by Burton, Mary
Carefully, he dried off Tammy’s fingers. They were long and sensual. Her nails were beautifully manicured and painted a dark blue. “You have lovely hands. It was one of the things I noticed about you.”
Sonny reached for the bolt cutters and angled the sharp edges on either side of her naked ring finger. He drew in a deep breath and then with a hard squeeze clamped the handles closed. The blades cut through the flesh and bone, snipping the finger off in one neat cut. The finger fell to the ground beside his knee.
There was little blood. Her heart had stopped pumping hours ago.
He gently laid the hand on the surface of the water and watched as a fine ribbon of blood followed the fingers to the tub’s porcelain bottom.
He fished a plastic bag from his duffel and placed his new trophy inside. He rose and leaned forward to kiss the woman on her lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he said. “Darlin’, it’s been real nice.”
As the dimming candles flickered lazily on the blue walls, he rose and wiped down all the surfaces he might have touched before he grabbed his duffel bag and placed his trophy inside. He picked up his iPod, waiting until Miller sang his last note before turning the device off and shoving it in his pocket. Her chin had dipped forward as her torso had begun to slump closer to the water.
Sonny left her house and drove home. As he made his way through the streets, he felt relaxed and unhurried. The killing always brought a rare, if fleeting, sense of peace. Though the serenity would not last forever, he took comfort knowing that today would be with both of them forever.
He had absorbed her fear and then her last breath. His face had been the last she had looked upon. What they had shared was rarer and more intimate than sex. They were one.
He walked through the small house and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and took a long drink. He foraged in a cabinet and found a bag of potato chips. Taking both, he walked into a small den, clicked on the television to a game show host declaring he had a winner.
Sonny grinned. He felt the same way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday, August 25, 6:00 a.m.
Melina had slept like shit. After she had knocked off work, she had gone by the hospital to see Elena. Although the child was sleeping, she had sat with her awhile.
When her head hit the pillow at 2:00 a.m., she spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling. When sleep did come, she dreamed about deserted roads, cold, and fear.
Finally, at five she rose, showered, and made a strong cup of coffee. When Wild Kitty scratched at the back door, she made a plate of albacore tuna and sat out on the patio drinking coffee while the cat ate. Through the fence, she heard her neighbor call for his cat. Neither she nor Wild Kitty spoke up.
She checked her phone. No updates from Ramsey on the Key Killer or Mr. Ring Finger. She should not expect one, but that did not stop her from checking twice more. She read the local news on her phone, and when the cat finished eating and left, she collected the plate and went inside.
By the time she had dressed, it was after six and she had headed to the office.
As she crossed her apartment parking lot, she noted the collection of three cigarette butts by her car. She had made a point to park in a different spot. And again, the lady with the pink lipstick had chosen to stand by her car and smoke.
The beauty of being a cop was that her natural suspicions could be satisfied fairly easily. She fished a latex glove from her pocket and picked up the butts, carefully wrapping them up.
When she arrived at the office complex, most of the individual office doors were open, and she could hear the tap of keys on keyboards mingling with hushed conversations. Ramsey was already set up in the conference room working.
Fatigue scraped her nerves and sent her in search of more coffee to make her more fit to be around humans. Coffee first. Ramsey could wait.
But as she passed the conference room, he rose and opened the door. “Mr. Piper is ready with an update.”
She kept walking. “Let me grab a second cup of coffee, and I’ll be right there.”
After Melina tanked up her to-go cup, she saw Ramsey waiting in the hallway. Silent, she followed, sipping as they cut across to the forensic lab. After showing their badges, they rode the elevator down to the first floor, where the crashed car had been towed.
In the open bay on a concrete floor, the mangled metal appeared more snarled and torn than it had on the street. Distracted by Elena and the jar, Melina had not fully absorbed the extent of the damage.
The center of the front grill and fender was bent, and the frame was angled out of alignment. The front passenger side was scraped, and the hood was crumpled.
“I’ll say it again,” she said. “I can’t believe BB was able to run.”
“Adrenaline was pumping. And given the surprise in the trunk, BB didn’t want to talk to the cops.”
The echo of footsteps brought their attention around to a young woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slim with short light-blond hair. Sharp gray eyes stared out from behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“Agents Ramsey and Shepard, I presume?” the woman asked. When both showed their badges, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Agent Henrietta Wagner. Henri to the crew around here. Matt worked until about 5:00 a.m. and has run home for a shower. But I’ve been working with him along the way.”
After an exchange of a few pleasantries, Henri walked them to the front of the car. “Not the worst crash I’ve seen. If the vehicle had struck the tree on the driver’s side, she or he would have been more seriously injured. But as luck would have it, this individual’s side of the vehicle was fairly intact.”
“Too bad. It would have saved us the chase,” Melina said.
“I’ve spent the last couple of hours dusting the car for prints, and needless to say I’ve pulled many. However, as we learned at the crime scene, none were pulled from the steering wheel or any of the normal places you would expect the driver to touch. But as Agent Ramsey suggested, we did dust the car seat and pulled up several good impressions from the side and the back buckle. Prints were fed into AFIS about an hour ago, so we are hoping for some kind of hit.”
Henri walked them over to a table filled with a variety of belongings that Melina recognized from her earlier look in the trunk. “Whoever packed the trunk used every available square inch.”
“Their entire life was in that trunk,” Melina said. She walked along the edge of the table, looking at the contents of one of the suitcases: eight sets of high-heeled shoes, sparkling tops and dresses, and a collection of black and red lace underwear.
“Looks like it. The driver enjoyed high heels, designer jeans, and sequins. There was also a stash of credit cards in one of the bags. They were all reported stolen. There was also a sling and a cane.”
“Our driver is a grifter or con artist,” Melina said.
“And likely has an arrest record,” Ramsey said.
Henri received a text. “Looks like you’re right. Our driver does have an arrest record. Just got back the AFIS results. Her name is Bonnie Lynn Guthrie. She’s fifty-nine years old and was born in Dallas, Texas.” She tapped on a link and turned the phone toward them. “This mug shot was taken in 2014. Arrested for credit card fraud and possession of heroin in Ventura County, California. After the fifth arrest, she was sentenced to ten years in prison. California cut her loose after five years, time served. She’s been out on parole the last year.”
“Has she checked in with her PO recently?” Ramsey asked.
“She missed her last appointment with her parole officer. Until then, she had checked in faithfully,” she said. “His contact info is in the text.”
“Can you text me that?” Melina asked.
“Number?” Henri typed as Melina recited the digits. “Done.”
Melina pulled up the image as soon as it hit her phone. A flicker of recognition tickled the back of her brain. She enlarged the face
with the swipe of her finger. Old memories reached out from the shadows, and the odd sense of déjà vu grew stronger. She scrolled through Guthrie’s priors but did not see any connection to Nashville.
“Do you see something familiar about her?” Ramsey asked.
“Not really.” She turned off the screen and tucked the phone away. “Henri, anything else you can tell us about the car?”
“No evidence of decomposition fluids,” Henri said. “I checked after the discovery of the jar and fingers. I did find a small bag of pot. No firearms.”
Melina glanced at the time on her phone. “I have time to swing by the hospital and check on Elena and show her the picture of Bonnie to confirm it’s BB.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Ramsey asked. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”
“Sure. Suit yourself.” She thought about the pink-tipped cigarette butts in her pocket. “I need to make a quick stop at Matt’s office before we go.”
It took a couple of tries, but Ramsey was able to convince Shepard to let him drive both of them to the hospital. He was certainly interested in what Elena had to say, but his focus was on Shepard. She had stared at Bonnie Guthrie’s picture as if she had seen a ghost. Her eyes had widened and the color had faded from her cheeks. However, when he had asked, the agent had quickly cloaked whatever had been going on in her head.
Perhaps Guthrie reminded her of her foster days. Maybe she had arrested someone like that linked to a horrific crime. Whatever the reason, Bonnie Guthrie had made an impression on Melina Shepard.
He swung into a convenience store and gassed up his vehicle. “Can I get you anything?”
She reached for her wallet. “I’d love a soda.”
“Keep your money.”
He jogged inside to pay for the gas and grab her soda and a few PowerBars to tide him over between meals. While Ramsey was at the checkout, armed also with wintergreen gum and a bag of nuts, his eye caught the display that read A BAZILLION BUBBLES. ONE PUFF AWAY. He questioned the statement’s truth but still chose a pink container decorated with white and blue flowers. Ignoring the clerk’s raised brow, he placed the bubble mixture into the pile and paid for the lot.
Back in the car, he handed her the soda as he tossed his paper bag in the back seat.
“Thanks.”
He started the engine and switched on the radio. A country music song played softly as she twisted off the top of the soda and took a long drink. She dropped her gaze to her phone and retreated into her own thoughts, as if entering a private, windowless chamber. He could almost hear the door closing behind her.
Normally, silence suited him just fine. In high-stakes cases, he took moments like this to examine and reexamine the fractured pieces of the case’s puzzle.
“I’m trying to get used to the country music. It’s not my regular fare,” he said.
She looked up from her phone, blinked as if shifting mental gears. “I’m betting classical. Or whatever kind of music people raised with old money listen to.”
Old money sounded a little tainted when she said it. “Why do you say old money?”
“Your cuff links and watch look vintage, and you don’t strike me as the type of guy who haunts antique stores. Your precise use of the King’s English is another giveaway. And the cut of your suit. It’s handmade, isn’t it?”
The sharp assessment hit home. “And all that says old money? Newly rich can adopt all those traits.”
“You don’t seem to acknowledge any of it. New money cares; old money grows up with the good stuff and treats it like a second skin.”
“What else do you notice?”
“You have a house on the water. Potomac River is close to Northern Virginia, but so is Chesapeake Bay. Your skin is tanned, and your hands are weather beaten. I’m guessing they’ve been exposed to a lot of sun. Crew or sailing.”
A smile tugged the edges of his lips. “I sail.”
“And you have a dog,” she said. “Golden retriever? Just a couple of hairs on your pants, which I bet you don’t bother to brush off because you like remembering him. My father’s dog, Axel, can do no wrong.”
“You should be a profiler,” Ramsey said.
She closed her phone. “Don’t all cops have to be to some extent? We have to identify genuine versus deceptive behavior almost every day.”
“True.” He slowed as he approached the hospital. “You said your mother cooks Sunday dinner?” he asked.
“Mom expects my presence unless I’m in a shoot-out or tracking a missing person. Arterial spray is also acceptable.”
He pulled into the hospital parking lot, slid into a spot, and shut off the engine. “Nothing wrong with a hot meal.”
She laughed. “You haven’t tasted my mom’s cooking. Heart of gold but hide the can opener and dinner is going to be late.”
“Your dad cook?” he asked.
“Yeah. He’s pretty good at it. He took a fall recently and is recovering, so she’s back in the galley. And if that’s not an incentive to get well, I don’t know what is. What’s your deal—now that we are making small talk?”
“You summed me up pretty well. Harvard undergraduate, Yale Law.”
“Blood’s bluer than I thought. Who takes care of the dog?”
“The dog lives with my mother on the Chesapeake Bay. I visited this past Sunday, and he and I went sailing.”
“His name?”
“Romo.”
“After the Dallas Cowboys quarterback? Christ, that’s treason in Washington Redskins territory.”
“No truer words.” As he got out of the car, he grabbed the brown paper bag from the back seat, and the two crossed the lot to the hospital entrance. He could not say he had broken the ice with Shepard, but there was a small crack. Normally, he did not bother beyond basic politeness when working with local law enforcement. But Shepard stoked his curiosity.
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside, joining a doctor and a couple of nurses. The nurses were discussing an upcoming wedding, but he quickly filtered out the details.
When the doors opened to the pediatric ward, the nurse on duty offered a quick update on Elena. The girl had had a fair night, but there had been some crying. Still, physically she was fine and would be released soon.
They found the little girl sitting up and watching a cartoon. Ramsey did not recognize the characters, but judging by the child’s face, she did. She was not really animated, but any child in a stressful situation would be the same. She appeared less lethargic and scared. He sensed she had lived a transient life and accepted change as a matter of course.
“Hey, Elena,” Shepard said. The lightness had returned to her voice. “How are you doing?”
The girl kept her gaze on the television and tightened her hold on the stuffed dog as if she sensed another change was coming. Shepard’s watch dangled from the girl’s tiny wrist. “Good.”
Shepard pulled up a chair. “I came by last night, but you were asleep. Sorry I was so late getting by. Been trying to figure out a lot of things.”
“Okay.”
The monotone, almost dismissive tone was a coping mechanism. This kid was very wary of emotional connections. He bet she had been burned enough times before.
For several minutes, Shepard watched the cartoon, laughing in a few spots. “I love this one. It’s when Papa Smurf builds a house.”
“Yeah.” This time the girl tossed a side-glance at him. “Do you want your watch back?”
“You keep it for now,” Shepard said.
The girl rubbed her other hand over the watch’s face. “Okay. Who’s he?”
“He’s a sailor and has a dog named Romo. His name is Jerrod, and when he’s not sailing or playing fetch with Romo, he works for me.”
Ramsey shifted, amused at Shepard’s assessment. It was designed to soften up the girl’s fears but revealed a few of Shepard’s inside thoughts about him. He grinned, but the girl shifted and dropped her gaze.
“I did stop by a
store today, Elena.” Ramsey held up the paper bag. “Want to see?”
She did not answer, but he had her attention.
He removed the pink plastic vial from the bag. When her expression turned quizzical, he explained, “I used to play with this when I was a kid. It says on the label that if you blow once, it will make a million bubbles. I’m not sure you’ll get a million, but you’ll get a lot.”
“I don’t know how to make bubbles,” Elena said.
“It’s easy enough,” he said, moving slowly toward the bed. He twisted off the top and handed it to Shepard, then, removing the wand from the container, held it up and blew into the hollow circle at the end. A large bubble materialized, broke free, and then floated toward the girl.
Elena looked amazed.
He blew a few more bubbles, and by the third time she was smiling. “Do you want to try?”
“Yes.”
Ramsey came around the side of the bed and handed her the plastic container. “Dunk the wand, hold it up, and blow.”
She blew hard, but the thin coating of liquid popped before it became a bubble. “It didn’t work.”
“Dunk it again, and this time blow very gently.”
Her second try was also a fail, but her third worked, to her great delight. The three sat there for another five minutes while the child created bubble after bubble.
Finally, she grew tired and handed the bubble mix to Shepard, who carefully screwed on the top. “I’m putting this over here so you can play with it later.”
“I like bubbles,” Elena said.
Shepard removed her phone from her back pocket and found the picture of Bonnie Guthrie. “Elena, can you look at a picture and tell me if this is BB?”
The girl shrugged.
Shepard showed her Bonnie’s picture, and Elena took the phone, studying the face closely.
“Is BB coming for me? She said she would come get me if I stopped crying,” Elena said.
“I’m still trying to find BB,” Shepard said. “Does BB have friends or family in Nashville? Did you two stop and visit anyone?”
