Never Look Back

by Burton, Mary

  Cops did not trick out a crime scene like this for a stolen credit card.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wednesday, August 26, 3:00 p.m.

  So far, there was no sign of a forensic van, but it was just a matter of time before half the Nashville police force was on scene. Ramsey parked a half block beyond the house and then strode back to meet Shepard at the edge of the tape.

  “Things are heating up.” She removed her sunglasses and swapped them for a set of latex gloves in her jacket pocket. She handed him a pair and threaded her fingers through her own set.

  They introduced themselves to the uniformed officer, who directed them inside, where Detective Jeff Granger was waiting.

  “You worked with Granger before?” she asked.

  “On a task force,” Ramsey said. “He’s solid. Professional.”

  “I agree.”

  Ramsey’s and Shepard’s paths had come close to crossing several times in recent years, and he was sorry they had not met sooner.

  They ducked under the tape and, at the edge of the front porch, slipped on paper booties. As soon as they reached the front door, he stopped.

  “Jesus,” Shepard muttered.

  No one ever got used to the smell of decaying flesh. Some cops developed tricks to beat the stench, but he found rubbing Vicks on his upper lip just coated the rot with a menthol flavor. Eventually, the odor receptors in the nose stopped sending messages to the brain.

  He stepped over the threshold and paused in the living room. The thermostat was set to sixty degrees, and the house felt like a meat locker.

  “Killer turned down the AC so no one would smell the body,” Shepard said. “The heat’s been brutal the last few days.” She searched the premises. “Jeff!”

  “In the back bathroom,” Jeff called back. “I’m down the hall. Last door on your right.”

  Ramsey noted the framed wall posters of various country-western and rock bands. Given that Nashville was the hub for country music, the town had more than its share of touring bands pass through.

  Detective Granger stuck his head out of the bathroom door. In his late fifties, he had gray hair and a full mustache that made him look a little like the actor Sam Elliott. “She’s in here. We believe her name is Jennifer Brown.”

  Ramsey moved past Detective Granger and looked into the bathroom. The woman was lying in a tub filled with water. Her blond hair was tied up in a neat topknot with tendrils flowing down over her shoulders. Large breasts bobbed on the water.

  She stared sightlessly up toward the tin-panel ceiling, her mouth agape. Purple bruises shaped like fingers ringed her pale neck. Her eyes bulged and her lips were bloated.

  Most of the crime scenes Ramsey had seen in the last five years had been via photographs. He had always considered himself an active participant but now realized he had become far more removed.

  As repulsed as he was by this aftermath of violence, a surge of energy shot through his body. It had been too long since he had felt the rush of adrenaline that came with an active crime scene. He missed it.

  Shepard stood behind him and asked, “Ramsey, when’s the last time you worked a scene like this?”

  “It’s not been that long, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

  “It’s been a while for me, too. I find people. And if they turn up dead, I turn the case over to homicide investigators,” she said.

  His gaze dropped to the victim’s left hand. The ring finger had been clipped away with a sharp instrument. He guessed shears. “This finger didn’t make it into our jar.”

  Ramsey motioned her forward. “The medical examiner will confirm time of death, but I estimate she has been dead at least a few days.”

  “Jeff,” she said. “Do we know anything about Jennifer Brown?”

  “We’ve only just begun to piece together her story. DMV tells me she’s thirty-nine, five foot eight, one hundred and thirty pounds, green eyes, blond.”

  “Another blonde,” Shepard said. “We know the first two victims were blondes. Coincidence is turning into a pattern.”

  “Ages are all about the same,” Ramsey added. “So are the heights and weights. Our guy has a definite type.”

  “Don’t they look a little like Bonnie?” she asked.

  “The forensic team is pulling up,” Jeff said.

  “I’m not sure Bonnie was even in town when this woman died,” Shepard said.

  “Maybe she was in contact with the killer, and her text or call set him off,” Ramsey said. “Sonny is not going to want to be found.”

  “Believe me, there are plenty of missing persons praying not to be found. It’s certainly harder to locate them, but they usually leave a trail.”

  The sound of voices and technicians carrying equipment into the house signaled the arrival of the forensic team. Ramsey and Shepard both headed outside.

  The air was hot and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Shepard closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun, and he noted the long, graceful line of her neck. She was a beautiful woman.

  She straightened and opened her eyes, scanning the street. “I can start knocking on the doors of the neighbors and see if anyone has seen anything.” Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the display. She let the call go to voicemail. “A call from the correctional facility.”

  “Who?”

  She played back the recording and held it out so he could hear. The message was from the sheriff, informing Shepard that Bonnie Guthrie wanted to see her again. “Interesting.”

  “Wonder what game she’s playing?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She closed her phone and tucked it in her back pocket. “She’s messing with me again. She’s a grifter. They manipulate people.”

  “Why you?”

  “She sees me as the weak link in this investigation. And for the record, she would be wrong,” Shepard added.

  “I can have a uniformed officer knock on doors. Better if you talk to Bonnie and see what she has to say. We need to find Sonny soon.”

  “I owe a visit to Elena first. It won’t take me long. The girl might have something more to share. Bonnie can wait.”

  He liked her style. “Call me after your visit.”

  It was close to dinnertime when Melina knocked on the hospital room door and poked her head inside. Elena was sitting in her bed watching the nurse take her blood pressure. Set in front of her was a plate of nearly untouched food. The watch still dangled from her wrist.

  “Knock, knock,” Melina said.

  The girl’s eyes brightened, but there was no smile. “Melina.”

  “How are you doing?” Melina asked.

  The nurse glanced up from the blood pressure gauge. “She’s doing just fine. MRIs came back, as well as the blood work. She doesn’t show any sign of injury.”

  “That’s fantastic.” The news meant that Elena would be leaving the hospital today or tomorrow at the latest. But with no custodial parent, Elena would be placed in foster care. Though the foster parents might be well meaning, they were still strangers. This little girl had seen far too much upheaval in her young life.

  The nurse removed the blood pressure cuff and stepped back. “Maybe you can get her to eat.”

  Melina lifted the covering over the large plate. “Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like mashed potatoes?”

  “I love them,” the nurse said.

  Elena shrugged but didn’t respond.

  Melina set down her backpack by the bed. “Let me try.”

  “She’s all yours,” the nurse said.

  When the woman vanished out the door, Melina walked to the small sink in the room and carefully washed her hands. She dried them with a paper towel and then balled it up. Raising her hand high in the air, she tossed it toward the trash can. It bounced off the rim. “Rats. No points for me.”

  She did not speak, but Elena regarded Melina as she picked up the discarded towel and held it out to the girl.

  “Do you want to try?” Melina asked.
/>
  “No.”

  She tossed it in the trash. “Where are your bubbles?”

  “Gone.”

  “You used them up?”

  Another shrug. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’ll have to mention that to Jerrod. He might be able to pick up more.” Using the plastic fork and knife, she stirred the melted pool of butter into small bites before she opened the packet of salt and poured it on the potatoes.

  “It’s okay,” Elena said. “I don’t need any more bubbles.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s better to travel light.”

  “Is that what BB told you?”

  “And my mommy.”

  Elena twisted Melina’s gold watch around her slim wrist. She remained quiet, and Melina was willing to let the silence stand while the child processed her choices. Trust could not be forced.

  Finally, Elena whispered, “I miss her.”

  “I know you do, honey.” She swirled the potatoes and the butter. “Did you and BB leave while your mother was asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your daddy looking for you?”

  Elena glanced at the watch’s face. “I don’t have one.”

  “You left your home right after your birthday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was August twenty-second?”

  “On my birthday.”

  Elena’s eyes did not fill with tears. The girl was accustomed to coping with absences, including her father’s and now her mother’s. “BB told Mommy needles were bad. Mommy said she was sorry and promised to stop.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “BB said not to be sorry. Sorry is for losers.”

  “That doesn’t mean your mother didn’t love you,” Melina said.

  “BB said she was weak.”

  “I bet she couldn’t help herself,” Melina said. “She was sick.”

  “With what?”

  “Some grown-ups can’t stop. They want to, but they can’t.” Melina laid her hand softly on Elena’s arm. “None of this is your fault.”

  Elena closed her eyes. “Okay.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Melina said.

  The girl’s narrowing gaze suggested otherwise. But she nodded as if she had been taught not to show her true feelings.

  “Honey, I’m going to see BB this evening,” Melina said.

  The girl reached for her stuffed dog.

  “Is there anything you want me to tell her?”

  “No.”

  “What about Sonny? Do you want me to tell him anything?”

  “No. I don’t like Sonny. He has a mean face,” she said.

  “Did Sonny live near where BB’s car crashed?”

  Elena shrugged and kept her gaze down. “I don’t know.”

  Frustration nipped at Melina, but she kept her tone calm. “That’s okay.”

  Elena picked at the fur on the dog’s paw. She had worn a bald spot. “Am I going back with BB?”

  “No, honey.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because BB is in a little trouble right now. She’s in time-out.”

  “She’s been bad?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Melina turned to find her mother standing in the doorway. She was holding a bag from the local box store that she would bet her last dollar was stuffed with toys, clothes, and packets of Melina’s favorite flavor of Goldfish.

  “Can I come in?” Molly asked.

  “Sure.” After rising, Melina stepped aside so her mother could get a good look at Elena. “You must be Elena.”

  The girl looked at her with more curiosity than fear. She nodded.

  “Elena, this is my mom, Mrs. Shepard.”

  “Oh my word, don’t call me Mrs. Shepard. That makes me sound all old.” She scrunched her face as she set the bag down by the bed. “You can call me Mimi. That’s what my little grandnephew calls me.”

  Her mother took the seat by Elena’s bed. “Have you not eaten your lunch?”

  Elena shook her head.

  “Melina was the worst eater when she was your age.” She scooped up a small bite of mashed potatoes and swirled it in the melted butter. “Her daddy and I didn’t meet Melina until she was five. She was such a scrawny little thing, and all she would eat was white bread and ketchup.”

  “I like ketchup,” Elena said.

  “It’s as good as mashed potatoes. Try and see.”

  Her mother leaned forward, coaxed the girl’s lips open, and put the food in her mouth. Elena ate, staring at Molly in a way that reminded Melina of herself.

  One of her first memories of her mother was in a room like this. She had been in the hospital just a couple of hours and was chilled to the bone despite the layers of blankets put on her by the nurses. The bottoms of her feet had been raw from walking barefoot. She’d felt all alone and tried to hold back the tears.

  And the room door had opened, and her mother had swept in, bringing with her the scent of a rose perfume. Melina inhaled the same fragrance now. It never failed to ease the world’s stressors.

  Melina folded her arms and watched as her mother coaxed another bite and then another into the girl. Soon Elena was drinking milk from a straw.

  “See, Melina, Elena is a very good eater,” her mother said. “I knew she would be.” Molly cleared away the empty plate and set it off to the side. “I have coloring books. Would you like to color?”

  Elena frowned. “I don’t know how.”

  “Well, then you’re in luck.” Molly set a Frozen coloring book featuring the Disney princesses on the table. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a twenty-four pack of crayons. “Other than Melina, I’m the best at coloring books.”

  As her mother began to leaf through the black-and-white pages, Melina said, “Elena, do you mind staying with my mom? I’ll come back.”

  Her mother tossed Melina a bright smile. “Don’t you worry about us. We’re going to be fine. I have some books for Ms. Elena. I also heard that she likes bubbles—and guess what? I have bubbles.”

  The girl nodded as she selected a blue crayon from the box.

  “Good choice.” Her mother rose, kissed Melina on the cheek. “Do what you need to. I have this covered,” she whispered.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t sleep last night because I was so excited to meet Elena.”

  Melina hugged her mother. “See you soon, Elena.”

  The girl scooped up another crayon. “Are you coming back?”

  “I will. Soon.”

  The girl nodded and began to color.

  Out in the hallway, Melina shrugged her shoulders, tossing off an invisible weight she hadn’t realized she had been carrying. Elena was in good hands. She could not say the same for Bonnie.

  Sonny had learned her name was Sandra Wallace, and she worked as a bartender and waitress in a local honky-tonk several blocks north of the Lower Broadway strip. The bar was off the beaten track and was frequented by locals before 5:00 p.m., though the occasional tourist stumbled across it.

  More importantly, Sandra had the look Sonny liked. Tall, buxom, with brassy-blond hair, she was known for tossing back her head and laughing loud. It was an infectious laugh that made everyone in the room turn and look in delight and sometimes annoyance. Sandra Wallace never entered a room unnoticed.

  She liked the attention.

  Craved it.

  And she had gotten his attention.

  As he watched her standing behind the walnut bar mixing a Manhattan, he could feel himself growing hard. He wrapped his hands around the cool glass of his beer bottle, imagining that it was her slim neck.

  “Baby, what are you doing over there alone?” Sandra asked. She had shifted those blue eyes in his direction, and for just a split second, he imagined it was just the two of them in the world.

  Sonny grinned, knowing ladies liked the look of him. A little bit of effort and he could have them eating out of
his hand. “You look mighty pretty tonight, Sandra,” he said. “But then you always do.”

  Her grin widened and a chuckle rumbled in her chest as she arched her back slightly. Her breasts pulsed out, drawing his attention away from her neck for only a moment.

  “What are you doing after work?”

  She shrugged. “What do you have in mind?”

  “When do you get off?”

  “Midnight.”

  To have a date scheduled so soon after the last two was not really smart. Time and distance between his dates had always been a strategy that kept him off the law enforcement radar. But since Bonnie’s first text almost two weeks ago, his well-cultivated control had abandoned him. In its place was a bone-deep sense of loneliness that had made the four walls of his bedroom oppressive. “If I’m out back at, say, 1:00 a.m., you’ll be ready?”

  “Sure will.”

  He leaned forward, smoothing his fingers up and down the bottle’s neck. “Sandra, do you have a bathtub?”

  She moistened her lips. “I do, doll. Why?”

  He took a swig of beer. “Wait and see.”

  Her eyes darkened with desire, and she would have lingered if not for another patron calling for another beer. She winked at him and slowly turned, sauntering toward the other side as if knowing he was watching her leave.

  His phone rang, lighting up the number as Blocked. He let the call go to voicemail. A tickle of worry tightened his gut and reminded him loneliness was the least of his problems now. He finished his beer and, grabbing his phone, left the bar. In his car, he played back the voicemail.

  The sound of Bonnie’s voice grated over his nerves, and as tempted as he was to hit delete, he listened.

  “Baby, you know who this is. And you know where I am. You need to help me.”

  He sat for several minutes before he played the next message. “This is Ralph Hogan. I’m a bondsman who has been contacted by Bonnie Guthrie. She’s asked me to contact this number. She says you will cosign for a bail bond.”

  He could almost hear her smile as she gripped the phone and leaned toward it to whisper.

  She was savvy enough to know the calls were recorded, so she hadn’t called him directly. But for her to give this man his number implied an unspoken threat. Help me, or I give you to the cops. When Bonnie was cornered, she always came out swinging.