Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

KC folded his arms over his chest, shoving a sigh free. “So what’s the deal? She in some kind of trouble?”

“Does that surprise you?”

KC grinned. “My ex taught me never to judge a book by its cover. What did she do?”

“She’s a forensic artist back East. She volunteered to help with a case.”

“She came in and volunteered just like that?”

“Georgia asked for her help and Jenna agreed. I met her today.”

“And you’re trying to figure out why a young healthy cop would walk away from the job and end up drawing pictures in a honky-tonk.”

Rick rested his hands on his hips. “That’s about right.”

“She has always been nice to me and does a good job. She gives me a ten-percent cut of her take and I put that in the tip jar for the waitresses. She’s never caused trouble and people seem to like her.”

“No red flags?”

He scratched the stubble on his thick jaw. “The best ones never wave the red flag.”

“Right.”

KC shook his head and his shoulders slumped a fraction as if he lumbered under a great weight. “Look, Georgia knows people. If she likes her then she must be okay. Be nice to think not everyone has an agenda.”

Rick rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I hear ya. I just like to know who’s volunteering their services to me.”

“We’re not a very trustful pair.”

Rick laughed. “You ever met a cop who didn’t question an unsolicited gift or a kind gesture?”

“Not many. But I got to say, you’re one of the worst. You’re one hell of an untrusting soul.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“That broad Melissa did a number on you.”

He could hear her name now and not wince. “Takes one to know one.”

KC chuckled. “We’re a sorry couple of sacks.”

“Maybe.” He scooped up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar. “If you hear anything about Jenna that I should be worried about, tell me.”

KC considered the request before nodding. “Least I can do.”

Chapter Three

Tuesday, August 15, 6 A.M.

As the sun rose, Rick and Tracker moved through the woods near his house. They enjoyed this time of day, when the only noise was the chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves. Morning starts were slow-going for both as they worked the kinks out of their joints. Neither relished that first roll out of the hay, but neither would have passed on the morning routine. They could out-tough anybody.

This early, the heat of the day had not taken hold of the city, the phone had generally not started ringing, and each could move at their own, sometimes uneven, pace. There’d been a time when they’d climbed the rocks into the mountains and enjoyed the stress and strain of the uphill climb. There was a time when they would have been gone for half the day.

These days, Rick stuck to the even path that ringed the woods surrounding the Morgan family house. The Big House was a hundred years old and located on thirty acres twenty miles south of Nashville near Franklin. Prime real estate. The home had been a wedding gift to his parents from his mother’s parents. His father, Buddy Morgan, had been a legend in Nashville homicide and he’d had the good fortune to fall in love with a woman from money. They’d moved into the house days after their honeymoon and raised their three boys and daughter here. When his mother had died thirteen years ago, his dad had remained on the property mostly, he’d said, because he was close to his wife. Eighteen months ago, when Buddy had died of a heart attack after a steak dinner in his favorite diner, the house had gone to Rick’s older brother, Deke. Deke wasn’t a country boy and had taken the house out of family obligation, but he’d never loved the place. When Deke had finally opted to move into downtown Nashville, he had happily deeded the property to Rick.

A day after he’d moved in, he’d gutted the kitchen and knocked through the dining-room wall to make one large eat-in kitchen. As he’d pondered the next step in his life and he and Tracker had healed, he’d sanded floors, installed new cabinets, painted, and laid granite countertops.

Rick paused at the door to the screened porch and reached for a rag he kept on hand. Quickly, he wiped down Tracker’s damp paws and underbelly before the two walked the ramp into the house. Ramps for Tracker had been another part of his renovation.

In the kitchen, he filled the water and food bowl for Tracker and then made himself a cup of coffee. As he sipped from a favorite UT mug, he grabbed a piece of leftover fried chicken from the fridge.

He had plans to renovate the bathrooms but when Deke had offered him the slot on homicide, he’d taken it without a second thought. The bathrooms were functional but in need of an upgrade that would have to wait for his next vacation.

After his own breakfast, he showered and shaved with careful precision. Dark eyes stared back at him from the mirror. Hooded and a bit flat, they reflected the trademark stubbornness that had dogged him since he was a kid. That stubbornness had bred arrogance and prompted him to walk up worriless to that vehicle last year. That stubbornness had gotten his canine partner and him shot. And that stubbornness would not allow him to give quarter, no matter how much his bones ached.

He dressed and a half hour later, he and Tracker were headed north into the city. This morning, he drove across the Victory Memorial Bridge toward the medical examiner’s office. As he turned onto Rs Gass Boulevard, he passed the sleek offices of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation where his brother Alex worked as an agent. A little farther down the road past an old building there was an old brick building that had once been an orphanage run by the Masons. He pulled into a parking spot in front of the office of the medical examiner.

He brought Tracker inside and after they were admitted beyond the lobby, the dog was able to follow him as far as the hallway outside the exam room. Rick ordered Tracker to sit in the hallway while he pushed through metal doors. There he found the medical examiner standing at the head of a stainless-steel table sporting a sheet-draped body.

In her mid thirties, Dr. Heller had moved to Nashville two years ago. She’d quickly won the respect of the officers who admired her work. A tall woman, with the long, lean body of a runner, she rarely wore makeup on her smooth olive complexion and always twisted her long, dark hair in a tight knot. Her blue eyes had an almond tilt that gave her an exotic beauty.

“Where’s wolf dog?” Her lab coat covered a silk blouse and skinny jeans.

“In the hallway hanging out.”

“How long will he just sit there?”

“Until I return.” A handler and his canine operated as a single unit and much was communicated with a look or a sound.

“How’s his leg?”

“Not bad. No more running for him but he gets by.”

“And how’re you doing?”

“Me? I’m just fine.” And that had been the party line since he’d woken up from his first surgery after the shooting. He’d never considered himself permanently injured or disabled. Never. “I hear you have the house fire victim.”

“Finished the autopsy last night.”

The doors to the room opened and Jake Bishop appeared. As always, he wore a crisp dark suit, dark shirt, and those damn polished cowboy boots. He moved with swagger.

“Good,” Dr. Heller said. “The whole gang’s here. I won’t have to repeat myself.”

Detective Bishop nodded. “Dr. Heller. How goes it? Looking lovely as always.”

An amused brow arched as she removed rubber gloves from her white physician’s jacket and moved to a wall of refrigerated body-storage cabinets. She donned the gloves and opened the second from the left. Inside lay a draped figure. A sheet covered the body’s shriveled flesh and sinew eaten by the fire. She pulled back the sheet and revealed a blackened skull attached to a torso, singed black. Hands and feet had been burned away as had the arms to the elbow and the legs to the knees.

“Your victim was a female. I was

able to take X-rays and as luck would have it, she had a hip implant that had a serial number on it. I’ve sent off a request to the manufacturer for a name of the doctor who implanted it.”

“She was older?”

“No. Mid thirties. My guess is the implant came after an accident.”

“Good work,” Rick said.

“Your victim also didn’t die as a result of the fire. She was shot in the head. Judging by the hole made by the bullet at her right temple, I’d say she was shot at close range.” Dr. Heller reached for an evidence bag, which contained a single slug. “She would’ve died instantly.”

Rick took the bag and held it up. He guessed the gun had been a .45 caliber. “The fire was set to hide the forensic evidence.”

Bishop shrugged. “Or because the killer likes fires.”

A legitimate theory. Arsonists set fires for a variety of reasons. Some did it for profit, others to hide evidence, and others set their blazes because they liked to watch the flames dance and destroy.

“I X-rayed her bones and there’re no signs of older breaks or traumas other than the hip. I’ve run some tests on what flesh I do have and am testing for drugs but I won’t have toxicology test results for a few weeks on that.”

Rick stared at the bullet hole in the side of the skull and tried to imagine how the murder had played out. Murphy had said the fire had frozen her extremities outstretched, leading him to believe that when she’d been shot, she’d likely been tied to the bed. Had the killer planned the murder and fire all along or had the fire been an afterthought? If he had to guess, he’d say very planned considering the amount of diesel found at the scene.

“As soon as we’ve a name, we can start putting the pieces together,” Bishop said.