Читать книгу Silent Reckoning - Debra Webb - Страница 10

Being nice is definitely overrated.

If I’d ever thought otherwise, I knew differently now.

Ray Patterson might be younger than me, with less seniority in the Homicide Division, but that didn’t stop him from bucking to be the boss. Or from being nosy as hell.

The chief seems awfully protective of you. You think it’s because of your hearing impairment?

See what I mean?

“He’s concerned about all his detectives,” I countered, a subtle warning of don’t go there in my tone. “That’s his job. He knows our strengths and weaknesses. That’s how he decides who would be best on what case when it comes to something like this.”

Like the Starlet Murders, you mean, he suggested.

There he went, using that old moniker. I mean, maybe it’s because I’m a woman, but I just didn’t like it. In my opinion the case should be called the Jealous Male Scumbag Murders.

Thank God the food arrived. Kept me from saying something Barlow would probably make me regret. I imagine Patterson took my grunt for a positive response since he didn’t pursue the subject further.

The deli-style restaurant was one of my favorites in town. A quaint little sandwich shop near Metro. Between the police force and other city workers, the place never hurt for business. Since most grabbed their sandwiches on the run, dining in was never a problem and could always be counted on for a relaxing environment, especially on a Sunday afternoon.

My thoughts drifted back to the case. Mallory Wells’s home had revealed the same as Reba Harrison’s—nothing. Typical single, white, working-female abodes. The murders definitely hadn’t happened in either place.

I read the file on the Reba Harrison murder and some of the reports from the Starlet cases.

I wasn’t surprised. A good cop would want to be prepared whether he landed a case or not. It paid to stay up to speed on the goings-on in the city, especially those in your division.

“What’d you think?” I took a bite of my turkey sub and chewed as he considered what he wanted to say.

Twenty-seven. College drop-out. Had her heart set on a career in country music.

That told me what he’d read but it didn’t answer my question. “Reba was good,” I countered. “Just a few days before her murder she’d been invited to sing at the Wild Horse.” That was a big step in a new performer’s career—maybe my new partner wasn’t aware of that. Reba Harrison hadn’t even gotten a CD on the market and already her talent was gaining some momentum.

Patterson nodded. In more ways than one. Had herself an affair with Chase Taylor. Apparently it was no secret, although his wife claimed she had no idea the two had been involved. Adultery is a pretty good motive for murder.

“Since the sexual assault continued after the murder, that pretty much discounts Taylor’s wife,” I argued. “And Taylor had an airtight alibi.” He’d been on stage at the Grand Ole Opry at the time. A few thousand people had been watching. The affair between him and Harrison had happened ages ago and wasn’t relevant, in my opinion.

Patterson swallowed a mouthful of ham on rye, then said, He could have paid someone to do it. Someone who took things a little farther than he’d been paid for.

“That’s a possibility. That avenue has been under investigation.” I shrugged. “But the dynamics of that murder have changed now. Unless, of course, we can find a similar connection between Mr. Chase Taylor and our latest victim.” Not to mention we had to keep in the back of our minds that we had a four-year-old unsolved serial investigation that mirrored almost exactly our two current cases.

Unless his hired killer decided to have some more fun on the side for no extra charge.

It wasn’t that his suggestion was completely impossible, it was simply highly unlikely.

“It’s our job to find out what happened,” I said, as much of an agreement as he was going to get out of me on that one. We would definitely check out every avenue. Leave no rock unturned, as the old saying goes. “It’s possible that our killer remembers the Starlet cases and hoped to disguise his killings that way, shift our focus. That’s why we can’t assume anything at this point.”

Something about the way he looked at me then riled my temper but I kept my mouth shut. No point making something of it. He was likely curious about the deaf woman. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten one of those looks. I knew exactly what it meant.

Weren’t you once engaged to Heath Woods?

Boy, I hadn’t seen that one coming, even this close. I blinked, startled. My personal life, past or present, was none of his business. That he had the brass balls to ask surprised me.

I mean, he clarified, obviously sensing my discomfort, he’s in the business. Would he be a source of inside information we could tap?

Did he really think I hadn’t thought of that? Please.

If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him, Patterson suggested, I’ll be glad to do it.

No way. If anyone talked to Heath it would be me.

“He’s away on some secret vacation,” I said pointedly. “None of his people can get in touch with him. Believe me, I’ve made life difficult enough for them. He can’t be reached. I’ll be the first person they call when he’s found.”

Patterson shrugged. Oh.

I studied my new partner a moment, decided that at least he was beginning to share his thoughts. I suddenly wondered if there was a woman in his life. He was certainly cute enough. Thick brown hair cut short for easy care, and because it looked damned good that way. Matching brown eyes. I realized then that I actually knew very little about him.

“What’s the story with you?” I found myself asking. I hadn’t actually meant to, but the question was on the table. There was no taking it back.

This time he was the one taken aback by the direction of the conversation. What do you mean?

Like he didn’t know.

“You have a girlfriend? Engaged?” I shrugged. “Any family in the area?” Might as well get the whole story while I was at it.

I don’t have a significant other, and I don’t like mixing my personal life with the job.

His closed expression along with the stern line of his jaw told me he’d made the statement quite sharply.

Before I got all ticked off again, I reminded myself that my prying into his business would likely keep him wary of digging into mine. He would be scared to death I’d ask him something else. So, my snoopy question had, in a roundabout way, served my purposes, as well. And, jeez, he was the one who’d started it.

“We should get back to the office and start that digging expedition.” I gathered my leftovers and stood. “I’ll see you there.”

After making a drop at the trash receptacle I headed for the door. As I settled into my Jetta, Patterson made his exit. He didn’t look my way, just walked straight over to his big red SUV and climbed in.

Although I couldn’t lay my finger on the problem, something about Patterson didn’t sit as it should with me. He didn’t mind saying right up front that he had a problem with a female partner, nor did he hesitate to ask me about my ex-fiancé. But when I asked a straightforward question about his marital status, he balked. Hmmm. Interesting. What was my new partner hiding? A messy divorce? A tawdry affair? A work-related situation? That could explain his reasons for not wanting to work with a woman.

It looked as if I might have a little extra digging to do. After all, one couldn’t go into a relationship of any kind without all the facts.

The victim, Mallory Wells, had changed a number of things about herself, besides her cup size, after coming to Nashville. Her real name was Margaret Anita Wellersby. In addition to changing her name, she’d had her nose done and breast augmentation at the suggestion of a music video producer with whom she’d had a brief relationship. It was still unclear what she’d done in the way of repayment for the costly surgical procedures, since her financial resources had been somewhat limited.

My best guess was that the producer and the cosmetic surgeon had a racket going on. The surgeon worked cheaper than usual, but had lots of extra business thrown his way by the producer. The producer got his kickback in the way of sexual favors from the prospective patients. Or maybe both men enjoyed the perks of their alliance.

Sick, huh?

The producer, Rex Lane, and the surgeon, Xavier Santos, were now at the top of my super-short suspect list. Especially since Reba Harrison had been an extra in a music video by Rex Lane’s company, Lucky Lane Productions. That particular aspect of Miss Harrison’s past hadn’t been significant until now.

I can track down the surgeon, Patterson offered. I know the places his type likes to hang out.

Another curiosity-arousing statement. Patterson didn’t look like the country-club type. “I’ll take the producer.” No problem. They both had to be questioned.

Patterson gave me a nod and left my cubicle.

While we’re on the subject of cubicles, I should mention that the term is probably not the right one to use. I don’t have any walls around my desk. Mostly I have my space. About a yard of beige carpet all the way around my beige metal desk. There’s a chair, also metal but embellished with a little fake leather, sitting in front of it for interviewing folks or conferencing with one’s partner.

I was somewhat protective of my space. The day the desk had been pointed out to me I’d taken steps to make it mine. Framed family photos and a mug turned pencil holder were my only personal items on top of the desk. The mug had been given to me by the kids in my last class as a teacher. In an effort to clearly delineate the boundaries of my space, I’d brought in a six-by-eight burgundy rug to go beneath my desk. Needless to say, no one else had marked their territory in such a way. Coffee stains and the like were about all that surrounded the other detectives’ desks, even the other two that belonged to females.

Oh, well, I’d always been different. Why change now?

I downed the last of my coffee, grimaced, and grabbed my purse. Sometimes I carried my gun in my purse, but only when I couldn’t wear my shoulder holster. I preferred the latter. The .9-millimeter made my purse weigh a ton.

However, wearing the shoulder holster sort of dictated my wardrobe. It usually meant I would need to wear a jacket to hide it. Not a problem, because jackets were okay with me. Today I wore navy slacks—my favorite color—and a soft baby-blue blouse with a navy jacket, short cropped with no pockets and a cool zipper instead of buttons. The shoes were sensible pumps with two-inch heels. No one would vote me the best-dressed woman in Nashville, but I looked reasonably snazzy for a cop.

The drive to Franklin didn’t take that long. Mr. Rex Lane lived in one of the more glamorous residential neighborhoods of Franklin. So did a lot of stars. Franklin and Brentwood were the two most popular areas outside Nashville. The commute was short and the houses were huge with masterfully landscaped lots. Though Patterson and I were supposed to be a team, time was of the essence here. Splitting up was the most efficient way to do the job.

I stopped at the gate and pressed the intercom button. I felt sure Mr. Lane wouldn’t like having unannounced company on a Sunday afternoon, but I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to be away when I showed up at his door.

I laid my hand on the speaker to feel the vibration when and if someone answered. Worked like a charm.

After moving my hand, I said, “Detective Merrilee Walters, Metro Homicide, to see Mr. Rex Lane.” I quickly placed my hand back on the front of the speaker and waited. I didn’t get an audible response but the gates began a slow swing inward. I took that as a “come on in” sign.

When the gates yawned open fully, I let off the brake, allowing the Jetta to roll forward. The driveway sprawled out before me, a good half mile long. As gorgeous as the landscape was, it didn’t hold a candle to the circular parking patio in front of the house. A large fountain amid the seeming acres of cobblestone lent an old-world flair.

“Big bucks,” I muttered. This guy was making some major money in the video business. My ex had always said that these guys made almost as much money as the performers themselves. Definitely beat out the song-writers, he’d complained. Though Heath appeared to be doing pretty well these days. I’d noticed that one of his new songs, performed by a seasoned veteran, had topped all the charts.

Good for him, I mused. Maybe he’d choke on all the money he was probably making. No hard feelings.

As I got out of my car, the front door opened and the man himself, Rex Lane that is, stepped out onto the granite landing that stood at the top of about a dozen matching steps. Wide, luxurious steps. No expense had been spared in making this Italianate-style home an awe-inspiring mansion.

Detective Walters, what brings you to my home on a Sunday afternoon? he asked with a polite smile.

Well-washed jeans, a comfortable striped button-down shirt and leather Birkenstocks dressed the man who looked around thirty when the background I’d pulled up indicated he would turn forty this year. Maybe the good doctor had done his partner in crime a few favors.

Back up, Merri, I told myself. I hadn’t proven the two were partners in anything just yet.

“I have a few questions for you regarding one of your clients,” I said as I climbed the elegant steps.

This client has a name, I presume, he said as I took the final step, bringing me up alongside him on the wide landing gracing the front of the mansion.

“Had,” I corrected. “She’s dead.”

That got his attention, just as I’d intended.

The expression on his face shifted from annoyed to startled. Come in, Detective.

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter before him. As I did I couldn’t help but notice his—or the decorator’s—exquisite taste followed through to the interior. Marble-floored entry. Soaring ceilings. Beautiful artwork and tapestries. Marvelous antique pieces made up the furnishings.

I could almost smell the money.

Lots and lots of the stuff.

He said something I missed as he turned to lead the way to wherever he wanted to do this. I followed, kept an eye on his profile in case he said something else, despite my desire to admire the decorating.

When he led me into a parlor, he asked, Would you like something to drink, Detective?

“No, thank you.”

He indicated the sofa and I sat. He settled into a leather chair directly across from me.

How can I help you?

That he didn’t prod some more for the client’s name alerted me to his nervousness and the possibility that he already knew.

“I’m sure you remember a client who came to you a few months ago named Mallory Wells.” This was a statement, not a question. I didn’t want to give him an easy out. I wanted him to worry about just how much I knew.

He took his time answering. Most of that time he used to arrange his expression into a thoroughly un-readable one. But he didn’t accomplish that before I picked up on surprise and then a moment of horror that wilted into remorse. He hadn’t known she was dead. He felt sick at the idea.

Both of those things helped lower his ranking on my suspect scale.

But I didn’t mention that to him. Let him sweat.

Yes. He moistened his lips. His posture grew considerably more rigid. I knew her quite well, as a matter of fact.

“It’s my understanding the two of you were involved in an intimate relationship,” I said bluntly. Now this is a tactic known in cop world, or in poker, as bluffing. You take rumor and innuendo, or maybe a wild guess, and formulate a theory. In other words, you lie. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

He blinked. I wouldn’t call our relationship intimate, he hedged.

This time it worked.

“What would you call it?” I pressed. I wanted to ask him the most personal questions while the shock was still new.

It was intense but mostly about business.

“But you knew her in the biblical sense.” Another statement of presumed fact that would amp up his discomfort.

We slept together once, he insisted without meeting my eyes. That was the only time.

So far so good. That he admitted having had sex with her surprised me. I wondered if he assumed I had evidence to back up my assessment. Apparently. “Did you part on bad terms?” I stayed clear of specific adjectives on this point. I didn’t want to lead him, I just wanted to prompt him.

He gave a halfhearted shrug. I suppose you could say that. She wanted more than I could give her.

I found Mr. Lane’s honesty refreshing. He was either totally innocent or completely stupid.

“Love?” I suggested.

He shook his head. Nothing like that. She wanted to be a star. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before meeting my gaze once more. That wasn’t going to happen. She was a nice girl and I liked her, but she wasn’t star material.

The worst kind of heartache. In my experience with the entertainment business, a guy could break a girl’s heart and she would get over it, but having him doubt her ability to become a star, well, that was a whole other epic struggle.

“How did she take it?”

Not well. She egged my Bentley.

Poor guy. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Then she spread rumors about me to my friends.

“Rumors?” My curiosity piqued again. This could be significant. Maybe she got involved with the wrong people in an effort to get back at Lane.

That I was gay. He made one of those faces that said he was mortified and very nearly mortally wounded. I can’t believe she would do that. We may have had only one night but she had to know.

That her final hours had been spent engaged in violent sex flitted through my mind. A scorned man might very well see that as the perfect revenge.

“When did you last see her, Mr. Lane?” I purposely made my voice accusing. I wanted him to squirm some more.

He shifted in his chair. Excellent.

Let me see. Another shift of position. Perhaps two weeks ago. There was a party. He waved a hand. You know the type, where everyone who’s anyone makes an appearance.

Yeah, I knew the type. I’d been to a couple myself. Before. But that was another story. Another life. Definitely not anything I wanted to dwell on today.

Mallory had too much to drink, as usual, he went on. She completely embarrassed herself.

“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.