Cover Your Eyes (3 page)

By the time Dr. Heller had finished her exam, Deke had more information on his victim but no real answers. After Dr. Heller closed the body she rotated her own head from side to side, working out the tension.

“I’ll walk you outside,” she said.

“Sure.”

Deke and Dr. Heller stepped into the crisp morning air. He patted his jacket pocket and remembered he’d left his cigarette habit at the house he’d lost in the divorce.

She inhaled a deep breath and tipped her face to the sun. “I never take a pretty day for granted.”

Deke pulled his own notebook from his pocket and stared at the number he’d scrawled off Dixie’s napkin. “Let’s see if finding a killer is as easy as dialing a number.”

Dr. Heller pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the side pocket of her white lab coat. “That possible?”

“It would be about the easiest case I’ve ever solved.” He watched her light up, the old cravings tugging at him. “That stuff will kill you, Doc.”

She inhaled and then slowly exhaled. “Something’s going to kill us all.”

“Maybe.” He unclipped the phone from his belt and dialed the number.

She offered the pack to him. “You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll pass.”

She tucked the pack back in her pocket. “How long has it been since you quit?”

“Six months and two days.”

“I quit once for a year.”

“As a doctor don’t you worry about what it will do to you?”

She inhaled and grinned. “Nope.”

“I’m not going back. I bought a one-way ticket, Doc.” Deke studied the napkin and the dark number written in a heavy, masculine scrawl. It rang once. Twice. At the tenth ring, with no answer, Deke hung up.

“Looks like it’s not your lucky day.”

Deke shrugged. “I’ll run the number back at the office. We’ll have a name soon enough.”

“I’ve no doubt.” She studied him an extra beat, as if she wanted to say more but then turned and inhaled again.

“If you get a hit with the tox screens you’ll let me know?”

“Always.”

Deke left the doctor to finish her smoke. The drive across town and down Broadway to Rudy’s honky-tonk took less than fifteen minutes. He managed parking on a side street within a half block.

He’d worked this area several times when he’d been undercover. In those days his hair had been long, his beard thick, his T-shirt and jeans dirty, and his leather jacket beat up.

At Rudy’s he looked through a large glass window past the C
LOSED
sign toward the bar where he saw an older man polishing glasses. Standing over six feet, the man sported a gray beard that reached a barreled chest and salt-and-pepper hair slicked back into a ponytail. Rudy Creed.

Forty years owning a honky-tonk, Rudy had seen the area go from near slums filled with drug dealers and drunks to a bustling tourism center that brought a lot of money into the city. Rudy’s was a legend in this town, known among the elite of country music for putting the best on fortune’s road to fame.

Deke rapped on the window with his knuckle and held up his badge.

The old man raised his head, gray eyes narrowing. Slowly he set the glass down and moved from behind the bar. Rudy wore a blue western style shirt, and jeans and red cowboy boots.

He moved with the unhurried gait of a man who’d seen more than his share of cops. This wasn’t the first time the police had visited his place and likely not the last. He unlatched the dead bolt and pushed open the door. He smelled faintly of soap and whiskey.

The morning light cast a harsh glare on the bar’s scarred tables and scuffed floors. Pictures of singers covered every square inch of the wall. He recognized some images. Small cocktail tables clustered in front of the stage.

A chandelier hung from the center of the room, its crystal teardrops catching the morning light. An anomaly in the rough country interior, the fixture had been a gift from a country music star who’d promised Rudy a chandelier if she’d made it big.

“Mind if I come in? Got questions for you about one of your singers.”

A frown deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth as if he’d bitten into a bitter apple. “Who did what to whom?”

Deke held up the victim’s motor vehicle picture. “Dixie Simmons. What can you tell me about her?”

He shoved out a sigh, closed and locked the front door. “She sang last night until about two. She’s good. Got a Patsy Cline sound that the folks like. She get herself into trouble?”

“Why would you say that?”

The question sparked amusement in his gray eyes. “Officer, you would not be here if there wasn’t trouble.”

“Dixie Simmons was murdered last night shortly after she left here.”

Tension darkened his expression as he rubbed the back of his neck with a large calloused hand. “What happened?”

“We’re still trying to figure it all out.”

Rudy moved to the bar and reached for a bottle filled with a honey-gold liquid. He poured a glass, offered it to Deke and when he declined drank it in one shot. He winced slightly as it burned his throat. “Any ideas who did it?”

“No, sir. That’s why I’m here. When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Last night. Two thirty a.m. I always open and close the place. Fact I walked her out and locked the door behind her. There was another bartender, Jim, but he left an hour earlier. Jim’s been with me a couple of years. I closed the joint right after she left.”

“She have any issues with anyone last night?”

“No. I mean she had some of the boys riled up with her dancing and flirting on stage, but that’s Dixie. Knows how to work a crowd.”

“No one in the crowd gave you cause to worry?”

“Not last night. A lot of out-of-towners.”

“I found a napkin in her purse and there’s a number scrawled on it.”

“You call it?”

“A couple of times on the drive over. No answer.”

“Not the first wrong number given out here.” He studied the bottom of his empty glass before carefully setting it on the bar. “Dixie wasn’t the brightest girl in the world but she could sing and she was willing to work hard. And the crowds loved her. Don’t see talent and drive in one package too often. But she had a weakness for men.”

“What can you tell me about Dixie’s personal life?”

“As long as my singers show up on time, give me their best and leave their issues at home, I don’t ask questions.”

“I’m willing to bet not much gets past you.”

A half smile tipped the edge of Rudy’s lips as if he agreed with Deke’s assessment. “No, not much gets past me. Bad for business to let too much slip.” He stood straighter, recapturing the energy Deke’s news had stolen. “Dixie liked the men. Liked them a lot. Rarely did she go home alone. Last night was one of the rare exceptions.”

“Why was that?”

“She said she had a man waiting for her. Said they’d been seeing each other on and off for months and she liked him.”

“He have a name?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Deke cocked a brow. “No matter what your rules about not bringing the personal to work, words and conversations get overheard.”

He peered back into the empty shot glass. “We had two other singers here last night. Chic Jones and Rennie Forest. You can ask those gals about Dixie. If she did any talking they’d have heard it.”

“Contact numbers would be appreciated.” Rudy reached under the bar and removed a black Rolodex stuffed full with cards. “If she was into this guy, why’d she take the number of another guy?”

Calloused fingers flipped through worn cards. “Hedging her bets, I reckon. Always good to have options.” He plucked a card from the Rolodex and then fished for the second.

“Names of recent hookups?”

“Like I said, I don’t ask a lot of questions as long as it don’t spill into my place. Ask Rennie and Chic.”

Deke scrawled the two women’s names and their contact information in his notebook. “Dixie have any confrontations that you remember recently?”

“No. Not a one. I had to give it to Dixie, when it came to work she was all business. She wanted stardom so bad she could taste it. Wanted to be on the top ten charts and land in the country music Hall of Fame. And she’d have done whatever it took.”

“How’d she get along with the other singers?”

“From what I saw polite but not overly friendly. By her way of thinking they were her competition and after the recording contract she wanted.”

“She get a contract?”

“Not yet. But it would have been a matter of time. Word was getting around about her. That’s why I let her sing last night even though she wasn’t on the lineup.”

“What happened?”

“Said she received a text telling her to sing at midnight. She arrived early, dolled up and ready to work. I’ve had other singers pull that trick before but never Dixie. I cut the scheduled singer short and let her sing.”

“Who lost stage time?”

“Dude by the name of Harrison Franklin. He wasn’t happy but it’s my way or the highway.”

Deke asked for and received Harrison’s contact information.

Rudy carefully replaced the cards on his Rolodex as he shook his head, his frown deepening with each moment. “Dixie was good with the customers. Could whip them up and bring them to their feet or have them crying in their drinks. She soaked up the attention like booze.”

“She craved attention?”

“Just about.”

A bucket rattled in the back of the bar. An older stoop-shouldered woman gripped a mop, a curtain of long gray hair covering her face.

“Cleaning lady,” Rudy said. “Rattles around here in the daytime.”

The woman vanished into the back. “Did she know Dixie?”

“No. She’s day crew. They stop work at four in the afternoon, about the time the night crew comes in.”

“And you work both shifts.”

“As long as I’m behind the bar there ain’t no trouble so I’m always behind the bar.”

“Rough schedule.”

“I don’t notice anymore. And there’s no better place than here as far as I’m concerned.” He recapped the whiskey bottle like he must have done a million times. “Another gal who might help too is Tawny Richards. She and Dixie shared an apartment. They lived in east Nashville.”

He wrote the name. “She a singer too?”

“Aren’t they all?” He rubbed calloused hands over the scrubby beard on his chin. “Tawny did sing here. She’s not as good as Dixie but she did all right. I used her as a last minute fill-in last August. She’s better than an empty stage.” He flipped through more cards and rattled off names and addresses.

Deke jotted down the information.

Rudy put the Rolodex back behind the bar. “You never said how she died.”

“Beaten to death.” He didn’t mention Dr. Heller’s theory of a tire iron, knowing some details he’d share after he had a killer in custody.

Rudy blanched. “Dear Lord. No girl deserves that.”

The show of shock, Deke guessed, was rare for a man like Rudy who no doubt revealed as much as an iceberg’s jagged tip. “Whoever killed her wasn’t looking for money or sex. This was about rage.” Recognizing a weakening in Rudy’s tough exterior he added, “We confirmed her identity by her fingerprints.”

Rudy unscrewed the whiskey bottle and again refilled his glass. He raised it to his bristled mustache with a trembling hand. “I liked Dixie. Liked her a lot. I should have told her she was dancing with trouble. Should have told her to ease up.”

“Ease up on?”

“The men. Sooner or later you’re bound to pick a crazy one.”

The well-ordered row of booze bottles behind the bar and the freshly wiped countertop said this was a man who paid attention to details regardless of what he said. “How long had she been working here?”

“About a year. She started waitressing and then asked if she could sing. She surprised me. In a good way. Like I said, she built a following. She was in the nine o’clock hour a couple of Saturdays ago. I don’t give that spot to just anyone.”

Deke pulled a card from his pocket. “If you think of any helpful information, would you call me?”

He took the card. “Sure, I’ll call.”

Deke left the bar but glanced back to see Rudy drink the glass of whiskey. The old man shoved out a breath, as if expelling poison.

 

 

 

Rachel Wainwright ignored her brother’s unwelcome voice echoing in her head and resisted the urge to mutter back a rebuttal as she scanned the paltry collection of people gathering for her candlelight vigil at Riverfront Park near the banks of the Cumberland River.

The idea of a public gathering had come to her in a moment of desperation. To promote the event, she’d called local civic groups, churches, and media. She’d feared she’d have no takers from the media, but a last minute call from Channel Five offered real hope. The reporter had confirmed she and her crew would arrive momentarily to cover the vigil. She’d organized the event with the intent of drawing attention to her newest client who’d been referred to her by the Innocence Project, a nonprofit group dedicated to clearing wrongfully convicted people.

When she’d first read the summary of the Jeb Jones case, she’d quickly realized he’d been petitioning for the test for a decade. At the time of his arrest and trial, DNA had not been available and he believed DNA would once and for all prove he wasn’t a murderer.

She wasn’t naïve enough to take her client’s word alone. But there was enough evidence to argue for DNA testing and once she had the DNA results she’d determine if she had a case. She’d sent her petition to the cops over six weeks ago and so far no word. She found out that the case had been assigned to a Deke Morgan and had gotten through to Morgan once. He’d barely said three words as she’d stated her case and demanded a time line for the test results. “When I know, you’ll know,” he had said before hanging up and cutting her off midsentence.

Subsequent calls to Morgan had landed her in voice mail where she’d left message after message. But no callbacks. When word came from the prison that Jeb’s health had taken a turn for the worse, she’d decided to go public.

The vigil had looked great on paper but now as she looked out over her paltry collection of followers hovered around a table she’d stocked with donuts and coffee, she had serious doubts. Had any of these people come for justice or was it all about the food? At this point, she hoped the food lasted until the television crews arrived.

If the media took up her cause, as she hoped, they would videotape the crowd so that the event looked well attended. If they didn’t sympathize with her point of view, they’d angle the cameras so that the group looked even sparser.

No telling with the media. They could be your best friend or your worst enemy.

“Are they coming?” Her law partner, Colleen Spencer, arranged white candles in a wicker basket, which she’d soon distribute to the crowd. Colleen was petite standing barely an inch over five feet. Her small stature belied a tenacity that was earning her a reputation as a successful criminal defense attorney. A royal blue Chanel suit amplified long auburn hair that framed an oval face sprinkled with freckles.

“Yes. Channel Five is sending a reporter and a camera. They should be here in about five minutes.”

Rachel ran her fingers through her short dark hair. She shrugged tense shoulders under the pinstripe jacket, paired with a white blouse, dark pencil skirt, and heels she’d borrowed from Colleen. Successful lawyers, Colleen had often said, dressed the part, but dressing the part smacked of rules and Rachel hated rules. Rachel had conceded to the attire and to Colleen’s pearls “to soften you up a bit.”

“The sooner, the better.” Colleen surveyed the collection of people who wouldn’t linger long. “I think we’ve scrounged up every friend and friend of a friend we know. And thank God for the donuts.” Colleen raised her hand to a group of guys she’d met at her local gym. “Here’s hoping the candles catch more attention and more people gather.”

Rachel skimmed her prepared statement, which she’d restricted to key talking points. No one wanted a long rambling speech. They wanted impassioned words easily caught and carried away. “Maybe one of the tour buses will drop off nearby. I’d take hungry tourists now.”

Diamond studs winked from Colleen’s ears. “One can hope.”

“Go ahead and start handing out the candles. The sun will be setting soon and you can light the candles. It will look good for the media as well.”

“Will do.”

Rachel’s hands trembled slightly when she shuffled through her papers wondering again if she’d made the right decision. This night had a greater potential for disaster than success.

Colleen nudged Rachel’s arm with her elbow. “Relax. This is going to go well.”

Being right didn’t guarantee success. “Let’s hope.”

“Keep it simple. You are a good speaker, you have passion and your supporters will respond.”

“My supporters.” A survey of the crowd stoked her worry. “You mean the rag-tag bunch we’ve strong-armed or bribed?”

Colleen laughed. “That’s right. They will make up for their numbers with passion.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. But we can pretend.” Colleen moved toward her friend, a smile on her face.

Rachel dropped her gaze to her talking points. Stick to the facts. Add emotion. Eye contact.

The facts were: thirty years ago a young mother, Annie Rivers Dawson, had been brutally murdered. Annie’s younger sister had arrived for a visit and discovered the house covered in blood and Annie’s newborn wailing in her crib. Police had been summoned. No body had been found but police concluded Annie could not have survived such blood loss. The case had gone unsolved for three months.

The public had been in a panic knowing a young woman and new mother from a good neighborhood had been brutally murdered. The press had put tremendous pressure on the cops. There’d been extensive searches for the body until finally a tip led cops to the remains of a woman wearing Annie’s clothes and jewelry. The outcry for justice grew louder. Even the governor had weighed in on the case.

Rachel’s client, Jeb Jones, had been a handyman in Nashville at the time of Annie’s death. He’d had an eighth grade education, was considered a good, if not, an inconsistent worker who drank heavily at times, and had been married with a nine-year-old son. He’d never made much money but he got by. And then one night cops, acting on a tip from a paid informant, had searched the trunk of Jeb’s ’71 Cutlass sedan and found a bloody tire iron. Jeb had been arrested. Under interrogation, he’d confessed, though within twenty-four hours he had recanted. The blood testing available at the time, crude by today’s standards, had indicated the two blood samples on the tire iron matched both Annie’s and Jeb’s types.

Further investigation revealed that Jeb had known the victim. He’d worked in her apartment building and witnesses had later said he had been caught staring at Annie once or twice.

His trial was set a month after his arrest and it lasted five days. Dozens testified that Jeb had a drinking problem and had cheated on his wife. Though Jeb had never denied he was a bad father and husband, he swore that he’d not killed Annie. He didn’t know how the tire iron ended up in his car.

Rachel wouldn’t discuss science tonight but would stick with her emotional plea to the public: we need to pressure the cops for a DNA test.

Her brother’s voice all but hissed as she stared at the uninspired crowd and her stomach knotted another twist. She might not muster passion in this group, but the right television airtime could turn up the heat on the cops.

The news van arrived and Rachel now coveted Colleen’s smoothness. Rachel had no soft edges. Life had sharpened those edges into razors.

As the news crew unloaded a camera and the reporter checked her lipstick and hair, Rachel scanned the crowd one last time hoping for a flicker of excitement. Off to the left she spotted a man she’d missed the first time. He stood apart from the crowd, partly concealed by a shadow cast by the building protecting his back. Given his dark suit, white shirt, red tie, and black western boots she’d have cast him as a banker or another lawyer. His short dark hair and square jaw fit the possible scenarios. However, the hard angles of his face, frown lines that cut deep, and a battle-ready stance dashed her theories.

For a moment she wondered why a man like him would be here and then the pieces fell into place. He was Detective Deke Morgan.

She’d done some checking on the twice-divorced detective and knew about his undercover work before homicide. A decade of monitoring every spoken word, anticipating conditions to go sideways, and burying his true-self deep were habits not easily broken.

Her stomach clenched. She’d seen him once in court eight or nine months ago. He’d testified in a drug case and though his hair had been long and his beard thick, the eyes held the same intensity as the man edging the crowd. The Deke in her memory had a Tennessee drawl, adding a quiet authority the jury did not ignore. After he’d testified he’d returned to the gallery and remained in his chair, stoic and watching.

Now his gaze skimmed her meager crowd, studying them until he seemed satisfied that this group was not driven enough to pose a threat. His gaze settled on her.

Rachel drew in a breath, wishing she could cross now and ask him about her DNA results. But as the idea formed, the news crews turned on their spotlights and shone them in her direction. Now was the time to make her point. Now was not the time to argue with Detective Morgan. She smiled at him, nodded, and then dropped her gaze to her notes as if he did not matter.

At exactly six fifteen, as the sun set, she stood on the curb, lifted the microphone to her mouth, moistened her lips, and began to tell the story of Jeb Jones.

The crowd grew quiet and news cameras rolled. Several times she paused to gather her thoughts, which kept trying to skitter ahead. More people stopped to listen and the flicker of the candles in the crowd grew brighter.

She could see disinterested faces grow solemn as the impact of her words settled. Passersby stopped to listen. “He deserves to have the DNA test.”

When she finished, the reporter, a woman with a tall lean build emphasized by a red body-slimming dress, moved to the front of the crowd and held out her microphone. A closer look revealed the woman was well into her fifties. “So do you blame the Nashville Police Department for a possible miscarriage of justice?”

“I can’t speak to what happened thirty years ago. I can only talk about now. And today the Nashville Police Department has DNA evidence from the Dawson murder trial. They’ve yet to respond to my requests for retesting and my fear is that the test will be forgotten or worse, swept under the rug and my client will die in prison.”

A murmur rumbled through the crowd. More hands shot up.

“What can we do?” Colleen shouted as if she too were part of the crowd.

“Call the police department. Call your councilman. Let them know that Jeb Jones deserves to be heard.”

A rumble washed over the crowd and she had the sense she might be winning. She looked into the camera. “Jeb Jones has been in jail for thirty years. He’s old and he’s sick. His time for justice is running out and we have to act.”

More rumbles. She was making headway. This might work.

“What about Annie Rivers Dawson? The
victim
!” The angry voice shot out from the edges of the crowd.

Rachel studied the cluster of people and settled on a woman dressed in a dark, loose-fitting dress who stepped forward. She wore her dark hair in a bun and no makeup adorned her pale angled face.

Rachel had thought someone might remember Annie and had prepared comments. “My focus today is on Jeb Jones. He’s been a victim of the system for thirty years.”

“Annie Rivers Dawson is
dead
.” The woman moved forward clutching a well-worn purse close, and moving to within feet of Rachel.

The reporter and her cameraman had also moved in closer. If Rachel dodged this woman or her question, it wouldn’t play well. The eyes of Nashville were upon them.

“Annie deserves to have her real killer behind bars,” Rachel said.

“Her real killer is behind bars.” Despite a mousy demeanor, the woman’s voice reverberated with fierce anger.

“Her death was tragic,” Rachel said. “I’ve never denied that.”

The woman fished an eight-by-ten picture out of her large purse. The image was a publicity shot of a young smiling woman and Rachel recognized Annie Rivers Dawson’s face immediately. Annie had had long blond hair that billowed around a face with the perfect blend of porcelain skin, a high swipe of cheekbones, and smiling full lips that added a joyous spark to bright blue eyes. “She was a talented beautiful new mother and she was brutally beaten. Her house was covered in blood and her body was found in pieces because of
your
client!”