Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

  Bishop looked at the pictures, his gaze burning. “He gets closer and closer to her, gets bolder and bolder and then decides to take ultimate control when he kills her.”

  “Finds a house that’s for sale, lures her there or takes her there and kills her. Sets the house on fire.”

  “That’s a lot of planning.”

  Rick glanced around the chaotic, stinking mess of his room. “Jonas Tuttle doesn’t strike me as a guy who could plan. Judging by his room it looks like he can barely take care of himself.”

  “This might’ve been the only place in his life he was organized.” Bishop checked his watch. “It’s two A.M. The grocery opens at six.”

  “Let’s have a chat with the motel clerk. He might have information about Jonas.”

  They found the clerk, a very large man with a bulging belly and thick stubble over wagging jowls. He sat in a worn and tattered plaid recliner in front of a television tucked behind the counter and was watching a rerun of Gunsmoke.

  Rick let the front door close hard and when the man didn’t turn as they approached, he smacked his hand on the rusted silver bell on the counter.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  The clerk hunched closer to the television. “Leave your money on the table.”

  “This isn’t about money,” Rick said.

  Shoving out a breath, the clerk groaned. “Then I don’t care.”

  “You can care right now or you can care when I’ve a half-dozen cop cars here in ten minutes searching your rooms.”

  The clerk turned, his narrowed gaze reflecting mild interest. “Cops. Just what I need. Which room fucked up?”

  Clearly this was not his first conversation with the cops. “What can you tell me about Jonas Tuttle? Room Seven.”

  He glanced back at the television, cursing when he realized the show had gone to commercial break. He didn’t bother to look back at them. “Nothing.”

  Rick drummed his fingers on the counter, fatigue and stiffness in his leg straining his patience to breaking. “Turn around. Now.” His sharp, crisp tone cracked like the snap of a whip.

  The clerk, cursing more, turned and faced the detectives, his brow arched. “I don’t know shit about the guy in that room or any other damn room. All I care about him is that I get paid on time.”

  “Dig deep. Think real hard. Jonas Tuttle,” Rick said. “What do you know about him?”

  The guy swiveled his easy chair until he faced them. He leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly through a stained T-shirt. “Room Number Seven? Always late on the rent and when he paid it was short. Money’s due tomorrow as a matter of fact. Never had money to pay me but plenty of money for beer, pizza, and whores.”

  Rick shifted his stance, glancing at the cubbies behind the clerk. Number Seven was filled with envelopes.

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Two months. Maybe nine weeks.”

  Many of the photos Jonas had taken of Diane had been taken months and months ago, suggesting he’d brought at least half the images with him. “Where’d he come from?”

  He plucked at a loose thread on the arm of the recliner that had been patched once with duct tape. “How the hell would I know? I put up a sign saying I got a room and within a day he was here with the first week’s rent in cash.”

  “Did he have any visitors?” Bishop asked.

  “No idea.”

  Rick flexed his fingers as he turned to look out the office’s front window. The view was a straight shot to Room Seven. There was no way he couldn’t have seen some odd behavior in the last two months. As he stared out the window, Rick said, “Detective Bishop, call dispatch. We need uniforms down here to search all the rooms.”

  Bishop reached for his phone and punched in a few numbers. “How many cars you want?”

  “Seven or eight.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “You really going to pull that shit?” the clerk growled.

  “I am,” Rick said, facing him. Catching a hint of distress on the man’s face gave him a measure of satisfaction. “And we’re going to drag every one of your residents into the street. And then we’re coming back tomorrow night and the next. No one will want to stay here after I’m finished.”

  The clerk tightened his jaw, accentuating sagging jowls. “Why you being such a dick?”

  “Been a long day and I’m looking for a pound of flesh, I guess,” Rick said. “I’ll have ripped you a new one by the time we’re done here, if you don’t start offering me more information.”

  Large, fatty cheeks paled. He sniffed. “Can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “Better dig deep, pal. I don’t like getting jerked around even on a good day.” Bishop’s accent had grown thicker with fatigue. He sounded as if he’d just arrived from Boston.

  The clerk sniffed and his face wrinkled as if he inhaled a foul odor. “Like I said, Tuttle moved in about two months ago. A couple of weeks ago, he brought in a hooker. I know because she has this loud laugh. She was cackling like a hen when they went into his room. But she didn’t stay long. Less than five minutes later and she slammed out of his room. She told him to fuck off. Looked pissed.”

  “She got a name?” Rick asked.

  The clerk moistened his lips. “I’m supposed to know a whore’s name?”

  Rick cocked a brow. “You know every girl that works this block. Half have given you kickbacks or blow jobs.”

  The clerk cursed. “Terry. Her first name is Terry. Don’t know her last name. Works down the street on the corner.”

  “Why was she mad?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask her yourself. You can find her pretty easy. She’s here several times a night. Wait an hour and you’ll see her. Tall, dark hair, and likes to wear lime green.”

  “Call her.”

  “What?”

  “Call her. Tell her she’s got a client.”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  Rick smacked his hand on the counter. “Don’t fuck with me.”

  The clerk looked as if he’d argue, but then imagining a dozen cops swarming in and out of the rooms, he reached for a flip phone. He dialed the number easily and told Terry that she had work waiting for her in Room Two.

  The officers waited less than ten minutes before a woman pushed through the front door of the motel’s office. She wore a red wig, a lime-green tank top and skirt, and white cowboy boots. Thick blue makeup lined dull brown eyes and a wide swath of rouge added garish color to pale sunken cheeks.

  When she spotted Rick and Bishop, she clearly smelled cops right off and turned to leave. “Shit.”

  “We aren’t here to arrest you.” Rick reached the door before her. “Have a question about a john.”

  Close up he smelled the blend of cheap perfume and booze. “Fuck me. I’m going to get the shit beat out of me if my pimp sees I’m talking to the cops.”

  Rick didn’t move. “Answer quick and your pimp will never know. What can you tell me about Jonas Tuttle?”

  “Who?”

  “Room Seven,” the clerk said. “Smells like pizza.”

  She thought for a second and then held up her hands, palms out. “That fucker’s crazy.”

  “We hear you didn’t stay long,” Bishop said. “Why?”

  She chewed gum, snapping it a few times. “Look, I don’t want him coming back and finding me. I don’t need that kind of trouble. Like I said, that fucker’s crazy.”

  Rick rested his hands on his hips. “The guy overdosed in an alley a few days ago. He’s not going to bother you. Why was he a freak?”

  “He’s dead?”

  “That’s right. Dead.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way.” She sniffed. “He paid me and I was on the bed ready to get down to business. Then he started calling me by another woman’s name, which ain’t that unusual. Shit, some guys call me Mommy.”

  “Stick to it,” Rick said.

  She hooked her finger in a beaded necklace and pulled it bac
k and forth. “Well, he pulls out a set of handcuffs. Not the worst that’s ever happened. I tell him it costs extra and he says fine.”

  “But . . .”

  She glanced over her shoulder out the office window as if half-expecting to see him or her pimp. She lowered her voice a notch. “I’m reaching for the cuffs and he puts a gun to my head and asks me to beg for my life.”

  Rick tapped a calloused index finger against the smooth leather of his belt, inches in front of his gun holster. Diane had been shot in the head. “That’s all he said?”

  “He said, ‘Beg me, bitch, for your life.’” She hesitated. “‘Beg for your life.’ I won’t forget that too soon.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “Fucker was nervous. Sweating like a pig. I could tell he hadn’t done anything like that before.” With a trembling hand she fished inside a pack of cigarettes tucked in the waistband of her skirt.

  Rick watched as she raised a cigarette to her lips and lit it. “He was scared.”

  She inhaled and blew out a lungful of smoke. “He was real scared. I was scared but I was also mad. He was gonna be my last score for the night and I thought, ‘Great, I’m gonna die here,’ when I was thinking I’d be home in thirty minutes and standing in a hot shower. I love hot showers. Shit. I fought back and he just about pissed in his pants. Big guy but no balls.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “I popped him in the nose with the heel of my hand.” She drew in another lungful of smoke and released it slowly.

  “And he let you go, just like that?” Bishop’s gaze shifted from the shadows rimming the parking lot to her face.

  “I think the bloody nose freaked him out. I didn’t stop to ask or think, but just ran.”

  “Did he mention the other woman’s name?”

  She stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Deidra. No. Diane. He said her name was Diane.” She met Rick’s gaze. “Johns call me all kinds of names. As long as the money’s green I don’t care. And I don’t usually remember.”

  “But he put a gun to your head,” Rick said.

  “That has a way of making words stick.” Again trembling hands raised the cigarette to her lips. “Something happened to Diane, didn’t it?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  A seasoned gaze danced with bitter humor. “Because you’re here. You ain’t the kind of cops that care about pimps and whores. Bigger fish to fry.”

  Rick released a sigh. “Any other girls talk about this guy?”

  She arched a brow. “I made a point to ask around. A couple knew him. No one likes him. We all deal with crazy but he’s crazier than most.”

  “He’s a user?”

  “I don’t know. Last I heard, you don’t need blow to act crazy. Crazy is crazy.” She scratched the blotchy skin of her forearm. “I got to get back to work or I’m going to get beat.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Jane. Jane Fuller. But on the street ask for Terry.”

  “If I need to talk to you again?”

  She dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the pointed toe of her scuffed cowboy boot. “Terry’s here every night. Just ask. I’m easy to find.”

  Hollow, eyeless sockets stared at Jenna, emanating a desperate energy that pulsed from the inky depths. She turned, covered her own eyes, but the phantom eyes glimmered back at her, reached out, and beckoned.

  I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.

  The words, or rather, the feeling, radiated as she started awake. Her gaze darted around her bedroom, lighted by several night-lights she always kept burning. She dragged a shaking hand through her hair. Breathe. Breathe. She’d had nightmares before and used the breathing techniques the psychologist in Baltimore had prescribed.

  I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.

  Breathe. In. Out. Seconds passed, and the whispering voice faded as her vision sharpened on the blue dresser with a half-open top drawer dripping with clothes she’d not bothered to quite put away.

  Jenna swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes curling as they touched the cold tile. She always kept the AC low and huddled under thick blankets . . . another trick from the psychologist when her insomnia had been at its worst.

  She moved toward the window near her bed, which looked out over the thick woods that circled the cabin. The air-conditioning had left condensation dripping down the window. Through the mist, she stared at the stand of darkened trees that ringed the property.

  Jenna had spent nearly an hour today cradling the tiny skull in her hands, staring, trying to picture the face. She wanted to imagine smiling lips and light brown hair that framed full pink cheeks. But as hard as she tried to conjure the face of a healthy child, she knew this child had not been healthy. The eyes would have reflected stress, the hair would have been thin and the lips flat in a grim line of worry.

  She’d left the skull and gone to KC’s to draw for a few hours. She’d made a hundred bucks, grabbed food at a grocery store, and returned home.

  Under the glare of the fluorescent lights at the medical examiner’s office, she could distance herself from the reality of that child’s life. But during the quiet hours of the night, alone, the emotion ruled. Faces of this dead child haunted her and she wanted to weep for the Lost Girl.

  She traced her finger through the condensation on the window and knew she would not cry now. She was too much of a cop to give in before the job was done. For now, emotion wouldn’t run the show. Instead of decrying this sad loss to the world, she’d focus on bone structure and the sinew that stretched and wound around this small face. She’d think about hair and eye color.

  Later, much later, once the job was done and the case closed, she would give emotion a small nod. A tear or two would make sense and certainly would be healthy but she’d not allow them. Nor would she succumb to the shallow promises of booze or sex. Sex. Sex with Rick Morgan would be a very tempting diversion but sex with him promised too many complications.

  After this case was solved, she would get in her car and drive for hours; perhaps she’d volunteer at an animal hospital or stroll around an amusement park and savor that joy. And perhaps she’d finally come to terms with the lost child who had brought her to Nashville.

  She glanced at the clock. Three thirty. It would be an hour later on the East Coast and she knew he would be awake. Like her, Mike didn’t sleep well. His own unsolved cases and demons would not allow him more than a few hours of sleep at night.

  She reached for her cell and dialed.

  He answered on the first ring, his voice clear and bright. “You said you’d sleep better if you left Baltimore.”

  A wan smile tweaked the edges of her lips as she cradled the phone closer to her cheek. “I did, too.”

  The low hum of his television filtered through the phone. “The ghosts have found you again.”

  No sense lying to him. He’d hear the false words in her voice. “Yes.”

  A silence emanated worry. “Old or new ghosts?”

  She stared into the darkened line of the trees wondering what lurked in the shadows. “Both, I think. But you know me. I’m good friends with ghosts.”

  Ice clinked against a glass as he sipped his favorite scotch. “You never told me about the old ghosts.”

  Tension radiated up her spine. “I never thought about them much.”

  “Until that case. It was that case that drove you out of Baltimore.”

  The Lost Girl. The child locked in the closet. “I didn’t realize the ghosts had such power until I found that little girl.”

  She imagined Mike sitting in his recliner, his large hand tracing the outline of the television remote buttons. They’d been friends for nearly five years and three weeks ago as he helped her pack her belongings into her Jeep, he’d leaned in to kiss her. The kiss had started as benign, but the skin-to-skin touch overwhelmed her senses. Desperation and fear had welled and before she’d stopped to think they’d been
half-naked and moving toward her bedroom. A coherent thought shouted, Don’t screw up the best friendship you’ve ever had! A tidal wave of lust had obliterated the warnings.

  She’d not pulled her lips from his or tugged away from his embrace. She’d allowed him to tug off her shirt, unsnap her jeans, and push inside of her with a desperation that had surprised them both.

  “Stay,” he’d whispered in her ear, as their hearts had hammered in wild unison. “We’ll figure this out together.”

  “I can’t,” she’d whispered back.

  He’d risen up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. “Stay.”

  A shake of her head and he’d drawn in a breath and pulled away. No anger. No begging. In Mike’s mind, no was no. End of story. She’d moved from the bedroom, fearing that if she didn’t get away from the bed, she’d toss reason to the curb and ignore Nashville.

  Mike had left immediately, as if he warred with his own angels and demons, but he’d returned early the next day as she’d closed up her Jeep. She’d hugged him and told him she loved him. He’d kissed her on the cheek and told her to be careful. Call whenever.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she’d said. “Only six weeks.”

  His smile had been sad as if she’d already left forever.

  She’d not called him in the last couple of weeks. She’d been tempted many times but she’d held back. Now, she hoped the distance between them would make it easy to fall back into the roles of friends. No more danger of being lovers tonight.

  “What does the little girl have to do with you?” Mike asked.

  “I think she’s why I’m back in Nashville. She made me realize there’s something lurking in the shadows I’ve got to find.”

  “Back in Nashville. When were you ever in Nashville?”

  She rubbed a stiff muscle on the left side of her neck. “I was born here. Lived here until I was five.”