by Burton, Mary
“Bonnie comes to town to look up Sonny, and somehow figures you’re nearby,” Ramsey says. “She asks him for help. He refuses. She gets pissed and takes the evidence of his dirty work. Only Bonnie screws it all up when she wrecks the car. And you’re the cop that lands the case. Is that the gist of it, Agent Shepard?”
“Did she screw it up?” Melina asked. “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“You think she staged the accident?”
“I don’t know. I found cigarette butts near my car. There were several, and each was tipped in pink lipstick. I dropped them off at the lab, so I’ll know soon enough if they belong to Bonnie.”
“How did she find you?”
“My name was in the paper on a child abduction case.”
He reached for a folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and pushed it toward her. “We’ve identified two more pickle-jar fingerprints.”
She glanced at the sheet detailing the unsolved homicides. The other two women had vanished in 2014 from Denver and 2015 from Dallas. “Neither had ties to the Nashville area.”
“So far, we know this killer targeted his victims from all over the country in four different major cities: Kansas City, Portland, Denver, and Dallas.”
“Accessible, large populations. Easy for a serial killer to move around unnoticed.”
“I have also located the sister of our most recent victim. Jennifer Brown’s sister lives in Nashville,” he said.
“Has she been notified of her sister’s death?” Melina asked.
“No.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kelly Brown. She’s forty-one and works as a bartender.”
Melina had made death notifications before, but they never got easy. Nor forgotten. “Give me her contact information and I’ll visit her.”
“I’d like to come along, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Ready?”
He rose and grabbed his jacket draped across the back of his chair. “I can drive.”
“Sure.”
In the car, she dialed Kelly’s number as he pulled out onto the main road. The call went to voicemail. She considered identifying herself but thought better of it. Better to see her reactions and hear the tones in her voice when she received the news. Until she could prove otherwise, everyone attached to any of her cases was suspect.
Ramsey crossed town in twenty minutes and followed the GPS to a small neighborhood. The houses were modest and one level, dating back to the turn of the last century. Their best days were long gone, and their residents were not likely far behind.
He parked in front of a white clapboard home with a small front porch. The summer heat had baked out the grass to a light brown, giving it the texture of straw. There were three vehicles in the driveway, including a low-riding black four-door and two trucks. On the side of the house was a rusted bike with a flat tire and a collection of stacked clay flowerpots that looked as if they had not been used in years.
Out of the car, Melina stood shoulder to shoulder with Ramsey as they studied the dwelling. Ramsey unbuttoned his jacket, and she pulled back the front of her jacket to slightly expose the holster and weapon underneath.
Cops could tell a lot about people by their homes. They all had to make snap judgments about the occupants based on a hundred different details all processed with each step toward the front door. Home visits could be surprisingly deadly. A warrant for unpaid parking tickets could lead to a shoot-out because the occupant was hiding drugs. Domestic disputes could also turn deadly, and cops had to worry not only about the abusive spouse but also about their codependent victim, who did not want to see their loved one in handcuffs.
She walked up the slate sidewalk knitted together with weeds and scrub grass and stepped up the two porch steps. Ramsey remained a couple of feet behind, one foot poised on the bottom step and the other on the ground.
On both sides of the door were windows, each draped in thick dark curtains. She rang the bell but did not hear the chime echoing in the house. She pressed it again and then banged hard on the worn screened door. It took several harder knocks before she heard footsteps moving toward the front of the house. A flutter of curtains to her right had her standing back and just to the left.
The door opened to a woman with tangled, long blond hair, a pale round face, and bloodshot eyes smudged with yesterday’s mascara. She regarded Melina as she swiped back hair from her face. An oversize red T-shirt hung over faded jeans.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
Melina held up her badge and identified herself. Ramsey did the same. “This is about your sister, Jennifer.”
“Oh, shit. What’s she done now?” Kelly asked.
“Your sister was found dead in her home,” Melina said.
Kelly pulled off a rubber band ringing her wrist and tied up her hair. “What? How could Jennifer be dead? She’s been clean for five years. Shit, did she have a relapse?”
“She did not die from an overdose,” Melina said. “The circumstances are suspicious.” Details about the homicide scene and especially the removal of the ring finger would not be released until the killer was caught.
“How did she die?” Kelly’s gaze sharpened, cutting away all traces of fatigue.
“We can’t say right now. Was there anyone in her life who could have harmed her?”
“Shit, are you saying it was murder?” Kelly demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kelly opened the door wider. “Want to come inside? The house is a wreck but seems I should invite you in.”
“Are you here alone?”
“No, my boyfriend, Gus, is here. He’s a bartender like me, and we both worked double shifts yesterday. We only got home a few hours ago.”
Melina crossed the threshold, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and her gaze swept the small living area. The thick scent of cigarettes and Mexican takeout lingered in the air as she examined the lone worn leather couch, wide-screen television, and coffee table stacked with used paper plates. In the corner was a makeshift bar covered in two or three dozen liquor bottles.
“Can you ask Gus to come out here?” Ramsey asked.
“Sure.” Kelly walked into the bedroom. “Gus. Cops.” She opened the door. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Ramsey asked.
“He’s gone. Out the bathroom window.”
Ramsey’s jaw tightened as he moved past Kelly into the room. When he returned, he asked, “What’s Gus’s last name?”
“Gaines.”
Ramsey scribbled down the name. “Is he wanted for anything?”
“No doubt.” Kelly picked up a few of the paper plates and dumped them in an overflowing kitchen trash can. “I can call Gus and get him back here?”
“Do it,” Melina said.
Kelly dialed the number. She sniffed. The phone rang. She held out the phone so they could hear. “It’s going to voicemail.”
Ramsey took down the phone number. “Where does he work?”
“Pete’s Bar, like me.” She shoved her phone in her pocket. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Melina said. “When is the last time you saw your sister?”
“About two weeks ago,” she said. “We had lunch.”
“Do you keep up with her?”
“Yeah, I mean we try. Busy lives get in the way.”
“Was Jennifer dating anyone?” Ramsey asked.
“She dated Kyle about six months ago, but he moved back to California. He wouldn’t have hurt her. He’s such a stoner I don’t think there’s an aggressive bone left in his body.”
“What did your sister do for a living?” Melina asked.
“She was a tour guide when she wasn’t following one of her favorite bands.”
“She was a groupie,” Melina said.
“Yeah. Though she thought of herself as having higher standards.”
“Who did she follow?” Melina asked.
“I’m not sure of the lat
est band. It changed with her mood.”
“You said she’d been on the road?” Melina wasn’t fooled by Ramsey’s silence. He was processing every detail about Kelly and her house.
“Yeah, she’d been on tour for most of the spring, traveling around the country. She’d only just gotten back a few weeks ago. She told me the tour went fine. Sometimes groupies can cause trouble for the band, but she said this go-around it was pretty smooth. No troubles. And like I said, she has been clean and sober for the last five years.”
She and Ramsey would be meeting with the medical examiner in the morning. It was standard to run toxicology tests, which would determine if Jennifer had been truthful with her sister.
Kelly sat down on the couch and rubbed her face with her hands. “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what you just told me. I mean, she was only thirty-nine. Shit. Can I see her?”
“I can arrange a viewing with the medical examiner,” Melina said.
Moments like this could be the most telling. Shock caught people off guard, and sometimes the masks dropped for just a few seconds, revealing the true person underneath.
Kelly reached for a crumpled packet of cigarettes on the coffee table, fished out a lighter tucked inside, and lit one. She took a long pull. “You haven’t told me how she was murdered.”
“We have to wait for the medical examiner’s report.”
“Are you telling me you won’t tell?” Kelly demanded. “You must have some idea.”
“I’d rather have the official story and let the medical examiner explain it to you,” Melina said.
Kelly inhaled and shook her head as she blew out smoke in a quick breath. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“What was the name of the tour company where Jennifer worked?”
“Nashville Tours. She gave guided tours of the city. She could tell you anything and everything about the area.”
“Anyone on the tours give her trouble?” Ramsey asked.
“Not that she mentioned.”
“What about parents or friends we could talk to?” Melina asked.
“Dad’s been MIA since we were kids, and Mom died a few years ago. Cancer. It’s just the two of us. Me, now.” She raised a trembling finger and pressed it against her brow as if her head was throbbing.
“Do you have the name of her boss?” Melina asked.
She rose, and with the cigarette perched between her lips, she rummaged through the junk drawer of a desk until she found a dog-eared pamphlet. She handed it to Melina. “I’m not sure of his name, but you can find their offices at the end of Lower Broadway facing the Cumberland River. They’re in a small trailer, and if you arrive early or late in the day, the two red tour buses are parked out front.”
The killer they were chasing had already proven he had a particular type that Jennifer perfectly matched. Whether he had first spotted her on the tour or somewhere else, Jennifer had landed in his crosshairs and was now dead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday, August 26, 9:00 p.m.
Melina stared at her phone, trying to read emails as Ramsey drove from Kelly Brown’s house to the active crime scene at Jennifer’s residence. She was having a hard time concentrating. Her mind kept returning to Bonnie and Sonny.
“You said earlier you had your DNA tested?” Ramsey asked.
His deep voice pulled her out of spiraling thoughts. “What?”
“DNA. Tell me again why you haven’t analyzed your results?”
“You mean why does the missing persons agent find everybody but herself?”
A half smile tugged the edge of his lips. “Basically, yes.”
“I could say that I’ve been really busy the last year, which would be true. But I’d be lying to you and myself. I didn’t want to know. My life is really good as it is.”
“You aren’t curious about your past?”
“Sometimes. But I made it a habit a long time ago after a very frustrating ancestry assignment in elementary school not to look back.” She shook her head. “All the teacher wanted us to do was build out a family tree, and I couldn’t do it.”
“When you see a mother and child and note the physical similarities, do you wonder who you look like?”
“Sure, I do. I don’t look like my parents, who are fair skinned. I also don’t share their temperament. They are fairly laid back while I’m high strung. I wonder why I like to chew ice or can’t sleep more than six hours.”
“Yeah. All that.”
“We can’t choose our family, Ramsey.”
A very slight shrug lifted his shoulder. “Knowing your genetic history isn’t always a blessing.”
“How far can you trace your family back?”
“No more than most.”
“Bet a paycheck you can go back at least three hundred years.”
“Give or take.”
She laughed. “I’m picturing a portrait gallery in some dusty home in the Hamptons.”
“It’s not dusty. We have a staff that cares for it.”
“Jesus, do you have portraits of ancestors hanging on the walls?”
“Yeah, a few. My mother is the keeper of the family tree. I’ve not had much interest in it.”
“Because it’s right there and you can see it anytime. It’s not a gnawing unknown that will always be out of reach.”
“That’s the way it is for you?”
She shrugged. “Don’t ever tell my mother, but yeah, sometimes.”
“Look at the DNA test. You might get a hit.”
“If I get any more hits like Bonnie or Sonny, I’m not sure I could stand the excitement.”
“What about genetic questions? General medical health history?”
“All important questions. But you’re searching for logic in my emotional quagmire, Agent Ramsey.”
“Logic isn’t the root of the problem.”
She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “And what is?”
“Fear. Fear of the unknown. You don’t mind the unknown in general or in other people’s lives, but you don’t like it for yourself.”
She nodded. “Makes me feel a little out of control or as if I’m standing on a shaky foundation.”
“For what it’s worth, you’re handling all this well.”
She liked the deep, rich timbre and the way the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I know you’re not married. What else can you tell me about you?”
“You tell me, Agent. What do you see?”
“You want me to profile you, FBI man?”
“I can dish it out, so I better be able to take it.”
She regarded him for only a couple of seconds before saying, “You’re worried about losing your edge. It’s why you’re here. You could have sent another agent, but you came instead. Are you approaching a big birthday? What, fifty or sixty?” she teased.
“Ouch. Thirty-nine and one hell of a promotion. Means moving to the Washington office.”
“But you aren’t going to take it, are you?”
He was silent for a long moment. “No. Though that information is not public yet.”
“I’m a vault,” she said. “What is plan B after the bureau?”
“No idea. Which scares me almost as much as the idea of years filled with politics, congressional hearings, and budgets.”
“I have the unknown past and you have the unknown career future. Aren’t we the pair?”
“If you decide to look into those results and need help with the genealogy charts, Andy from my team is good at that kind of thing.”
He had flipped the conversation back to her, steering it away from feelings he would rather not think about. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Tackle the genealogy from a different angle,” he offered. “It’s not about you right now. Find out more about your history, prove or disprove Bonnie’s claims, and hopefully figure out who the guy is with the pickle jar.”
“I see the logic,” she said.
“And?”
&nb
sp; “I’ll have a look at it tonight. If I have questions, I’ll reach out to Andy.”
“Glad to be of assistance.”
They pulled up to Jennifer Brown’s home and angled the car behind the state forensic van and a couple of cruisers.
During her first trip to the house, Melina had not had the time to study it closely as she had processed the controlled mayhem of the forensic team and uniformed officers doing their jobs.
Yard work and general home maintenance had ranked low on the priority list for Jennifer. The recycling bin full of wine and beer bottles suggested she’d liked to have parties. Her five-year abstinence had likely never actually made it past one year.
Melina and Ramsey both pulled on rubber gloves and stepped into the foyer. All the blinds were drawn, and the faint scent of death still lingered. The ashtray on the coffee table was full of cigarette butts. Some were cupped in lipstick and others not. The brands varied between Virginia Slims and Marlboro. There was one wineglass, lipstick matching the color on the cigarettes, and a pile of cheese crackers. No signs of pets and only a few photos encased in dollar store frames. Furniture appeared secondhand and worn, and the couch was covered in unnaturally orange cracker crumbs.
Ramsey walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and then slowly looked around the small galley space. He picked up a collection of travel brochures that looked like newer versions of the one Kelly had shown them. Hanging on a hook was a red vest and pinned over the left pocket was a gold brass nameplate that read JENNIFER.
Matt Piper, dressed in a hazmat suit, looked out of the bedroom and raised his hand. As she moved toward him, she noticed the death scent grew stronger. “Any luck?”
“We’re still working our way through the bathroom and bedroom. I have dozens of prints. I can tell you there is no forced entry and no signs of a violent struggle.”
“Anything else you can tell us about her killer?” Ramsey asked.
Matt motioned for them to follow him into the bedroom and the adjoining bath. “I think our guy got into the tub with her.”
“Why do you say that?” Ramsey asked.
“Two things. First, the hair found in the tub includes hers and someone else’s. Second, there are signs that the tub’s water spilled over, and what didn’t dry up pooled under the tub. However, when she was found, the waterline ringing the inside of the tub only reached the halfway mark.”
