by Mary Burton
“I didn’t know you were from Nashville.” His frown radiated through the line.
“I didn’t talk about it much because I didn’t remember much. All I really remembered was Baltimore.”
More silence, a signal of a deepening frown. “What happened in Nashville?”
Scant memories of Nashville remained: echoes of laughter, a mother’s embrace, a father’s tender kiss, and a sister’s good-natured jab. And then, of course, there was the closet. The nine days in the darkened, stinking box where she’d been deprived of light, decent food, and her family.
“I’m not exactly sure,” she hedged.
His voice dropped as if he questioned a suspect. “Aren’t sure or aren’t saying?”
Her lips curled into a smile. Mike was one of the best cops she’d ever known. Could piece together the fragments of a murder faster than anyone. So intuitive, it was as if he could read minds. “Don’t do your suspect voodoo on me.”
He chuckled. “I just asked a question.”
“You never just ask a question. You’re always searching for the extra layer that lurks beneath the words.”
“What’s the extra layer, Jenna?”
She didn’t know. All she knew was that she’d chosen to work outside of KC’s bar because he’d not only been a cop, but a cop old enough to have worked her case. She’d said yes to Rick Morgan not only because of the child but because he was a step closer to the case files that held the details of her past. “When I’ve a few more answers, I’ll call, okay?”
“Not ready to say?”
“Not yet. But I’ll call.”
“Promise?”
She tucked the phone close to her lips. “I promise.”
A heavy silence hummed and she dreaded a reference to her last night with him. Finally, he said, “Get some sleep.”
Relief washed over her. “I will, if you will.”
They both laughed. Neither would get any more sleep tonight. Soon, he’d give up on his late-night movies and go into the office. And as soon as she could get into the medical examiner’s office she’d be drawing again.
After she hung up, she rose and moved into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. Steaming coffee in hand, she moved into her studio and flipped on the lights. She had several hours to work on the commissioned portrait she now had and, knowing mornings were her best time, she opted to see what she could finish.
She turned the picture of the young bride around and studied the image. She’d captured the gown with long, sweeping strokes of white and ivory. She’d drawn lovely elegant hands grasping irises of vibrant purples. She was even pleased with the sweep of hair the color of wheat and gold. This project was coming together nicely and no doubt would earn her more commissions.
However, her gaze was drawn away from the bridal job. Instead, her gaze was drawn to the board where she’d pinned pictures she’d snapped at the medical examiner’s office and printed off on her laser printer at home. They were the pictures of the Lost Girl’s skull.
The skull was no longer naked. It was now covered in small plastic markers. She’d spent most of yesterday cutting and gluing twenty-one rubber markers onto the skull’s forehead, cheekbones, and chin. The depth of the markers mirrored a standard table of measurements created by forensic anthropologists. Based on sex and race, the markers served as landmarks that indicated the skin’s thickness at various points on the face.
She set down her cup and reached for a piece of transparent paper, which she placed over the demarcated skull. Carefully, she taped the paper to her drawing board so that it would not shift.
Moving her head from side to side she reached for a drawing pencil. Her work was part science and part guesswork. She had scientific formulas that determined the sides of the eyes and bone markers to help shape the nose and lips but as with any artist she made judgment calls throughout the process. Her judgments would add the spark of life that made the sketch all the more real.
Pencil point at the midpoint of the eye, she began to draw the ligaments that controlled eye movement. She worked for nearly an hour just on the basic underlying structure of the eyes. And then she moved to the lids. The upper lids curved slightly more than the lower and dipped partially over the iris of the eye. Soon, a set of colorless eyes stared back at her and she found herself setting down the pencil and reaching for her coffee.
She winced when the cold liquid touched her tongue and she gratefully moved away from the image to heat the cup in the microwave.
Punching in a minute, she watched the microwave’s interior light up and the cup rotate in slow steady circles. Her thoughts strayed to Tracker. The animal’s gaze burned with his desire to work, to be relevant, and to be needed. Rick had included Tracker and her in his work, giving them both a sense of purpose. But was she, like Tracker, too damaged to ever be a real cop again?
The microwave dinged and she shoved aside the thought. She grabbed her mug, shifting her thoughts back to work.
Next she’d work on the nose. Another formula dictated how wide the nose should be based on the nasal opening. There was one width for a Caucasian and a slightly wider one for an African American. A bony spine at the base of the nose would tell her how far the nose projected and whether it should be tipped up or down. She’d base the shape of the lips off the canine teeth’s position and then she’d work out from there.
The process took time. But it was important that she capture the essence of the child. No doubt the cops would work with the media and broadcast the image on local stations. Someone out there knew this little girl and wondered and worried about her. Someone had not forgotten her.
Soon, she would no longer be a lost girl.
She lost track of the time until fatigue crept up her arms and through her shoulders. She’d reached the edge of her stamina and if she continued to work, the drawing would suffer.
Jenna took one last look at the eyes staring back. “It’s just the two of us now, lost girl to lost girl. We’ll figure this out.”
Eyes filled with a mixture of longing and fear stared back. She shut off the light and returned to her bed, curling on her side. “We’ll find out who did this to you and bring you home. I promise.”
Chapter Six
Wednesday, August 16, 10:25 A.M.
Rick, with Tracker at his side, arrived at the medical examiner’s office and took the elevator to the second floor where he knew he’d find Jenna working. His eyes itched from lack of sleep and as much as he’d like to have a solid eight hours, with two homicides on his desk and a hip that always throbbed, he knew he’d get precious little sleep in the days to come.
He found Jenna sitting cross-legged in a chair, bare feet tucked under her as she leaned over a sketchpad on her desk. Her long, dark hair hung in a silky mass, curtaining half of her face.
Beside her, the small skull set staring at her as if waiting. The skull was now covered with rubber plugs, which he knew indicated skin depths. Her row of pencils and erasers arranged in a neat line on the table reminded him of the workspace at her house. It too had been well organized. Order was so important to her.
“Good morning,” Rick said.
The sound of his voice drew her gaze up, but it took several seconds for the trancelike haze glazing her eyes to clear.
“Detective Morgan.”
Her gaze skittered to the canine, hesitated, and then met his again. No warm welcomes. No smiles. “I thought you were going to do a clay bust,” he said.
“I considered that. But it will take a lot more time and I thought sooner rather than later would be best for an image.”
She unfolded her legs, slipped on flats, and rose. Pencil still in hand, she stretched her head from side to side and he found his gaze drawn to the slender lines of her neck.
He leaned around to look at the picture but she shook her head no. “Can’t I have a look?”
Almost flinching, she turned the easel away from him an inch or two more. “Not until it’s finished.”
<
br /> Her reticence amused and annoyed him. “Why not? What’s the big deal?”
She’d pulled her hair up into a topknot and secured it with a pencil. She missed a few long stands, which dangled to frame her face. A nice effect. “No one sees my work until it’s done. That’s always been my policy.”
Tracker yawned, lowered to the floor, and closed his eyes. Clearly, none of this interested him.
However, Rick was very interested. The word no had stoked his interest. He didn’t like hearing it or when an answer eluded him. He liked having answers whether the question concerned a picture, a killer’s identity, or a woman’s backstory. He always figured that, given time, he could crack any code.
But like it or not, the Jenna Thompson code wasn’t so easily solved. “Sure, I’ll wait.”
A subtle tension around the edges of her lips eased. “It should be done by tomorrow. I’m close to the end. Sometimes the finishing touches just take me a while.”
He noticed how her gaze darted around the office once or twice as if the space was too small. “You don’t like this space.”
“No. I don’t.”
She didn’t mince words, as he’d expected, but her dislike of the space surprised him. “Why not? It’s one of the better rooms in the building.”
She sat a little straighter. “No windows. Too much like a closet. I like natural light.”
“Yeah, I’m not a fan of being inside. I’ll take any task that gets me moving outside.”
Jenna allowed her gaze to travel over the length of his body. “So what happened to your leg?”
He folded his arms, not sure why he’d shifted to defense. “You’ve been talking to Georgia.”
A half smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Sure. But not about you. I noticed the way you shift your weight. And I noticed your expression when you tackled the stairs yesterday.”
An artist who re-created human figures would notice inconsistencies, anomalies. However, he didn’t like being the subject of her scrutiny, especially when it zeroed in on his weakness. “I thought I did a good job of covering it up. Worked pretty damned hard with my physical therapist to make sure that I have an even gait.”
A shrug of her shoulders softened some of the intensity in her eyes. “There’s no limp when you walk but there’s a subtle stiffness. I draw people. And, I’m a cop. Part of what makes someone who they are is how they move.”
“You were just summing me up.”
“You. Bishop. Georgia.”
“Bishop? What did you figure about him?”
“He has a keen eye for Georgia.”
Morgan laughed. “The two fight all the time.”
“I think, for those two, arguing might be flirting.”
“He’s not fond of the Morgans.”
“Don’t be so sure.” This was not the conversation he’d intended. He shifted to offense. “I was comparing your space here to your home.”
A brow arched as hesitancy flashed in her gaze. “And what do you see?”
Good, they were now both uncomfortable. “Can you say control issues?”
That made her laugh. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m a cop?”
“The trait comes with the job. The question is where did it come from? We all had it before the first day on the job.”
“Where did it come from in you?”
Nice deflection. “Genetics, I guess. A legendary homicide detective raised the Morgan kids. We all have our share of issues.”
“Ah.”
“Now, your turn. What’s your excuse?”
A slight tension tugged at the edges of her lips. “Who knows?”
“No, I’m not letting you dodge this so easily.”
“Really.”
“Want my theory?”
She turned back to her sketchpad and opened it. She began to draw. “Sounds like I’m going to get it.”
“It was definitely from your past. Something that instilled a need to control.”
Her pencil stilled for a beat before moving again. “Maybe it was genetics in my case as well.”
“I don’t think so.” He dropped the line in the water wondering if she’d take the bait.
She swam right past it as if it would take more to get her to open up. Fine. He’d drop it for now. “Sorry, Detective, I didn’t sign on for analysis.”
And with that, the door slammed shut. However, he wasn’t worried. He’d find a way to open that door again soon. “So the picture will be ready tomorrow?”
“Likely. The day after at the latest. Like I said, the final details always take more time than I figured.”
“What kind of details?”
“Subtleties. The quirk of a mouth, the spark in the eyes. There’s always something I miss until the very end.”
What was he missing about her? A lot. In time he’d figure her out. He figured everyone out eventually. The only worry with her was time. Would she be around long enough to decipher. That shouldn’t matter, but it did. “You’ll call me when you’re finished.”
“You’ll be the first.”
“Great.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Tracker.”
“So Tracker’s a retired canine. Belgian shepherd?”
“Yeah. Good eye.”
She rose, like yesterday, but made no move to pet the dog. She knew, though Tracker was retired, he considered himself a working dog. She seemed to understand that not petting Tracker was a sign of respect. “How old is he?”
“Five.”
“You two were shot at the same time.”
Her certainty made him wonder again if she’d talked to Georgia. “Yeah.”
“It’s a hell of a business, being a cop.”
“I’ve often questioned my sanity.” But I didn’t quit.
She glanced back at her drawing as if reading his thoughts. “So it’s just you and Georgia?”
“No. Older brother, Deke Morgan, heads up homicide. He’s just back from vacation with his girlfriend and is digging out. And there’s another Morgan, Alex. He works for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.” No need to mention he and Alex hadn’t spoken in months or that nothing had been right between them since Melissa.
Nodding, she kept her gaze on the drawing. “A regular family dynasty.”
A fact he took pride in, even when someone like Bishop mumbled complaints about connections and good ol’ boy networks. “That we are.”
“Nice.”
Curiosity jabbed him in the back. “What brought you to Nashville? We’re off the beaten track for folks hailing from the East Coast.”
Her gaze darkened a fraction and he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely. “I was born here. Lived there a few years before my aunt and I moved east. Tapping into my family roots, I guess.”
“The Morgans know a lot of folks. Your family name is Thompson?”
“It is. Though there’re none of us left in Nashville. Both my parents were only children.” As if suddenly uncomfortable, she retreated back to her chair. “I’ve a good bit of work to do here so if you don’t mind?”
He read her discomfort as if he’d opened the pages of a book. “Tossing me out?”
Her grin was broad and bright. “Throwing you both out.”
The turn in conversation to her family had made her nervous. She tried to cover but failed. So what had happened to her family? “Call me when you have the sketch.”
“Consider it done.”
She tore the paper free from her notepad and handed it to him. “There’s a drawing for you.”
The image was of Tracker, wide-eyed and staring. “This is good.”
“I know my stuff, Detective.”
Careful not to crease the image, he nodded. “Thanks.” He and Tracker made their way to the elevator and as he pushed the button, he glanced back toward the small office. Jenna was again seated, kicked off her shoes, and bent over her sketch, her gaze totally focused on the work as if they
’d never spoken. Curiosity jabbed him in the ribs. She didn’t want to talk about the past. It wasn’t a huge leap to assume it couldn’t have been great if she’d left the area at age five to live with an aunt nearly one thousand miles away.
As he glanced at the sketch, the whys buzzed around Jenna Thompson like flies. Professionally, she was one of the best. She was offering her skills for free. So he figured the rest just wasn’t any of his damn business.
The door dinged open and they stepped inside. As the elevator descended, he reminded himself that poking into someone else’s private business wasn’t so nice or politically correct. Clearly, Jenna wouldn’t want anyone digging too deep.
“Shit.”
Tracker glanced up at him, hearing the anger in his voice. He smiled, telling the canine that everything was fine.
He wasn’t so worried about being nice or PC. He cared about the truth. Whatever was buried in Jenna’s past . . . well, he just might dig it up.
Rick’s first stop after leaving Jenna was the local news station. Frankly, he’d rather eat dirt before he had to cozy up with the media, but sometimes it took a deal with the devil to get the job done.
The department had worked with several reporters on missing children cases and they’d found the local anchor, Susan Martinez, helpful. She could be a pain in the ass when it came to the hard news stories—she did whatever it took to get her story—including hounding his ass after he’d been shot. He still had memories of her camped out in front of his hospital giving her evening news report. Vultures picking off his bones even before the docs could tell him if he would walk properly again.
But like him, when it came to cases involving a child, she played nice. Both knew the gloves would come off in the next round, but for now, it would be all smiles.
He and Tracker moved through the glass doors of the news building and after a brief chat with the receptionist, waited for Susan.
She appeared minutes later with a bright smile. Dressed in a sleek red suit that accentuated ink-black hair, she moved with a grace he had to admire. In her mid fifties, she’d worked the Nashville market for almost thirty years and had broken several major cases.
