Cover Your Eyes

by Mary Burton

  “She’s trouble.” Captain Saunders all but spat the words.

  “No doubt. But she’s an attorney and she had an assembly permit that gave her the right to publicly say her peace.”

  “Doesn’t mean anyone wants to hear her opinion. Shit, the way I see it she’s pissing on your daddy’s memory.”

  They’d gone round and round on this since Deke had put through the DNA request. “Buddy can stand up to a little heat.”

  “Yeah. Hell of a cop. Hell of a man.” His ire cooled. “Did you see that Miller woman hit her?”

  “I did.”

  Captain Saunders grinned. “Good for her. Where is Margaret Miller now?”

  “At home, I assume. That’s where the uniforms dropped her off. Ms. Wainwright didn’t press charges.”

  Saunders rubbed a stiff hand over the back of his neck. “When Wainwright filed for the DNA testing in the Dawson case, I got a bad feeling in the pit of my gut.”

  “Really? All I’ve ever heard from Buddy and KC was that the case was airtight.”

  Captain Saunders grunted disbelief. “Attorneys can twist the truth.”

  “I’ve no doubt the verdict will be upheld.”

  Saunders shook his head as if memories rushed him. “That case drove every officer in this place damned near insane for months as we searched for the killer and Dawson’s body.”

  “You never assumed she was alive?”

  “Hopes were always slim. The inside of that house was painted red with her blood. We figured if she was alive she didn’t have long. And then, no one said it but we knew we had a recovery not a rescue. You remember your old man talking about it?”

  “I remember him talking to Mom but they clammed up when I came around. And as I got older, he shared stories about the case.”

  “That case aged Buddy a decade. Dark circles under his eyes. Worked around the clock.”

  “I remember him being gone. My brothers and I weren’t easy and Georgia was an infant.”

  “Your momma was a damned saint.”

  “A point she mentioned often when I was growing up.” His mother had endured thirty years of Buddy’s demanding schedule, but Deke’s wives had had little patience for his job, which required extended absences. Maybe if he’d had children, the story would have been different.

  “I want this case closed. Once and for all. When will the DNA be back?”

  “I called the state lab a half-hour ago. They’re saying soon but aren’t making any promises.”

  “I know you can lean on the best of them. Lean on the state.”

  The answers would come but he’d not push or prod. “They are swamped and working as fast as they can. Can’t get blood from a stone.”

  “Bullshit. Squeeze ’em.”

  “Is there a reason I should be worried about the DNA test results?”

  “Shit, no. Your daddy ran a clean investigation. Clean as a whistle.” A ragged breath suggested age had stolen some of his fire. “Time has a way of making people forget what we were up against when Annie Dawson vanished in a bloody mess. Those months we searched for her were a nightmare and I don’t want to ever revisit them.”

  “Ms. Wainwright mentioned in one of her many phone messages that Jeb has been asking for DNA testing for years.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the request came across Buddy’s desk. Why didn’t he have the test done to vindicate his work?”

  The lines of his face deepened. “I know Ms. Wainwright sees an old man who is sick and feeble. But Jeb Jones wasn’t like that thirty years ago. He was a big strong man with a bad temper and a taste for gin. He put his wife in the hospital once and I saw bruises on his boy when we finally arrested Jeb.”

  “Rachel Wainwright hasn’t argued that he was a choir boy.”

  “No one but the Devil himself, could argue the case on Jeb’s character.” Saunders wagged a finger as he always did when he lectured. “He might only have an eighth-grade education but he was street smart then and likely more so now. He’s a pro at twisting the facts so that he looks like the victim. Jeb Jones is no damn victim. Buddy knew it better than anyone.”

  Buddy’s world was black-and-white. You were a good guy or a bad guy and once you landed in either column, you stayed there forever. Deke knew firsthand what it felt like to be judged by Buddy Morgan and to come up short. “I did a search on Jeb Jones’s wife. She’s in a home. Suffered a stroke several years ago. The son still lives in the area.”

  “The boy was ten when his old man was locked up.”

  “No doubt he’d not be much help. But Annie’s husband would remember a lot.”

  Saunders’s frown deepened already-sagging jowls. “Don’t stir up a hornet’s nest, Deke. Leave the Dawson case alone and focus on the active murder cases on your desk.”

  Deke could have pointed out to Saunders that he wasn’t a rookie. He could have said the weekly lectures grew thin. But like always, he held his cards close until a play mattered. “The Simmons case has my full attention.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Still digging. I talked to the bar owner where she sang. I also ran her phone records and a credit check. I can tell you she’d maxed out her credit cards and her landlord was talking about eviction.”

  “If debt were a motive for murder more than half this town would be dead. Did she take drugs?”

  “Clean according to Dr. Heller. She did like to date. A lot. I’ve spoken to several men in her phone address book. All said she was fun but no one had a reason to stick around. One-night stands.”

  “Could any one of those men get pissed enough to kill her?”

  “Very possible. KC secured her computer and has taken it to forensics. Might be data on that as well.”

  “Keep on the Simmons case. I want it closed. What about the Ellen Roberts case?”

  “We arrested a guy she dated. Oscar McMillian. He’s in jail now trying to scrounge bail. I’ll make that arrest stick.”

  “Good.” Saunders didn’t celebrate solved murders because he was too worried about the unsolved ones. “Put your boot on the backs of the lab rats. I want this Dawson shit cleared and out the door.”

  “Will do.”

  As Captain Saunders left, Deke sat and leaned back in his chair. He loosened his tie. The captain was a good cop and he worked hard. When the captain married, Buddy had been his best man and when Buddy died, the captain had been a pallbearer. He was protective of Buddy.

  And it was hard for any cop to take down a criminal and then see him walk. He’d been through it during his undercover days and it never failed to piss him off. Captain was no different.

  And now one of Buddy’s old cases was being questioned. This wasn’t about a DNA test for the captain. It was a point of honor for a fallen comrade.

  Deke and KC arrived at the music studio called Spinners Records. A small low-lying building, it could easily have been missed. But from what Deke knew about the company it had produced several successful artists in the last couple of years and was on the rise. In Nashville, simple jeans and unassuming buildings disguised fortunes.

  “This was one of the last places Dixie Simmons called,” KC said. He flipped through the pages of his notebook. “According to my notes she called here about ten times in the last few days. The extension she called was two-one-one and a little asking told me that the number belongs to Dusty Rehnquist, the owner and operator of Spinners Records.”

  Deke slammed his car door. “Anyone else she call other than Mr. Rehnquist?”

  “Lots. But the other call that stands out is a burner phone. She called that number last, likely minutes before she died. No tracing that number.”

  “A burner.” Burners and secrets went together like black and white.

  “If I were a married man and a hot chick wanted to call me, I’d set up a separate number.” KC held up a hand. “That’s saying if I had a hot chick calling me. Which I don’t, if Brenda is to ask.”

  A smile tweake
d the edges of his mouth. “I’m sure she will be glad to hear that.”

  KC shook his head. “Got to say that woman rocks my old-ass world. After Sharon died I thought I was done. And then Brenda showed up. I love that woman but I suspect she’d cut off my balls and feed them to me if she caught me running around.”

  “She strikes me as well adjusted.”

  “Any sane woman loses it when she’s been hurt. One hundred and thirty pounds of love turning into one hundred and thirty pounds of crazy and pissed off, just like . . .” He snapped his fingers.

  Deke opened the glass front door to the studio. “Maybe that’s what happened to Dixie. She found herself a man married to one hundred and thirty pounds of crazy.”

  “Could happen.”

  They walked the carpeted hallway decorated with hundreds of singers’ photos. He didn’t recognize most but that wasn’t surprising. The world was full of wannabes and those dreaming of the big time, which chewed up people and spit them out by the hour. Buddy had warned Georgia over and over that Nashville was stocked with starving talent. He insisted she get an education.

  “Dream all you want,” Buddy used to say. “But pay the light bill.”

  Georgia had gotten a degree in forensics and now worked for the Nashville Police Department. She was one of the best in her field. Her eye for detail had solved many cases. And she liked her work. Deke could admit when she was on, a light switched on in her that added a glow no one missed. She spent all her spare time at the honky-tonks singing or writing songs. What she wouldn’t give to have an interview at this place.

  A receptionist with full, curly blond hair looked up at them. Her makeup was too heavy for his tastes and her rhinestone shirt over the top. Rachel Wainwright flashed in his mind. Her simple dark hair, stiff business attire that didn’t fit her right, and little or no makeup had him wondering what she’d look like in a getup like this. No doubt the suggestion alone would irritate her.

  The receptionist looked up, big blue eyes haloed with false eyelashes. “Can I help you?”

  Deke removed his badge from his jacket pocket, tossing in a smile he hoped would soften his hard features. “Deke Morgan, Nashville Police Department. I’m here to see Dusty Rehnquist.”

  The request amused her. “Mr. Rehnquist is in meetings all day. If you want me to check with his secretary I’m sure she can find an appointment before Christmas.”

  Deke carefully tucked his badge back in the breast pocket of his jacket and adjusted his tie. “What’s your name?”

  “Nancy.”

  He restrained his voice’s natural biting edge. “Nancy, I’m investigating a murder and I’m not waiting until Christmas to ask my questions. Murders aren’t convenient.”

  “The schedule is the schedule.”

  Moments like this he missed his undercover days, simpler in many ways. Find a perp. Kick in door. Arrest bad guys. “Do me a favor and call the person you have to call and get me in to see Rehnquist. In case you forgot, the name is Deke Morgan.”

  “I didn’t forget.”

  He leaned forward a fraction and in a lower voice said, “Good. Now call or I’m going to have ten squad cars parked out front in five minutes. Then I’m gonna have my officers search each and every person that comes in this building.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t do that.”

  Deke’s gaze remained fixed and hard as he smiled. “Oh, I sure can.”

  KC shook his head, smiling. “Never dare Deke Morgan.”

  Under the makeup her face paled. “You can’t do that,” she said.

  He glanced at KC. “Do you doubt my word?”

  “No, sir.” KC’s grin was about as friendly as a rattler. “I would not question you one bit.”

  The receptionist picked up her phone, dialed and then turned away from them to speak. She sounded calm at first but then grew more agitated as if she’d hit a roadblock. “I’m telling you, Delores, you need to let Mr. Rehnquist know the cops are here.” Another hesitation. “Fine, I’ll send them to your desk and you can tell them.”

  She hung up the phone. “Go on back through the double doors. I’ll buzz you in. Last office on your right you’ll see Delores. Dark brown hair, sour look on her face. Can’t miss her. She’s Mr. Rehnquist’s secretary. Talk to her.”

  “Appreciate the help.”

  She rose and smoothed manicured hands down her skirt. “No one is going to jail?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.”

  “If you have to arrest someone, start with Delores. She’s a real bitch.”

  “Right.”

  She pressed a button, a satisfied smile on her lips. A buzzer buzzed and a lock clicked open. Deke and KC walked through the door and followed the carpeted hallway lined with gold and platinum records. At the end a tall brunette with a deep, annoyed frown rose from her desk.

  “Officers,” she said, stopping in their path. “Mr. Rehnquist cannot see you right now. He is busy. And I’ve half a mind to fire Nancy for sending you back here.”

  Deke grinned again but this time his patience had thinned. “Get your boss.”

  Her brows drew closer and she took a step back. “I’ll see if he’s here.”

  Deke watched as she moved briskly back to the corner office. A quick knock on the door and she vanished behind it.

  “You’re one scary son of a bitch,” KC said. “Like Buddy in his prime.”

  Deke had not feared Buddy’s long shadow when he’d joined homicide knowing it would fade in the light of his own work. But thanks to Rachel Wainwright’s challenge, Buddy was back on center stage.

  Deke and KC moved forward, knowing now that Mr. Rehnquist was indeed in his office or the gatekeeper would have said so.

  Seconds later the woman reappeared, her angled face harder and more defined in a frown. “Mr. Rehnquist said that he’d see you.”

  Deke didn’t thank her but moved toward the door with purpose and direction until he came face-to-face with a tall, reed-thin man dressed in head-to-toe designer denim gear that spoke of money. Rehnquist wore his blond hair long enough to brush the edges of a crisp collar. Buffed nails caught the light. Disregarding a Botox-smoothed forehead, Deke estimated his age to be early forties.

  The light carpet was thick and plush, a contrast to the record producer’s glass and metal desk. The walls sported pictures of Rehnquist with the top stars in country music.

  Rehnquist grinned and extended his hand. “My secretary tells me you are investigating a murder. Sounds mighty exciting.”

  Deke’s annoyance spiked but he kept it buried. Instead he shrugged off his cop demeanor and slipped into the role of a fan. He’d learned working undercover that attitude and body language created as good a disguise as a costume. “Never a dull moment for us. Never a dull moment.” He gawked at the gold and platinum records framed and hanging on the walls and whistled. “Looks like you’ve had some success.”

  Rehnquist’s chest puffed. “We’ve done well. Hit the charts.”

  “I’ve got a tin ear but I appreciate a good song. You sign any singers I’d recognize?”

  Rehnquist listed several singers. “Most don’t realize how well we do.”

  “My goodness. That’s impressive.” He pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. “Wish I could talk to you more about the music. I know my baby sister would have a million questions. She’s a singer.” He shook his head, smiling as if he were more fan than cop. “But I got to take care of business. No rest for the weary.”

  A hint of annoyance flickered across Rehnquist’s face. “I hear ya.”

  “We responded to a mighty bad scene last night. A young woman was brutally beaten to death.”

  The spark in Rehnquist’s gaze dimmed. “That so?”

  “Her name was Dixie Simmons.”

  What remained of the sparkle fizzled. “That name supposed to be important?”

  “She called you several times in the last ten days.”

  “A lot of people call me.” He reached for
a pen and clicked the end several times.

  Deke had played this cat-and-mouse game hundreds of times. What amazed him was that the mice always made the same moves. “Do they call your private line and talk?”

  Tension rippled up Rehnquist’s arm as he gripped the pen tighter. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand? Dixie called your private line ten times in the last ten days and spoke to you at length one time.”

  Rehnquist clicked the button on the pen in and out. “There’s no proof that I was on the other end of the line.”

  Deke stripped away his smile like a mask. “That won’t be hard for me to prove. Won’t be hard at all. So don’t play games with me. What did you and Dixie talk about?”

  “I’ve never heard that name.” Rehnquist’s lie bounced wild like a free throw hitting the rim.

  Deke pulled his phone from his back pocket and scrolled to Dixie’s driver’s license picture. He held it up and watched as Rehnquist studied the picture, frowned and raised an eyebrow as if seeing the face for the first time. With the authority of a practiced liar said, “I do not know her.”

  “That so?” Deke didn’t like games, but if Rehnquist wanted to play, he’d oblige. He casually scrolled to the brutally disfigured image taken in the medical examiner’s office and held it close to his vest like a gambler with a winning card. “How did you know her?”

  “I just said I didn’t.”

  “Did you know this gal?” Deke turned his phone around.

  Rehnquist looked at the picture, paled, and turned away. “Jesus.”

  “Not nice, is it? Someone wanted to erase Dixie’s identity.”

  Rehnquist slid his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t do that to her.”

  “Did you know her? And please do not lie to me again. I’m working on no sleep and as my partner will tell you, I’m difficult when I’m sleep-deprived.”

  He swallowed as if bile rose up his throat. “Okay, I did know her. We met at a party.”

  Reaching the truth one baby step at a time. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Not much. Other than she was pretty. I remember she wore red.”

  Another lie. Another giant step back. “Why was she calling you?”