Cover Your Eyes (17 page)

“Do you remember where Rudy’s is located?”

“I was just there the other day.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “Why?”

“Linked to a case.”

“Thank God. I had visions of you, Alex, and Rick demanding a spot for me.”

“The thought had crossed our minds, but we’re too afraid of our baby sister’s temper to pull a stunt like this.”

She blew out a relieved sigh. “You bet your ass.”

Smiling, Deke glanced around the desk searching again for evidence that would connect Lexis to Dixie, Annie, Rachel, or Margaret. There were invoices yet to be mailed, a handful of checks attached to a deposit slip and several sets of maps of the Nashville area. He moved away from the desk toward the large fireplace, now dark and cold. Clustered together on the mantel was a collection of pictures. Lexis had a close-knit group of friends. His gaze skimmed the images and halted immediately on the third from the right. It featured Lexis, a man, and Rachel Wainwright. Deke picked up the picture, his gaze instantly drawn to Rachel’s face. She appeared younger. Her hair was slightly longer and she had a wide, happy grin. He’d seen her mad, angry, slightly amused but never out-and-out happy. Her beaming face and sparkling eyes drew him before jacking up his suspicion. How the hell did she know Lexis?

His gaze shifted to the man beside Rachel. He wore a prison jumpsuit and casually slung his arms around Rachel and Lexis’s shoulders. Thin, gaunt, and pale, he sported several tattoos on his forearms and shared Rachel’s square jaw. He was her brother.

“Georgia, have a look at this picture.” He turned to show it to her as she closed the gap between them.

“The attorney clocked on television the other night.”

“Rachel Wainwright.”

“Wasn’t she attacked last night? I’m sure I heard that in the shift report.”

“You did. Someone took a swing at her and hit her hard but didn’t break any bones. She’s lucky.” Damn. How the hell was Rachel tied into all this? “Any guess on the guy’s identity?”

“Definitely family. Can’t miss the genetic link between the two.”

“Like ours,” he joked as he tugged a lock of her blond hair.

“I got all the pretty genes.”

“No argument here. The Morgan boys landed on the short end of the stick in the looks department.”

She nodded her agreement. “This guy’s not too bad-looking. He’s what? Early thirties?”

“About.”

“So he’s her older brother.” She shook her head. “It looks like he’s leaning on these gals, as if he’s a little desperate and he needs them.”

Deke realized she was right. “You have a knack for body language.”

“All those years of singing in front of rough audiences. Good to watch the body language in case a patron is tempted to throw a beer bottle.”

“You’ve never had one tossed your way.”

“Always a first.” She tapped the picture. “So what does the curious Ms. Wainwright have in common with the victim?”

“That’s the first question I intend to ask.”

 

 

Deke arrived at Rachel’s building an hour later. By the time he’d crossed town and fought traffic he’d built up a full head of steam. She had a habit of keeping secrets and he figured this one was gonna be a whopper.

He parked and rang her bell. He glanced up into the security camera and glared as if to say “let me in” and waited for the buzz of the lock as it opened. He found Rachel rising from her desk.

She wasn’t dressed in her customary suit and white starched shirt but a loose pair of coveralls and a T-shirt. In these clothes she moved with more ease as if she’d shed a skin that was too tight. She wasn’t wearing a sling but there was no missing the black-purple bruise darkening her right arm.

“Detective. Come for your shirt? I have it. Cleaned and ready to go.”

“Not here for the shirt.” He jabbed his finger at the camera. “That tape?”

“I wish.”

“Too bad.”

She nodded. “Here to give me those DNA test results?” She might be dressed differently but she remained a hard-edged smart-ass.

“How’s the arm?”

She didn’t bother to glance at the bruise. “Hurt’s like hell. But aspirin is keeping it in check.”

“You working today?”

“Hard to get away from the job when you live feet from it. I’m guessing by the look on your face that you don’t have DNA on your mind.”

“Do you know a Lexis Hanover?”

Her face stilled and a wall shuttered over her gaze. “Who?”

She hid it fairly well, but she knew Hanover. Slick. But not slick enough. “How do you know her?”

She moved to fold her arms, winced, and dropped them back at her sides. “I didn’t say I did.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” The words all but growled in his chest.

Her brow arched. “Why the tough words and harsh tone, Detective?”

He glanced around her office, noting that since last night she’d dusted and straightened up. He’d imagined she’d been either too rattled to work or too restless to sit still. In the corner, the partition was gone and the sculptures had been moved and outfitted with some of the many pieces of junk she collected. Made sense Rachel would collect the broken to rehabilitate into art.

He studied the piece gently wedged in a vise and noted carving tools covered with porcelain dust as if she’d been working when he arrived. He picked up the sculpting knife and studied the pointed edge. “I just came from a crime scene. A murder scene. The woman was beaten to death.”

Grimacing, she slid her good hand up over her bruised arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. What was her name?”

He touched the sharp edge of a jutting slice of metal. “Lexis Hanover. Private Detective.”

A heavy silence settled in the room.

He glanced back at Rachel. The color had melted from her face and for a moment she swayed. If she’d not lied to him seconds ago he’d have summoned pity or even reached out. Instead he relished a twist of the knife. “Name familiar now?”

“You said she was beaten to death?”

“That’s right. Hit with a blunt object seven or eight times.”

Rachel moved to an old metal chair and dropped into it. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “You aren’t playing a game with me, are you, Detective?”

“That would be sick and twisted, don’t you think?” Wordless, she shook her head as she clung to composure. Despite the lies between them, his voice was softer than he’d intended. “How did you know her?”

A ragged breath wobbled pale lips. Watery eyes looked up at him. “We met on a case years ago. She stepped in and helped.”

“Would the case have involved your brother?”

The educated guess had her widening her eyes, but the consummate attorney weighed and measured each word before speaking. “Why do you ask?”

He rested his hands on his hips, his knuckles brushing the butt of his gun. “I don’t have time for games, Rachel. No time. For. Games. Tell me about Lexis.” When she didn’t speak he reached for his cell phone. “I’d be glad to show you pictures from the crime scene. It was a hell of a mess.”

She held up her hand as she rose. “That’s not necessary.” She sighed. “My brother was convicted of murder.”

“I’ve read up on his case.”

She wasn’t surprised. “He swore over and over he didn’t do it but that didn’t stop the cops from arresting him. He had a crap attorney and he landed in jail. I was in college when it happened.”

He waited, sensing she’d struggled with this family truth for years.

“Fast forward five years and I’m fresh out of law school, hell bent on proving he didn’t kill anyone. I met Lexis in court. We hit it off and she agreed to do some digging for me. I told her right off I couldn’t pay, but she didn’t seem worried. Said the day would come when I’d be in a spot to help someone else.”

A sigh shuddered from her. “It’s a long and complicated story. Luke died in prison before we could get him a retrial.”

“Luke being your brother?”

“Yes.”

No happy endings for the Wainwrights. But then they were few and far between. “Lexis did a good deed for you. What were you two working on now?”

“That’s confidential.” She tugged at a loose thread at the corner of her pocket.

Rachel shook her head. “I left a note on my front door.”
Lexis, I’m running. Back in a half-hour. If you’ve got the letters, I’d love to talk
. “The note was gone when I got home.”

“I’m betting the someone who attacked you used it to find Lexis.”

A tear trickled down her cheek but he couldn’t summon pity. “Someone killed her. Brutally. And this nut also beat another woman to death. Tell me what the hell was going on between you two.” His voice rose to a shout that reverberated off the walls.

She twisted the thread around her finger until it cut into the skin. “After my media sensation the other night, someone must have been paying attention to what I was saying about Jeb Jones and the DNA.”

He folded arms over his chest, waiting to see how much of the truth she’d spit out this time.

“I also mentioned Annie Rivers Dawson, as you remember. It was the mention of her name that caught her sister’s attention.”

He wondered if the woman could answer a question outright without weighing each word. Natural suspicion combined with a law degree equaled passive sentences conveying little. He waited.

“I received a hand-delivered package the day after the vigil. Courier sent it. I later checked and found out the sender had paid in cash and the company had no record of who paid for the delivery.”

“What was in the package?”

“Letters.”

He leaned toward her a fraction, frustration reverberating from every muscle. “Jesus, would you stop being an attorney for a second and tell me. It’s like pulling teeth, Rachel.”

“I don’t trust cops.”

“Figured that much out. Talk.”

The words hitched in her throat. “The letters appeared to have been written by Annie Rivers Dawson.”

“What?”

“I know. It sounds crazy that thirty-year-old letters would be delivered to my doorstep. I read them and wasn’t sure what to make of them. They were compelling.”

“Why didn’t you bring them to me?”

A half smile tugged the edge of her mouth. “Right, give the potentially winning hand to you, the guy who stonewalls at every turn.”

“I don’t stonewall. I have no answers to give.”

“So you say.”

He held up his hand, annoyance shooting through his body. “You are the definition of trust issues.” When she arched an unapologetic brow, he asked, “What did you do with the letters?”

“I gave them to Lexis to authenticate. One of her talents is handwriting analysis. I hoped she could tell me if they were real or not.”

“When did you give her the letters?”

“Tuesday. She was supposed to call me last night. She sent me an email, which I didn’t see until today.” Before he could prompt her to finish she said, “It said she wanted to read and study the letters a little longer. Her first impression was that they were real but something bothered her. And before you ask, she did not say what that was. She said to stay tuned. I’d planned to call her today.”

This explained the visit to Margaret. “Did you have a sample of Annie’s handwriting?”

“She’d said she’d find one.” Suddenly, her shoulders slumped as the weight of Lexis’s death settled deeper. “I can’t believe she’s dead. She was the smartest woman I knew. No one fooled her.”

“She had her thirty-eight in her hand. But the killer knocked it out before she could fire.”

More tears streaked down her cheeks and she quickly swiped them away as if ashamed. He gave her a moment to collect herself.

“Did you keep copies of the letters?”

A conspirator’s look darkened her watery gaze. “What do you think?”

“I think you are a paranoid control freak who wouldn’t have let the letters out of your sight without keeping copies.”

“I not only kept copies but I didn’t give her all the originals. Didn’t want to toss all my apples into one basket.”

“Always thinking, aren’t you?”

“I try.” She moved toward her desk and opened the third drawer. She removed a file folder. “These are copies of the letters.”

“And the other originals?” He took the file, opened it and scanned the neatly written handwriting. The first line of the first letter caught his attention. “Sugar! . . .”

“Locked in my safe.”

He waited for her to retrieve the letters but when she didn’t move he scratched his head as if plagued by a puzzle. “Do I have to get a warrant? Do we have to make this ugly?”

She shook her head. “Normally, I’d say, hell yes. Take your best shot. But not this time. This time I want you to find the guy who killed Lexis.” She moved to a wall. She pressed several boards and a door popped open to a safe with a combination lock. Several turns of the dial and the lock opened. She removed a yellowed stack of letters.

Rachel held them close. “There were twenty letters in the original packet. I gave them to Lexis. You have ten originals here, plus copies of the missing ones. You now know all that I know.”

As he studied her pale, direct eyes, he sensed the truth.

She held out the letters.

He took them, watching as she shoved a shaking hand through her hair. “Thanks.”

“You said she was beaten.”

“It was rough, Rachel. No way to get around that. I don’t know what’s driving this nut but there’s a hell of a lot of pent-up rage.”

As she spoke her voice broke, forcing her to hesitate until she could speak without emotion. “You told me about the other woman last night. Dixie?”

“Dixie Simmons. A singer in a honky-tonk.”

“Could she have hired Lexis?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how the two women are connected. I’m hoping these letters will give me an idea.”