Be Afraid (9 page)

“Three days ago, we talked about paint colors.”

“That was Saturday?”

“Yes. Early in the morning. I saw the swatches. She threatened to paint the house red.” He shook his head. “Money doesn’t buy history or taste.”

Rick kicked a rock with his boot. “A woman like that must get a lot of grief from neighbors?”

“Grief? I gave her plenty. And her landscape architect, Linwood Carter, I told her where to go.”

“Looks like that tree is biting into the foundation,” Rick said as he scribbled down the name of the landscape architect.

“Tree comes with lots of history that dates back to the Civil War. To lose it would be losing history.” He cocked his head. “Why’re you asking so many questions about Diane. She in some kind of trouble?”

“She’s dead,” Bishop said. “Murdered.”

Stewart’s mouth dropped open and he shook his head as if his brain wrestled with the words. “How? When?”

“Found her charred remains in a house in Nashville yesterday.”

“What?” The thin face paled, whitening to ashen.

Delivering news of death was always a wild card. He’d witnessed the full range. Tears, screams, laughter, stunned stupors, shock, outrage. He wasn’t interested in the reaction as the intent humming beneath the surface. He studied Stewart, paying close attention to the twitch tweaking the fingers of his right hand, the bead of sweat on his brow, and the flare of his nostrils as he breathed.

“Burned beyond recognition. Had to ID her with a hip implant.”

Stewart dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” He left out the detail of the gunshot wound to Diane’s head. That tidbit he’d share only with a few cops and the killer. “Flesh and blood melted.”

“God.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” Bishop’s even tone disarmed the repeated question designed to test Stewart. Whereas the truth came naturally, lying took work. Easier to trip up on stories hastily made up in panic.
Can you keep your stories straight?

“Three days ago.”

“You argued at dinner last week?” Rick countered.

He shook his head slowly. “Over the trees. She cut them down.”

“Pissed you off.” An edge sharpened Rick’s words.

His gaze grew vacant as if he’d gotten lost for a moment and then he shook his head. “Yeah. But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

He could. Anyone could. Rick believed everyone had a magic combination that when dialed drove them to do just about anything, including tying a neighbor to a bed, shooting her in the head, and setting the house on fire. Stewart wasn’t the kind of guy who had it in him to destroy a tree or an old house, but Rick suspected a difficult neighbor or a one-story house in the West End was fair game. “Where were you two nights ago, Mr. Stewart?”

“Two nights ago?” he echoed. “Sunday night. I was at the gym until seven and then went to an Italian restaurant for dinner. I had a taste for pasta.”

“Where’d you sleep?” Rick asked.

“In my own bed.”

“Got a name of the restaurant?” Bishop pressed the tip of his pen to his notebook. Diane had been killed in the middle of the night so where Stewart ate didn’t really matter. But the more details they gathered the more lies Stewart would have to remember.

Outrage flashed in Stewart’s gaze. “Why do I have to give you a name? I told you I didn’t do it.”

A smile tugged the edges of Rick’s lips. “Believe it or not, I’ve heard that line before.”

“But I’m innocent!”

“Names,” Bishop said.

Stewart huffed out a ragged sigh and then rattled off the name of his gym and the restaurant, even giving them the name of the waitress who’d served him. Bishop wrote it all down.

Rick shifted his stance and cursed the uneven ground bearing on his left leg. “Anyone else you think might have wanted to hurt Diane?”

“She wasn’t a nice woman,” he rushed to say. “She did what she wanted, when she wanted and she irritated a lot of people.”

“No one specific?”

He seemed to think as if he groped and scraped for another name to feed the cops so they would leave with a fresh suspect. “None that come to mind.”

“None?” Rick taunted.

“No, but there’re others.” The sentence crested in a high tone.

“You’ll call when you’ve a list.”

“Yeah.”

Rick nodded, not willing to let him off the hook. “We’ll keep in touch, Mr. Stewart.”

Stewart shook his head like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It was just a few trees.”

Rick’s thoughts strayed to the aspirin in his glove box. He could use a few now. “I know. Just a few trees.” He turned to Bishop. “Let’s see if Boone or Carter had bigger issues with Diane Smith.”

Susan Martinez sat at her computer screen typing out the story she’d read on the six o’clock news. She’d spent a frustrating day calling her contacts in the Nashville Police Department, trying to find out if the cops had identified the body pulled from the house fire. She’d covered her share of fires and murders in the last thirty years and she’d developed a sixth sense that alerted her to a high-profile murder. Right now, her senses buzzed.

At the fire, when she’d seen homicide detectives Morgan and Bishop inspect the carnage, she’d known by their grim expression the victim had not died by accident.

She’d put in a few calls to Morgan but he’d ignored her, as had Bishop. Eventually, Morgan would include her but he’d stretch it out as long as he could. She’d questioned his judgment on air. When she’d cornered Rick after his release from the hospital and asked him about the shooting, she’d seen the muscle in his jaw tighten and the fingers on his left hand curl into a fist. He’d not spoken to her but she’d known that day she’d burned a bridge.

If she had a nickel for all the people she’d upset over the years, she’d be worth millions. She wasn’t paid to play nice. People liked to turn their televisions on in the evening and get the scoop. They didn’t care how she got the details, only that she did.

“Susan, how’s the copy coming?”

She turned toward the voice of the new general manager, Andy Bolen. He was a young guy, not more than thirty. With his tall stature, muscles, and thick blond hair, she could have invited him into a few of her dreams if not for the fact she was old enough to be his mother and he considered her ancient. He was also trying to force her out in favor of younger reporters willing to do her job for half the pay.

If not for her coverage of the Jeb Jones retrial last year and the national exposure her reporting had garnered, she’d have been gone by now. But the glow of that story had all but faded and no amount of Botox or decades’ worth of experience was going to save her career. She needed another big story soon.

However, when she smiled up at him, none of that worry reflected in her green eyes as she sat a little straighter. “Will be ready in a half hour.”

“Cops talk to you?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on them.”

“We could send in Brandy.”

Ah, Brandy, the cub reporter who looked as if she still had one foot in college or maybe even high school. She couldn’t tell anymore. They got younger and younger every year.

“What would she be able to do that I haven’t?” Susan asked. “The cops aren’t talking.”

“She can sweet-talk just about anyone,” Andy countered.

Cops barely respected her and she’d been covering them for three decades. They sure as hell weren’t going to talk to a baby. “I’ve got a couple of leads, but they’ll only talk to me.”

Andy studied her and she sensed that no matter what she said, Brandy would be covering this story soon. “Let me see the copy when you have it.”

“I’m reporting this story.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” He folded his arms, a sign he’d soon be real trouble.

Cat and mouse. They could dance all afternoon if she had the patience. “I’m not stupid, Andy.”

A brow arched. “No, you’re not. Look, Susan, you know the drill. Brandy has tested well with viewers. Your tests have not been as positive in the last few months.”

She picked up a pencil and held it so tight in her hands she could feel the wood bending, bowing to the point of snapping. “Smart but bitchy . . . I remember that from one of the focus groups.”

He slid a hand into his pocket. “That’s about it.”

“Andy, I thought we were better than cotton-candy news.”

“We are. We’ve got the awards to prove it.”

“Many of which, I earned.”

“Susan.” Her name traveled over a long sigh. “If I don’t keep the ratings high, we’re all going to be out of a job.”

So you throw me under the bus to buy you another year on the job before you move on to greener pastures. As much as she wanted to argue, any argument wouldn’t save her. She considered the pills in her purse. They’d bring emotions into focus, but they’d also take the edge off and right now she needed every edge she could sharpen.

Only a great story would buy her more time.

And she’d walk over hot coals to get one.

Tuesday, August 15, 2
P.M.

Jenna glanced up at the concrete building that housed the Nashville Police Department and tightened her fingers around the strap of her satchel purse. As she’d dressed for the appointment, she’d had a moment of panic, wishing she’d had her uniform to wear. In her uniform, with the Baltimore Police Department badge pinned to her chest, she’d felt armored, buffered from worries.

But in Nashville, she was on her own. There was no Force, no friends, and no distractions to keep her nerves calmed. An hour ago, when her nerves had rattled and jangled, she’d considered canceling. This was not her town. She wasn’t here to stay or put down roots. There were many reasons not to help, but in the end she realized she’d keep the appointment. Not for Morgan, Bishop, Georgia, or even her own pride. But for the Lost Girl.

So as a compromise, she’d opted to wear a makeshift uniform: dark slacks, a white blouse, and flats. She’d chosen simple gold-hoop earrings and a small cross, which nestled in the hollow of her neck. Instead of twisting her hair into a regulation bun secured at the base of her head, she’d worn her hair loose as a reminder to herself that here, she was not a cop but a volunteer.

She came into the city six nights a week to draw street portraits, but she was discovering she didn’t enjoy the noisy fast pace. Too many people. Too much buzzing of needless activity. But she kept returning to joke with KC and to study the endless stream of faces that passed by her easel. And KC was one of the few fragile links to her past that she wouldn’t let go. She’d researched this town when she’d arrived, pulling old newspaper articles at the library on those nine days she’d been lost. KC Kelly had been one of the cops on her case. One day, she’d screw up the courage to ask what he remembered.

As she approached the medical examiner’s office, Morgan’s Lost Girl triggered one memory after another, each jostling the next like falling dominoes until she was remembering her last call in Baltimore.

Though she was a trained forensic artist, she worked the streets several shifts a month to keep her skills sharp. She and her backup had responded to a domestic call. Man and woman fighting. Neighbors reported sounds of shattering glass and one thought they’d heard a gunshot. That night there had been the roar of cars racing on side streets, honking horns, and people shouting in back alleys.

Jenna and Officer Gus Bradford had guns drawn as they approached the crumbling row house, tattooed in spray-painted gang signs, and ringed with broken glass and trash. A cat had howled as they’d climbed the stairs. Though the streets were alive with people and chaos, there’d been no noise from inside the house; in fact, the house had been as quiet as a tomb.

But the hair on the back of her neck had been standing up and her stomach had been churning. Quiet did not mean safe. Gus had stood to the side of the door and rapped hard while she’d remained at the bottom of the front stairs, the flesh of her hand pressing into the cold metal of her Glock.

When there’d been no answer, he’d banged harder. Shouted, “Police!” And then there’d been the twin gunshots.
Bam! Bam!

Gus had kicked in the door and they’d found the man and woman dead on the avocado-green kitchen floor, blood pooling around her chest and his head. The male had been clutching the gun. The female had been shot in the head, a terrified expression frozen on her face. Murder-suicide.

She’d called it in and the two had begun a room-to-room search. She’d climbed the darkened stairs to the second floor and moved slowly down the long hallway, carefully, her heart pounding as it always did when she had a room-to-room search. All clear so far. And then she’d reached the back room.

Seeing the closed closet door had ignited a fear that had flashed and burned hotter and hotter as she moved closer. Little had really rattled her during her nine years on the job, but moving toward that closet had triggered her heart to race and pound against her chest and Kevlar vest. Her shirt and undershirt had been soaked in sweat.

She’d laid trembling fingers on the door handle and opened it slowly. At first she found no signs of life. The closet was large and dark but it smelled of urine, fouled clothes, and rotted food. And then, she’d heard a faint rustle and she’d shone her flashlight into the dark recesses of the closet. When her light landed on the face of a young girl, Jenna had started and nearly dropped the flashlight. The child had long, matted, black hair and a large, stained, white T-shirt engulfed her thin frame. She had stared at Jenna with a gaze hovering closer to feral than human. A loud mew had escaped the child as she shielded startled eyes that winced under the light’s glare.

In that moment, Jenna was the child. This little girl hadn’t been rescued in nine days, but had languished in that closet for years.

You are the lucky one.

Lucky.

Yes, she had been lucky but the luck had exacted a price. She’d been rescued from the closet but a dark fear had remained lurking silently for nearly twenty-five years. And now it was free.

She’d called for her partner, heard the hiss of his breath when he’d seen the child. She’d kept it together until rescue crews had arrived. The next day she’d filed her report and requested leave. Baltimore, like a skin that had grown far too tight, was squeezing the life out of her.