Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

“I’m looking for a contact in the Baltimore Police Department. I have questions about an officer. Know anyone?”

The rustle of papers sounded through the phone. “Try Derrick Preston. He works robbery. I doubt he remembers me but I interviewed him last year for a story.”

Susan scribbled down the number as Carolyn read it off. “Thanks.”

“So what’s the allure of Baltimore?”

Always looking for an angle on a story. Smart. Irritating. “Just a hunch. Thanks.”

Susan rang off and called Baltimore. A few more calls and she had located Derrick. Susan relied on the truth as much as possible. It was the best cover she’d ever found when she needed information. Susan gave Derrick the run-down on Jenna Thompson’s volunteer efforts to catch a child killer. That softened him enough and soon she knew what she needed to know about Jenna Thompson.

Back in the day, she’d been careful to hide her personal connection to the story, but now, she was considering playing it.

Rick Morgan approached the records department of the Nashville Police Department, knowing the guy working the night shift had been a friend of Buddy’s. The air was dank and thick in the basement offices, but the fluorescent light humming above was bright, leaving no shadow in any corner.

Rick knocked on the half-open door to Records and poked his head in. Sitting behind the desk was a tall, lean kid who looked fresh out of the academy. He wore blond hair short and his uniform was well starched and fit his trim body well.

“Where’s Ben?” Rick asked.

The officer stood, leaving an open magazine and a half-eaten roast beef sandwich on his desk. “He called in sick. I’m filling in. Officer Morgan, right?”

Rick smiled. “Right.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“How’s it going down here?”

“Can’t complain.”

He’d have attempted small talk with Ben but the kid, well, he didn’t have a thing in common. Better to just cut to the chase. “I’m looking for an old file.”

“Sure, what do you want me to search?”

“Jenna Thompson. She’s about thirty and was born in the Nashville area. Your search would go back about twenty-five years because I know she left the area when she was about five.”

The kid scribbled down the name. “Anything else?”

“Just keep it to yourself. I don’t know what you’ll find, but I’d like to play the cards close until I know more.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks.”

The music in the bar pulsed loud. The bass of a guitar thumped. The honky-tonk was off the beaten path from Broadway and the tourists. This place was reserved only for locals who after a long day in a trivial job needed a place to have a few beers and blow off steam. The place teemed with frustrated men and women who took shit from bosses all day long. There was so much rage simmering in so many half-lidded gazes. So much frustration. So much desire to exact a little revenge against a world that had treated them so unfairly.

A man by the pool table cradled a bottle of beer close to his rounded belly. He wore a clean T-shirt but his jeans, held up by a large buckle that read CSA, were grungy and covered with construction dust. Dark hair slicked back into a low ponytail and thick steel-toed construction boots covered big feet.

The man’s name was Ford Wheeler. He wasn’t more than thirty, single, came to this bar almost nightly, and he always allowed his gaze to settle on a blond woman. No blonde in particular at first but in the last few weeks he’d fixated on a waitress.

The waitress was pretty enough. Not more than twenty, she had yet to earn the world-weary gaze of her older counterparts and smiled easily at her customers. Ford ignored the waitress. His thoughts were only for another woman.

Ford had confessed his desires after far too many beers. Over and over, he talked about dreams of tying a woman to a bed and standing over her, a gun pointed to her head.

Rising, it took only a few quick steps forward to gain Ford’s attention. “Good evening.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Just checking in.”

Ford dug his fingernail into the label of his beer bottle, scraping the paper away from the glass. He teemed with frustration, a volcano ready to explode. “I ain’t so good.”

“Why?”

He dropped his voice a notch and ducked his head a fraction. “I want to play and you won’t let me. I don’t understand why you’re making me wait.”

It wouldn’t take much to coax Ford into a play. Just a light push. Barely a nudge.

Reason shouted from the shadows, “This is a bad idea.”

Madness sipped beer, ignoring Reason and savoring the cold bitter taste as it washed down a dry throat. Normally, alcohol was out of the question but, tonight, the needs cut so sharply through bone and sinew, it took drink to dull them.

“You could have the waitress,” Madness said.

Ford looked up, startled, surprised his thoughts had been so transparent. “She’s not the one I really want. You know that. I like the fancy one you picked out.”

“I think it’s wise you stay away from that one.”

A scold deepened his forehead. “You don’t think I can handle her.”

Madness loved winding up the toys and watching them dance. “No, I don’t. Not now anyway.”

Ford frowned. “I can handle her. I’m ready.”

“But the waitress is well within possibilities.”

It would be so easy to create a scene with Ford and the waitress. So easy.

“I don’t want her.”

“She’s all we have right now.”

Ford glowered at the waitress. “I want the other one.”

“It’s my way or no way at all.”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow?”

Ford hesitated. “Sure.”

Reason squirmed under the weight of Madness. “You wind him up and you can’t predict what he’ll do.”

Madness’s reckless spirit rejected Reason’s counsel.

Chapter Nine

Friday, August 18, 8 A.M.

Jenna rose with the rising sun. Too anxious to sleep or paint, she opted to take a long walk in the woods. Brush and leaves crunched under her booted feet as she made her way down the old path that the rental agent suggested had been an old Indian path.

The trail ended at a small river that twisted and cut through the woods. It had been a wet spring and summer and the water was high and fast. A couple of times, she’d been tempted to swim in the stream but had opted against it because of the water’s speed.

She sat for a long time on the river’s edge and allowed her eyes to close as she concentrated on the sound of the woods. But thoughts of Ronnie Dupree and his mother scattered whatever serenity she’d gathered. She just couldn’t believe a guy like Ronnie had shattered her life. His type crossed paths with the cops all the time. They were always stirring trouble and landing in jail. But to just walk into a home and kill everyone?

She’d bought the line that Ronnie had killed because of jealousy and insanity all her life. “Sometimes, bad things happen,” her aunt had once said. And she might have kept believing all that she’d been told, if not for the growing sense that Shadow Eyes was real.

The crack of a twig underfoot and the rustle of branches had her turning and automatically reaching for a sidearm that she no longer carried. Rick Morgan stood on the path.

He appeared relieved to have found her. “I thought I might find you down here.”

She rested hands on her hips. “How would you even know to look?”

He glanced around staring at the woods. “You know the history of your house?”

She nodded, remembering. “The homicide. Did you work it?”

“No. Deke did, but Tracker and I walked the land with him. We needed the exercise and we acted as a second set of eyes for him.”

“Did he solve the crime?”

His hair was damp as if

he’d stepped from the shower and he smelled faintly of soap. “He did. The woman that lived here was killed because she had information the killer wanted.”

According to what she’d read, he’d omitted a world of details. “That information must have been something important.”

“It was.”

Twigs crunched under her feet as she stepped toward him. “Where’s Tracker?”

“I left him at the edge of the woods. Terrain’s a little rough on his hip.”

She moved toward him, negotiating the uneven rocks easily. “What about yours?”

The careless smile flashed. “Getting better every day. You come out here every day?”

“When I can. Clears my head. And I love open spaces.”

“I hear ya.” He slid his hand into his pocket. “Ready for Susan Martinez?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve given a couple of interviews before. Most of the questions are standard. Should be straightforward.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which, she’ll be here in ten minutes.”