Silent Reckoning

“Who was she with at this party?” That information could be very useful. Could give me a contact who’d had more recent dealings with the victim.

His brow furrowed in concentration. Jones. He scrubbed his hand over his chin. The new guy making all the circuits. I haven’t had the pleasure of working with him. TriStar got him.

Rafe Jones. Young. Gorgeous. A little wild, according to the gossip rags. A rising star, according to country-music gurus. He had that controversial country-rap style down to a personal style that appeared to suit his sexy persona.

TriStar was another music video company in Nashville. The biggest, actually. A new company that had breezed into town three years ago and knocked the old-timers out of the top spot. Most likely made a few enemies in the process.

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Miss Wells?”

He thought about my question for a time then shook his head. Not really. She could be cloying but she wasn’t a bad girl. And it wasn’t that she lacked talent, she simply didn’t have that star quality. The club circuit was the best she could ever hope for.

“Like Reba Harrison?”

This question startled him all over again.

“She was one of your clients, as well,” I went on. “Did the two of you have a physical relationship?”

No. Strictly business. She hadn’t been my client in almost a year. And you’re wrong—she had real talent.

That might be true but he was not telling me everything. The way he kept his eyes averted and allowed his hands to fidget told the tale.

“She had been invited to play the Wild Horse.”

Yes, I know. He met my gaze briefly. Her death was quite a shame.

I found it surprising that he would know her agenda if they’d no longer had a business relationship. “You keep up with who’s playing at the Wild Horse?”

He looked surprised at the question but quickly recovered. Detective Walters, I keep up with everything related to this business. It’s what I do.

Okay, I guess his answer wasn’t as surprising as I’d thought.

I stood and thrust out my hand. He got to his feet almost awkwardly and took it. The brief exchange revealed a sweaty palm and a shaky grip.

“Please let me know if you remember anything else that might be useful to this investigation.” I took a card from my shoulder bag and passed it to him. “No matter how seemingly insignificant. You never know what will make or break a case.”

He saw me to the door. I stopped there, frowned in concentration a moment then said, “By the way, do you know of any reason someone would be out to make you look bad?”

His face paled. Certainly not.

“With two murders victims linked to Lucky Lane Productions, it looks like being on your client list is hazardous to a girl’s health.”

I left, closed the door behind me. I wanted him to think about what I said…stew over it. I could imagine him leaning against the massive wood door and trying to pull himself back together.

Maybe he was innocent, and personally I leaned in that direction, but he was nervous. A one-night stand with a client who got herself murdered didn’t make him guilty, but something about the case made him edgy.

My guess was he knew something he wasn’t telling.

That seemed to be the theme for the day.

Secrets.

I didn’t like secrets.

The trip back to Nashville turned interesting as I neared my neighborhood. I’d noticed the car following me a few miles back. Several unnecessary turns had confirmed that the vehicle was, indeed, on my tail.

So I did what any fired-up cop would do: I performed a little swoop and swap.

I floored the accelerator. Took two hard turns and whipped into a hidden driveway on a street I knew as well as I knew my own. I was out of the car before it stopped rocking and rushed over to watch from the overgrown shrubbery at the curb.

The sedan, four-door, gray, plain and ugly, slowed to a stop and the driver, male, thirty-five maybe, surveyed the neighborhood without getting out of his vehicle.

I eased down the shrubbery row until I reached the rear of his vehicle and then I dashed across the sidewalk and hovered near the trunk. He hadn’t turned off the engine but he had shifted into Park. I’d seen his back-up lights flash as the gear shift passed through Reverse on its way to Park and I could feel the heat coming from the tail pipe, indicating the engine was still running.

Adrenaline fired through my veins as I risked a peek over the top of the trunk. He’d taken out his cell phone to make a call.

Distracted. Perfect.

I rounded the end of the vehicle and watched him in the driver’s-side mirror as I moved toward the door in a low crouch.

Three seconds later I stood, my weapon aimed at his head through the window.

“Get out!” I roared.

He looked up at the gun then at me. Pallor slid over his face. I liked knowing I could make a man go white as a sheet.

Without a word, he closed the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat and reached for the door handle.

“Keep your right hand where I can see it,” I ordered. He’d used his right hand when tossing the phone. That was the one I needed to watch.

I backed off a step as he opened the door with his left hand, his right held up in a sign of surrender, and got out. If the bland, featureless car hadn’t been a dead giveaway the cheap suit he wore would have.

Cop.

“Why are you following me?” I had my ideas but I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

He started to reach into his jacket but I shook my head and waved the gun for emphasis.

Chief Barlow ordered me to. If his crestfallen expression were any indication, he didn’t look forward to telling his superior that he had been made.

The anticipation I’d felt seconds ago morphed into fury. I reached into his jacket and felt for a wallet. He didn’t resist. What I found was a badge, just as I suspected.

Officer Waylon Jamison. Murfreesboro.

What the hell?

“Since when does Nashville’s Chief of Homicide have any jurisdiction over Murfreesboro cops?” I shoved his badge at him and put my weapon away.

Now I was really mad. If Barlow was lucky I wouldn’t be able to find him until I’d cooled off. First he sticks me with a partner who doesn’t like female cops. Then he hires some out-of-town cop to watch me.

I just transferred to Nashville, he explained. Barlow gave me this assignment because I was new. He glanced nervously at the ground. This operation was supposed to be a secret. I hope this doesn’t affect my new assignment.

How could I not feel sorry for the guy?

I planted my hands on my hips. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” I was a sucker, I admit it.

But I… He looked unsure what to say.

I held up a hand for him to listen. “I won’t mention that I know you’re following me on one condition.”

He looked like a puppy anticipating a treat. Name it.

“I realize you have to follow orders,” I said up front. “Just make sure you stay out of my way and don’t tell Barlow anything without checking with me first.”

He looked uncertain for all of two seconds then he said, Deal.

That, I decided, was the best revenge. Turning the tables. As long as Barlow didn’t know I’d made Jamison, he wouldn’t be dragging someone else into the scenario. I had Jamison by the short hairs. He didn’t want to look bad to his new boss, making him, in reality, mine to rule.

And Barlow never had to know.

Chapter 4

When you grow up in a large Southern family there is one thing that follows you from the cradle to the grave. Family dinners.

The chosen night had changed from time to time over the years, to accommodate schedules, but the tradition remained the same. My mom did all the cooking, Sarah and I set the table, and the other three daughters-in-law did whatever Mom told them. Meanwhile, the men in the family, my four brothers and my dad, watched the news or a ball game.

I often wondered if this tradition was part of the reason Southern women had, for generations, cooked with lard, a seriously concentrated form of animal fat, and lots and lots of salt. Pump up the cholesterol and blood pressure levels and a woman didn’t have to worry about living with their thoughtless men that long.

Not that my mother did that. She was a health nut to the core. Walked three miles every day with my dad in tow. Walters men would live forever. Good thing they had strong willed women who tolerated the family-dinner crap but not much else.

Truth was I loved all the men in my family, even when they were swizzling beer and yelling at the television set as if the referee could hear them via sheer determination alone. Sports were like a religion around here.

Sarah reached to settle the final glass into place, then frowned. She bracketed her protruding belly with her hands and grimaced.

“You okay?”

She nodded. I think so. Just a Braxton-Hicks contraction. They come and go.

I managed a wan smile. “Maybe you should sit down for a while. I can finish here.”

Sarah waved me off, as I knew she would. Don’t be silly. I’m fine.

A few minutes later a platter of baked chicken and rice, steaming bowls of fat-free green beans and steamed carrots graced the empty space between the place settings for eleven at the table for twelve. Even my youngest brother, Max was married. I staunchly ignored that last empty chair.

Since Sarah was on the verge of giving birth, the pressure was off me for a while. My mom had something else to obsess about besides my ongoing single status. And, thank God, the blind-date dinners had ceased, at least temporarily. Oh, yes, Southern mothers weren’t above having some single guy or gal over for dinner in an attempt to prompt a marriage. Poor Max had endured his share of those during his final year as a bachelor.

Have you noticed there’s a kind of theme going on here with the Walters kids’ names? All M’s. Martin, Michael, Marshall, Max and Merri. My mother must have been going through some sort of odd Sesame Street phase during her late twenties. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d had five children in six years. I suppose it was a miracle we’d gotten names at all.

When the water goblets were filled and a bottle of wine positioned at each end of the table, we were good to go. The herd hustled into the dining room. It didn’t take much imagination to summon the memory of the sounds that accompanied the Walters clan settling in around the long table for dinner.

I missed those pleasant sounds. A pang of wistfulness broadsided me.

Okay, shake it off, Merri.

I get emotional like that sometimes. Can’t help myself. But it passes quickly. Besides, my mother’s famous for her baked chicken and rice. The herbs and spices smelled heavenly. The food would distract me as soon as I’d had a chance to dig in.

What’s going on with the Starlet Murders?

This from my brother Martin, the cop. He was a good cop but he’d never had any interest in homicide. That he used the nomenclature from the old investigation annoyed me unreasonably. Despite the speculation in the press, no one at Metro had mentioned the connection.

“Not much to know yet,” I admitted. And it was true. We didn’t have any real leads and not the first damned clue. “I’m hoping we’ll know more after the latest victim’s autopsy is complete.” I remembered the hairs the M.E. had found on the second victim that morning. A single hair would be better than nothing. “And, just so you know,” I said matter-of-factly, “there has been no official connection between this case and the murders four years ago.”

Martin smirked. Like we don’t see that one coming.

I refused to rise to the bait, and, thankfully, the family focused on eating for a while. Whenever the conversation ventured into what I was up to at work, trouble would follow. Trouble for me. Tossing out the term autopsy at the dinner table had, I hoped, averted that course.

I hear you went undercover as a street walker the other night, Marshall said eventually.

Here it came. Talk of the autopsy had gained me a little time but not much. The horrified look on my mother’s face had me flashing a look that said “Gee, thanks” at my brother.

“It was an operation to draw out a suspected cop-killer. A witness agreed to be bait and I was her protection for the event.”

My explanation didn’t help.

That’s very dangerous, little girl.

How did I explain to my father that I’m not a little girl anymore? It was a good thing he hadn’t seen me in the hooker get-up.

Since I knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue my ability to take care of myself I didn’t bother.

Have they caught the guy yet? Martin inquired, a direct challenge in his eyes. He wanted my folks to know exactly what I’d been up to. The killer you were trying to bait, I mean?

I wanted to slug him.

I should have forced myself to think before I spoke, but my irritation overrode my few more-sensible brain cells. “Actually, they may not catch him at all. I wounded him so he could be dead already. Who knows if they’ll ever find the body.”

You shot a man? The disbelief widening my mother’s eyes was no doubt reflected in her voice.

Might as well get it over with—this was where the conversation had been heading since my knuckle-headed brother asked the first question about my work. “Only because he shot at me first.”

Half the people at the table started talking at once. I tried to keep up, but let’s face it, I could only read lips so fast. And it was impossible to read the words of two or more talking at once. I didn’t even try. Let them hash it out. I was hungry. I intended to eat.

As I lifted a forkful of rice to my mouth Sarah covertly winked at me and lifted a forkful of rice to her own mouth. At least I had one person on my side. I could always count on Sarah. She’d been my best friend long before she’d become my sister-in-law.

We ate while the others argued about what was best for me. Eventually their bellies lured their attention back to their plates and the conversation died an overdue death.

I glanced at Sarah to flash her a conspirator grin but my grin slipped when I saw her grimace again. Another Braxton-Hicks? Maybe that baby couldn’t wait to join this rowdy group. I wondered if he or she would be on my side. I could use a little more support.

The dinner topic stayed clear of me and my work for the rest of the meal. Thank God.

As usual when the feasting was done, the men retired to the den to watch the news and talk about how they’d eaten far too much. And the women cleared the table. For all my complaining I really didn’t mind. I loved our family dinners—all but the part where everyone got into my business, anyway. Otherwise I wouldn’t trade my family for anything.

They were the best, if overprotective and misguided.

Just like my boss. Barlow was far too much like my family where protecting me was concerned. I appreciated that he cared about my safety, but I needed to do my job. I loved it. It’s who I am now.

Still, somehow I just couldn’t quench that burning need to be with him, the shimmer of heat I felt when I thought of him. It happened every darned time. But that relationship couldn’t be. Not now, with him the chief. How could I jeopardize my new career? I knew the rules. I couldn’t see any way to get around that.

Sarah rinsed the dishes, handing the plates to me one by one and I loaded them into the dishwasher. Kathy, Carla and Nancy took care of the other cleaning while my mom choreographed the routine as if none of us had ever done this before. She loved having daughters to boss around.

A plate shattered in the sink. My gaze swung from the broken pieces to Sarah, who now clutched her belly. Her eyes met mine and she said, I think this is the real thing.

Things got a little crazy from there. Michael rushed Sarah to the hospital. My mom and I drove over to their Brentwood home and picked up Sarah’s already-packed bag. The rest of the family headed to the hospital to wait out the arrival of the first Walters grandchild.

I drove to the hospital as quickly as I dared considering a drizzling rain had started to fall. Just enough to require windshield wipers but not quite a sufficient amount to keep them from squeaking across the glass. Really annoying. Hearing the sound wasn’t necessary. I could see the way the wipers dragged against the glass.

Mom knew how difficult it was for me to see her face at night with only the dash lights for illumination so neither of us spoke, yet the anticipation was palpable.

We both loved Sarah dearly and wanted only the best for her. A safe delivery and a healthy baby.

I dropped my mom off at the front of the hospital so she could get on in there. I knew she was dying to join the others. The parking garage wasn’t that crowded, so finding a spot didn’t take long.

Snagging the bag from the back seat, I slung the strap over my right shoulder and locked my Jetta. I considered the level on which I’d parked, two, and decided the quickest route to my destination would be to take the stairs to level four and use the pedestrian cross ramp. Sarah would be on the third floor. A new wave of anticipation washed over me.

I was going to be an aunt!

Being an aunt was a big responsibility. I needed to think about that and make sure I didn’t forget anything important. There would be birthday parties, special Christmas traditions like going to visit Santa at the mall, oh, and shopping. Lots and lots of shopping.

And then there was school. I would personally interview all the kid’s teachers to ensure he or she got the best. I gnawed my lower lip at that thought. Maybe I’d better not do that. I remember how badly I’d hated those kinds of parents. The ones who made teachers feel like they were lesser forms of life or incompetent at the very least.

I struck that task off my list.

Goosebumps abruptly rushed over my skin, issuing a silent warning.

I stalled. Slowly turned around.

A couple of dozen or so cars were scattered around the semidark garage. There was room for at least a hundred more. I studied the shadows, watched for the slightest variation in shading. Allowed my senses to soak up the vibes. The unpleasant but familiar smell of gasoline and oil filtered through my nostrils.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.