by Mary Burton
“I’ll be there.”
“You know where it is?” Detective Morgan asked.
“I can find it.” She’d have to do some figuring, but she’d not ask Detective Morgan for help. His you quit rattled in her head, making it impossible to ask him for help.
You quit.
She’d not quit. She’d taken a break so that she could get her head together. She’d not walked away from Baltimore forever. Just for now.
Jenna walked Detectives Morgan and Bishop outside and without a backward glance, left her to consider the task she’d accepted. As they got into a dark SUV, she withdrew back into her home. She closed the door to the sound of the car engine rumbling and gravel crunching under tires.
Nervous tension simmered in her belly as she thought about re-creating the face for Morgan’s Lost Girl. It was a job. A favor. Nothing she hadn’t done a thousand times before in Baltimore. But this time the idea of drawing the child’s face unsettled her enough to make her reconsider.
You quit.
Though tempted to back out of the job, she wouldn’t, if only to prove to herself and to Detective Morgan she was no quitter.
Facing her easel, she turned the image around and studied the half-erased eyes. Automatically, she reached for her pencil and began to sketch. Eyes. Why was it always the eyes that haunted her?
Her chest tightened and the more she stared at the portrait’s unfinished eyes the more anxious she grew. The cabin’s walls shrunk. Finally, unable to draw, she crossed the room and stepped out onto the back deck. Tilting her face toward the sun, she inhaled the sweet scent of wildflowers, pollen, and hay. Breathe in. Breathe out. She glanced down at her trembling hands. Never in her life could she remember being scared. Her aunt had always said Jenna attacked life. And yet here she stood unable to finish a damn portrait.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” she whispered.
Frayed edges of a pink blanket coiled through her thoughts.
A similar blanket, soft and smelling of milk, had been a treasured item of hers when she was a child. She’d held it close when she’d laughed and played with her mother and father. Sometimes, she’d imagined it had been a princess cape or a magic carpet. Other days, it kept her warm and soothed her to sleep at night.
Days after her fifth birthday, when the bad man took her from her home, her pink blanket had become her lifeline. She clung to it when he’d taped her mouth closed and tossed her in the trunk of his car. Later, when he’d thrown her into a closet and locked the door, she wept into that blanket.
He eventually took the tape off so she could eat the fast-food burgers he brought her. He spoke sweetly to her, tried to coax her to eat but all she could do was cower in the corner, clinging to the blanket. Finally, he’d slammed the door closed and left her in the dark.
Ragged pink threads brushed more memories to the front of her mind.
Later she would learn that he had killed her family and he had held her for nine days in that closet. But then, when she’d been alone and afraid, time had stopped as she’d cried for her mother. She’d been the lost child and could easily have been killed and found later wrapped in pink. Dead and tossed in the cold ground.
But her captor had been a drug user and on the ninth day of her containment, he’d overdosed on heroin. It had been hours before cops had broken down the door and found her in the closet, half starved.
“You’re one lucky girl,” the officer had said as he’d carried her from the small apartment. Clinging to her blanket, she’d blinked as the sun had hit her eyes and she’d tucked her head in the officer’s broad shoulders.
One lucky girl. How could she respond to that?
Jenna folded her arms over her chest and savored the open space and the warm breeze flittering through the trees. No amount of pine cleaner could wash away the memory of the tiny, putrid closet with walls that left her with a lasting fear of confined spaces. That fear had found renewed life in the last few weeks until finally it had driven her out of Baltimore.
You quit.
“No, I didn’t quit, Detective Morgan.” She glanced back at her house. It would be hours before she could return inside.
“She’s an interesting piece of work. Attractive but different,” Bishop said.
Different didn’t come close to describing Jenna Thompson. There was a solemn look in her gaze that reached far beyond her thirty years. The eyes of a woman who’d seen bad things. She’d been a cop so that stood to reason. However, he suspected, what she’d seen went beyond the Force. He’d watched how her hands had trembled very slightly when she’d tapped her index finger on the picture. The image had struck a nerve. Was it because the victim had been a child? Lots of cops took emotional hits when the victim was young and innocent. The case certainly had touched Georgia deeply.
Rick glanced in the rearview mirror at a sleeping Tracker and then pulled out onto the main road. As the lush green trees lining the backcountry road whooshed past, he pictured the petite, trim, controlled woman with the long, dark braid that draped over her shoulder like a seaman’s rope.
“What did her captain say about her when you called?” Bishop asked.
“She was decorated and served with honor. Her boss, Mike Ferrara, was sorry to see her go and said the door was always open if she wanted to return. He said she can create a face from just about any witness, no matter how rattled. She’s one of the best. He has hopes she’ll return soon.”
He’d tried to walk away after the shooting, but in the end, he couldn’t walk away from the job. The Force was in his blood, just as it was in Tracker’s. Some canines couldn’t make the transition to civilian life. They lost the will to live and died soon after retirement. Tracker would have been like that. And he wasn’t much different. Civilian life had made his skin itch and crawl with impatience.
He was no damn quitter.
As they grew closer to the city, trees gave way to more and more concrete. “What else did you find out about her?”
“She’s been in Nashville several weeks, rented the house of a murdered woman, and draws pictures. That’s it.”
“The dots don’t connect.”
Bishop yawned. “I really don’t care if the dots connect or not. We’ve got a talented forensic artist who’s going to create a sketch for us. We’ll have a better chance of figuring out who killed that child if we’ve a face.”
Rick tightened his hand on the wheel. “You’re right. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Even as he spoke the words, he knew he’d stop by KC’s bar tonight and find out more about Jenna Thompson.
Just before four, Rick and Bishop were minutes from the station when they received the call from dispatch. There’d been a fire in a small West End home and crews had found a body in the midst of the rubble. Likely the victim had died in the fire but a dead body was a dead body and homicide had to be called.
Rick shifted in his seat, stifling a groan. His leg was stiff and he needed to stretch and work out the cramps. But with another call on the heels of their meeting with Jenna Thompson there’d be no time for PT stretches. He did what he had to do. He sucked it up. He did not quit.
He parked behind a fire truck at the end of a cul-de-sac. Water hoses sprayed on the black smoldering embers cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape. The house’s brick foundation remained, as did blackened wooden struts that had once been the east wall. The heavy scent of burned wood clung to the air as heat hissed a dying breath from the embers.
Judging by the other houses on the block, the charred timbers had been a small bungalow with a brick front porch and a low-pitched roof. A few firemen stood in puddles of water while neighbors gathered to watch the scene as if it were a live-action crime drama playing out in their own front yards. The drama of the flames might’ve passed but Rick guessed this had been a hell of a fire.
A Channel Five news van had angled on the street behind and Susan Martinez gripped her mike as she spoke into the camera. The dark-haired re
porter wore a red dress that hugged her trim frame and waterproof boots that kept her feet dry.
“Look, it’s your buddy, Ms. Martinez,” Bishop said.
“My lucky day.”
Rick let Tracker out of the car so that he could move and stretch. The dog sniffed the air and his ears perked as he took in the scene. A uniformed officer moved toward the detectives, a small notebook in hand.
The officer’s name badge read PRINCE. He was a tall, lean kid with short, black hair. Fresh-faced and a spring in his step, Rick guessed he’d not been working the streets for more than a year.
Prince extended his hand and introduced himself.
Rick accepted the hand. “So what do you have for us?”
Prince glanced back at the scene. “Firemen responded to the call early this morning. The flames ate through the house in a matter of minutes. Crews didn’t even attempt to enter the building, which was completely engulfed when they arrived.”
Bishop pulled off his sunglasses and studied the carnage. “What time did the fire start?”
“Just before sunrise. They put the fire out hours ago but the rubble has only just cooled enough so the arson investigator could examine the scene more closely.”
Rick sniffed. “Do I smell diesel?”
Prince’s eyes widened with surprise. “Good nose. The fire crews suspected arson from the moment they pulled up. The flames were hot and spread fast.”
“Who owns the house?” Rick asked.
He glanced at his notes. “A couple by the name of Nesbit. They recently moved out into a home in Franklin. He got a big promotion and they could afford a bigger house.”
Rick rested his hands on his hips. “They’ve been accounted for?”
“They have. I spoke to them a half hour ago and they’re on their way here.” They turned toward the house and pointed to a trampled white sign in the center of the yard.
“That’s a FOR SALE sign. They put the house on the market six months ago but no sale yet. Just had it staged to attract buyers.”
“A fire would solve a lot of problems,” Rick said.
Bishop nodded. “Clean and simple.”
“Except that there’s a body in the house,” Rick added. “Any clue who it might be?”
“Not yet,” Prince said. “Waiting on the medical examiner’s van.”
“Who’s in charge of the arson investigation?”
Prince pointed to a broad-shouldered man wearing a fireman’s jacket and pants, heavy boots, and a helmet. “Inspector Dean Murphy. He’s the one that found the body.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Rick and Bishop made their way across the water-soaked yard, up a cement sidewalk to a set of brick stairs that now led really to nowhere. In the center of the blackened remains stood Dean Murphy.
“Inspector Murphy,” Rick said.
The man held up a hand, asking Rick to wait, as if he were engrossed in midthought. He scribbled notes on a page and then slowly faced them. In his early sixties he sported a large stock of white hair, full eyebrows, and a ruddy complexion.
Rick made introductions. “The uniformed officer tells me it was arson.”
Inspector Murphy shoved out a breath. “No doubt about it.” He pointed to several sections of the ruins that had all but disintegrated. “Those spots are ignition points where our arsonist poured lots of accelerant, likely diesel or kerosene. As you can see, we’ve got multiple ignition points, but if you look over here where the body was found, there’s quite a bit of damage. That area was the bedroom.”
Rick studied what had been the bedroom and could make out the faint impression of a body. High heat not only seared flesh but it melted the body’s fat and ate into bone turning it to ash and dust.
“At this point, I can’t tell you how the person died,” Murphy said. “Witnesses tell me the house was vacant except for the staged furniture. A neighbor was keeping an eye on the house. I don’t know if this is a suicide or a murder. Can’t even tell you at this point if the victim was a male or female. The fire was deliberate and intended to obliterate the house.”
Removing a body from a scene damaged by fire was tricky. Often the body had fused or dissolved into the surrounding area so crews scooped up all they could from around the body and took it, knowing it could be sorted at the medical examiner’s office. However, lots of photos would be taken and the scene carefully mapped before the body could be removed.
Flashing lights reflected off the windows of the house in the yard adjoining this one. Rick turned to see the Nashville Police Department’s forensic van arrive.
“Can you take me closer to the spot where the body was found?”
“Spot is still too hot. But there’s something I can show you,” Murphy said. He pulled a digital camera from his pocket, clicked on the camera, and scrolled through several pictures. “Have a look at this.”
Rick and Bishop stared at the image. At first, it only appeared to be blackened wood, but closer inspection revealed the faint impression of letters. “A word.”
“Appears to have been carved into what I think was the headboard of the bed. “I missed it the first time through.”
Rick removed his sunglasses and, squinting, studied the image. “I see an F and an A.” The remaining letters were faint, but a careful study of the letters’ curves nudged the puzzle pieces into place. “Faithless.”
Murphy rubbed his hand over the side of his square jaw. “That’s exactly what I saw. I also think, judging by the remains, that the body was tied spread-eagle. Likely to the bed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Most people die in the fetal position. They’re trying to protect their face and airways. This person is facing up with hands out.”
Fire ate through the outer extremities first: fingers and hands, toes and feet. The limbs of this victim were gone but shoulders remained in place.
“Hell of a way to destroy evidence,” Bishop said.
Murphy shrugged as he shut off the image. “Fire obliterates a lot but not everything.”
Rick stretched his neck from side to side. “Faithless.”
It was after ten by the time Rick reached KC’s bar. The former cop had retired last year after thirty-five years in the Nashville Police Department. KC and Rick’s father, Buddy, had been partners for twenty-nine years. KC and his late wife had never had children, but they had been honorary members of the Morgan clan and had broken bread with them many times.
Short, with a thick chest and a large, hard belly, KC wore a Hawaiian shirt that hung loosely over jeans. He’d let his regulation short hair grow since he’d retired and now secured it back in a small ponytail at the base of his neck. KC, badass cop, had gone native.
The walls were decorated with hundreds of black-and-white photos of country-western singers. Some had shot to stardom while most faced obscurity. Tradition dictated that when a singer hit the big-time they returned to Rudy’s and had their picture taken with Rudy. His image taken over decades covered the walls. No signs yet of KC with a big star but he’d said it was only a matter of time.
No band onstage tonight. Piped-in music blared overhead as Rick moved toward KC who filled a couple of beer mugs from a tap. When he set the mugs in front of a couple of women dressed in sparkling denim, he glanced up and caught Rick’s gaze. He grinned and, grabbing a towel, wiped his hands before motioning to a second bartender and ducking out from behind the bar.
He extended a large hand to Rick. “Well, look what the damn cat dragged in.”
Rick shook KC’s hand and smiled. “Looks like you’re staying out of trouble.”
“Can’t complain. We seem to pack them in night after night.”
“There’s life after the department?”
“Who knew? Where’s Tracker?”
“Home. He was ready to call it a day. Georgia’s staying at the Big House most nights.”
“How’s she doing?”
Rick shrugged. “Putting one foot in front of the other.”
KC’s smile faded to a troubled frown before he caught himself and straightened. “So what brings you down here?”
“I’ve come about Jenna Thompson.”
“The artist?” A thin veil dropped over his expression and Rick sensed he’d mentally shifted to attention. Was he expecting trouble or ready to defend Jenna? “What’s up?”
“You know she’s on leave from the Baltimore Police Department?”
He puffed his chest, a proud peacock. “She didn’t say she was a cop but I knew right off she’d worn a badge. Something about the vibe.”
“How’d you two meet?”
“She just showed up and ordered lunch. While she ate she started drawing me. Hard not to look.” He jabbed his thumb toward a sketch tacked to the wall behind the bar. The pencil sketch had captured KC laughing.
“Hell of a picture.”
“That’s what I said.” He cast another glance at the picture and then faced Rick. “She said if I let her draw pictures outside the bar, people would stop. Would really help with the families—the before-seven-P.M. crowd. Said she’d done it a good bit back East and always had a crowd. The overflow would come in here.”
“Just like that.”
He leaned in a fraction. “She didn’t blink once and gave me the sense she was doing me the favor. I like confidence in a woman.”
Rick could see KC had a slight crush on Jenna. Thirty-plus years separated them in age, but hell, a man could dream. “So you said yes?”
“I refilled her coffee and we chatted. Never can be too careful.”
The bitterness humming below the surface hinted to KC’s last girlfriend who’d done a number on him. He was cautious these days when it came to women.
“But you said yes.”
“I thought it couldn’t hurt. No skin off my nose to give it a few nights. Hell, I really expected her not to show.”
“But she did.”
“Right on time. And she was correct. She brings in business.”
“How long she been here?”
“Two weeks. Her one night off is Monday. Come back tomorrow and you’ll see her.”
