weigh all the options.”

  “That’s what worries me. On paper, I don’t look like a winning horse.”

  Alex noted the rising and unexpected worry in his brother’s voice. “Rachel is the patron saint of lost causes. She’ll say yes eventually.”

  “Saying I’m a lost cause?”

  “When it comes to marriage, yes.”

  “Ass.”

  Alex shrugged and shifted his focus back to the case. “Deidre did a hell of a job bringing down Ray Murphy. Her case was ironclad, but if she comes up dirty, his defense attorneys are going to have a field day.” Ray Murphy was a drug dealer who’d made millions selling meth. Deidre had worked undercover, getting Murphy’s girlfriend to flip and wear a wire. It had taken a year, but Deidre had worked the case better than any other cop could have.

  “You think Murphy set this little scene up?”

  “He’s smart enough. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Alex studied the bag and then glanced back at the body. “Find anything else?”

  “That’s it. Ballistics and whatever else forensics finds will have to be sifted through at the lab.”

  “All right.”