Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

She pulled her hand free and slid behind the wheel of her car. Firing up the engine, she shifted into reverse and backed out of the space. With a final wave to him, she drove off, glancing once in the rearview mirror to see him standing and staring at her as she drove off.

She didn’t play for keeps. It was safer that way. Easier. Rick did play for keeps, which put him in a league with the likes of Mike. Dangerous.

Chapter Eight

Thursday, August 17, 7 A.M.

Rick and Tracker arrived early at work. Tracker was well rested. Rick had barely three hours under his belt and was feeling the fatigue in his stiff muscles. Last night after he’d dropped off Jenna at her car he’d doubled back to the office and read over Jonas Tuttle’s file again. What the hell about this open-and-shut case bugged him? Maybe it was because a guy like Tuttle, with a string of arrests, didn’t have the brains or temperament to pull off such a detailed operation. Had he been working with someone? And then something Jenna had told him about Rachel’s case stuck in his gut. She says another guy watched. He’d texted Rachel the picture, with the words: I will find him. It was after one in the morning but she’d responded almost immediately.

Her text had read: If you can find him, I’ll buy you dinner.

He’d studied the face Jenna had drawn of Belinda’s attacker and Tuttle. They weren’t a match but were the same type of petty criminal who turned violent on those weaker. Tuttle’s low-slung brow, the slightly drooping mouth, and the thick jowls hinted at his low intelligence. Was he the type of guy to stalk a woman for months, scout a crime scene, and then lure her to it? Neither man seemed the kind of guy who planned. This breed of assailant reacted on impulse. They didn’t plan.

One committed the crime and one watched, maybe even planned. It made sense that Tuttle would have had some kind of handler.

He sent Rachel’s sketch out with a BOLO, a Be On the LookOut, and shut off his desk lamp at two in the morning, no closer to an answer.

Now, Tracker settled on his bed by the desk and Rick glanced at his desk to find another stack of files. They were cases of more missing kids. These files had come from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. The time span of the twenty-plus files covered the last thirty years.

Bishop arrived minutes after he did, a cup of coffee in his hand. As he took a liberal sip, his gaze landed with weary resignation on the files. “Where did those come from?”

“TBI.”

“Since when do they offer up case files without a request?”

“Remember that good ol’ boy network you hate so much? My brother Alex is TBI. I’d bet money he sent them.”

Bishop studied the stack. “Even a bad system works from time to time.”

Deke might have asked or Alex might have heard about the case. Either way, Rick knew Alex had sent the files. He didn’t want to be grateful. But he was.

Rick shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Will take time to compare Jenna’s picture to the files. If we don’t get a hit with this batch, then I’ll go to Martinez.”

“It’s a plan.”

After arming himself with a strong cup of coffee, Rick cut the stack in two. Half went to Bishop and half to himself. The reading wasn’t easy. Little kids ranging from ages three to ten had vanished without a trace. The detectives of record in at least half the cases reported that the primary suspect had been a non-custodial parent involved in a nasty custody battle. Some of the kids just vanished. No arrests or bodies had been found in any of the cases. The kids had been little innocents who’d seen far too much darkness.

An hour after reading and comparing file photos to the sketch, Rick had come up with nothing. No matches. Hell, not even a maybe. He reached for his coffee, found only dregs, and rose slowly, wincing as his hip muscles pinched. “You got anything?”

“Nothing.” Bishop leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not a damn thing.”

“Time to make a deal with the devil.”

“Your good buddy, the reporter?”

“Yeah. Looks like I’ve got to have a chat with Martinez.”

“She said she’d help, so why the sour face? Boy Scouts don’t frown.”

“There’s always a price to pay and this price is an exclusive on the Diane Smith murder.”

“It’s an open-and-shut case. Jonas Tuttle stalked her and killed her.”

Rick shook his head. “It just doesn’t feel right to me. Guy doesn’t have the wherewithal to hold down a job for more than a few months but he finds it in himself to stalk an intelligent woman, use sophisticated surveillance equipment, and then pull off a crime that leaves no trace evidence.”

“Insanity can be a great motivator.” Bishop cracked his knuckles. “But I hear you. It’s doesn’t smell exactly right.”

“The prostitute said he held a gun to her head almost as if he were practicing.”

“And how quickly did he screw that up? She got away from him in a matter of minutes. He’s lucky she didn’t call the cops.”

Bishop leaned back in his chair, clicking a pen he’d picked up from his desk. “So what’re you saying?”

“He could’ve been working with someone. Maybe Jonas couldn’t keep his mouth shut and the other guy decided to clean up a loose end.”

“Not out of the realm of reality but we’ve talked to her sister and coworkers. The only guy who had a beef with her was that dude in the association. Hacked over a tree. And his story about the Italian restaurant checked out.”

“It wasn’t him. The tree came down weeks ago. Jonas, or somebody, had been stalking Diane for months.”

Rick shook his head and turned from the files of lost children. “Maybe it’s easier to raise questions about Jonas than to think about these files.”

Bishop glanced at the files with a deflated, almost sad look in his eyes. “Fuckin’ eh.”

Rick grabbed his jacket dangling from the back of his chair. Tracker looked up. “I’m going to see Martinez. Her broadcast will get us some exposure and maybe a hit.”

“Want me to come along?”

“Is that an offer to help?”

“No. I just want away from these cases.”

“Naw, this devil dance is all mine. But I did put out a BOLO last night. See if we’ve got any hits.”

“What’s the case?”

He explained the story behind the sketch Jenna had done last night and his theory about two perps working together.

“That’s one hell of a tall tale, Boy Scout.” Bishop shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Tall tale.”

“Fine, I’ll check on it later.”

Bishop held up his hands. “I’ll ask about your BOLO. Do my heart good to bust a rapist.”

“Cop therapy.”

Bishop flexed his fingers. “The only kind I subscribe to.”

The drive to the television station took less than fifteen minutes and he’d intentionally timed his visit so it didn’t conflict with the noonday broadcast. One word to the receptionist and she made a quick call that summoned Martinez from the back of the studio. The doors whisked open and she appeared, dressed in a formfitting royal-blue dress. As always, she looked perfect. Each piece of her jewelry coordinated and he imagined she was the type to plan out every detail of her week in advance, including her clothes.

After a few pleasantries, she escorted Rick and Tracker to a back conference room. As she closed the door with a soft click, she turned and asked, “So what do you have for me?”

Rick laid a manila folder on the table and opened it. Inside lay copies of the two sketches Jenna had drawn of the Lost Girl. “This is the likeness of the child I mentioned.”

Martinez picked up the smiling face and stared at it with an assessing gaze. “Your artist works fast and is very

talented.”

“We were lucky to find her.”

Martinez studied the image without a smile and then she placed the two side by side. “Very talented. Someone will recognize this image. It’s a matter of getting it on the air.”

“I agree. I think we’re going to find that a grandmother or a neighbor remembers that she was there one day and gone the next.”

Martinez laid her palm on her chest as if easing the beat of her heart. “Such a pretty girl. And the eyes. The artist really brought her to life with the eyes.”

Jenna had said she’d struggled with the eyes as if she knew nailing them was the key.

Martinez tapped a manicured finger on a set of small initials scrawled on the bottom-right corner of the picture. JT. “I still want to meet the artist and profile her.”

Rick tamped down a rush of protective energy. Jenna hadn’t asked for his protection nor did he imagine she needed it but, like it or not, she had it. “Is that necessary?”

“As I said the last time, the artist will add a living dimension to the story. Some people will look at the face of the child and we might get a hit but if I can profile the artist, then suddenly I have two stories rolled into one. I have a living, breathing person who took time and energy to bring this child to life, so to speak. There aren’t more than thirty artists in the country and I know the few in Tennessee. JT doesn’t match their names.”

“She’s not with any Tennessee agency. She’s from out of state.”

Dark eyes sparked with interest. “Is she still in the area?”

His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

She sat back and looked at him, relaxed and at ease. He suspected she’d ask the Devil for iced water if she found herself in hell. “Interviewing JT will turn a quick flash of an image into a human interest story. I would like to meet the person behind the face.”

“I told her you might want an interview. She’s agreed.”

“When?”

Rick reached for his cell, not sure why all this bothered him. “I’ll call.” He found her number in his phone and hit CALL. The phone rang once. Twice. A part of him hoped she didn’t answer. Press exposure never led to good things.