Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

He pointed a stubby finger at her. “Go home and sleep.”

She dug a twenty dollar bill out of her pocket and tossed it on the table. “Right. Home. Sleep.”

* * *

Amber parked her car in front of the one-story ranch home in the east end of Nashville. The house was covered in white siding that had long ago grayed and dulled. A broken shutter on the right side clung to the house by one nail and the front porch light dangled, waving back and forth in the slight breeze. The weekly trash was curbside and the dented silver cans overflowed with pizza boxes, Chinese carryout, and empty bottles of rose wine. Her mother, Tracy Ryder, no, Tracy McDaniel now, had done little to fix up the property. How many times had she promised to hire help and see that the place was cleaned up and presentable? How many times had she sworn to lay off the booze? . . .

None of that mattered right now. What mattered was that Amber was in a bind and she needed Tracy’s help. Not for the long term, but for the next day or two.

A woman’s figure passed in front of the sheer curtains of the front room. Amber recognized her mother’s walk, noting she gained a little weight in the last five years. Tracy had always sported a hot figure that had landed her not only Amber’s dad, but two husbands before Amber graduated high school. Despite the few extra pounds, Tracy still had the moves to find herself a new man and a new meal ticket.

Sooner or later, she’d have to knock on that front door and let Tracy know she was back in town. Tracy could be a real problem if she didn’t handle her right, but Amber wasn’t worried. She would manage Tracy just as she had since elementary school.

Amber didn’t have the energy tonight to deal with Tracy. She would stay in the motel a few more days. The last few days had been hectic and talking to Georgia drained her more than she expected. She needed a good drama-free place to sleep. She needed to keep her brain sharp. To think. There was too much at stake now for her to make any kind of mistake. Her phone buzzed, signaling a text. She fished it out of her purse and looked at the display.

You will soon burn in hell.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, October 2, 10:00 A.M.

Homicide Detective Jake Bishop smiled at the determined clip-clop of Georgia’s feet moving down the uncarpeted hallway of the homicide department. She always moved as if the demons of hell nipped at her feet. Never relaxed. Never smiling. Buttoned up tight. She was a live wire of determination, drive, and shouldering a need to prove herself.

Today they were scheduled to brief Deke on the Marlowe/Reed case; otherwise, Jake would have taken the day off. The last three days he and his partner, Rick Morgan, had been chasing down a killer who shot two men in east Nashville. It took days to interview witnesses and piece together the fragments of the men’s lives. Both, it turned out, were meth dealers unworried about cutting into the business of a rival group. They found the shooter last night shortly after midnight sleeping in the back room of a pool hall. The arrest was textbook and by four a.m. the man was processed and in jail awaiting arraignment. Rick, running on empty, went home for sleep and time alone with his new wife, Jenna, a former Baltimore police officer who was a trained forensic artist. She now freelanced her forensic drawing and sculpting skills to several jurisdictions in the region. Once a missing child herself, she specialized in missing children cases and often charged a very minimal fee to cover expenses. In her spare time, she painted portraits thanks to a growing reputation.

Jake should have packed it in for the day but didn’t want to miss the fireworks sure to follow Georgia, who now rushed past his open door toward Deke. Finding his office empty, she emerged frustrated and ducked into Rick’s office.

He always liked the way Georgia pinned her red hair up on her head and how the curls wriggled free to form a collection of ringlets at the base of her neck. On a humid day, her hair went into all-out rebellion, as much as the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose did every time she tried to cover them with makeup. Her neatly tucked shirt tugged at her narrowing waistband as if it also hated being constrained. Every aspect of the woman was in full battle mode.

However, she was always cool, all business, and kept him at arm’s distance. That had once suited him fine. There were plenty of women to warm his bed other than her. But six months ago that all changed. He was in Rudy’s grabbing a beer when Georgia took center stage. The red curls tumbled around her shoulders and she traded the blue button-down shirt, khakis, and steel-toed boots for a sleek silk top with a V-neck that dipped between her breasts, designer jeans hugging her round hips, and rhinestone studded boots. He took special notice of her as would any man with a pulse in the bar.

KC had leaned forward. “You like? Wait until she sings.”

“She can’t be that good.” He sipped, cold beer sliding over a parched throat.

“She’s gonna rock your world.”

And she had. He was never so transfixed as he was when Georgia cradled that microphone in her long fingers and sang Faith Hill’s “Breathe.” Shit. He still got hard when he thought about the moment.

“Deke went to get coffee,” Jake called out to Georgia.

Seconds passed and then she stood in his doorway careful not to cross the threshold. “We have a meeting at ten.”

He tapped his watch. “Can’t wait.”

She folded her arms. “You read any of the files?”

“Not many. But I’ll get up to speed quickly. Besides,” he said grinning and leaning back in his chair, “you’ll give me the Cliff Notes, right?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head. Before she formed a response, Deke’s voice sounded in the hall. Without a word, she turned and vanished into Deke’s office.

Figuring this was the meeting on the Marlowe/Reed case, he rose from his desk, straightened his jacket, and ambled toward Deke’s office. As he grew closer, he heard Georgia’s clipped words sharpening each consonant. She sounded ready to boil over.

“She tracked me down at Rudy’s.” Georgia held a rolled-up stack of papers in her left hand. “Someone here told her I was at Rudy’s. Not cool to give out information like that. How do I know someone is not going to cap my ass while I’m onstage with a bright spotlight in my eyes.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I tried to ferret it out but no one is talking . . . yet.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can find out. What did Amber say?”

Jake leaned on the door frame. “Amber Ryder?”

“She tracked me down at Rudy’s last night.”

“How did she know to look for you?” Jake asked.

“I called her a while ago.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Slight annoyance flared. “We’re partners on the case, right?”

She sat in one of the two seats angled in front of Deke’s desk. “There wasn’t much to tell until now, and now I’m telling you all I know.”

Instead of sitting, Jake remained standing, feet slightly braced. Her little end run clipped the edges of his good humor. He cut his teeth as a cop on the streets of South Boston before he picked up stakes and moved to Nashville seven years ago. He had learned a few things about Southern niceties and could even employ them when it suited, but when angered, the boy from Southie with the hot temper came out swinging. “Going forward, we work the case as a team. No exceptions.”

Blue eyes sharpened. “Sure.”

Deke leaned back in his chair. He was tall with broad shoulders that filled the white starched dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A carbon copy of his old man, Jake still found himself doing a double take when he saw Deke glower as well as the old man. Deke had headed homicide for two years and recently married local defense attorney Rachel Wainwright, who was as bullish on defense as he was prosecution. There’d been a few side bets on how long the two would last.

Unlike Georgia, Deke and his brothers, Rick and Alex, had jet black hair. Deke’s had turned more salt and pepper in the last year. He jokingly blam

ed the gray on his new wife whom he adored.

Deke studied Georgia as he always did—a bit perplexed and annoyed. “Georgia, tell us what she said.”

“Like I said, I called her a few weeks ago. I was halfway through the files and took a chance I could quickly catch up with her. She didn’t answer.”

Deke tapped an index finger on the arm of his chair as he leaned back. “Two missing kids, one found. As you both realize, Dalton Marlowe wants closure and no more delays. It’s going to take cooperation to make that happen.”

Neither answered, but neither argued with Deke.

“It was a hell of a case,” Jake said. “All hands on deck. I’ve never seen so many man hours dumped into one case.”

Georgia wasn’t exactly frowning but no smile was in sight either. “We all volunteered for search crews.”

“I wish I had a nickel for all the times I walked through Percy Warner Park,” he said. “It was fall and one of the warmest on record. We never found a trace of the two other kids.”

She folded her arms, openly regarding him. “Did you ever interview Amber during the case? You weren’t mentioned in the files.”

“I was present while she was interviewed once. She was adamant that she didn’t remember what happened in the woods. Her story never varied.”

“And you believe her?”

“It was all a little too convenient for me. However, she passed the polygraph test and the body language experts all cleared her. Even the docs said her concussion caused by the fall could have created the amnesia. But I never could swallow it.”

“Why?” Georgia challenged. “That’s a lot of science backing her up.”

That was a trait he liked. She never took anything at face value. She was always pushing, prodding, wanting more until she found the truth. “Never could give you a solid reason.”

“Gut instinct?” Her gaze danced just a little with humor.

“Yeah, Dr. Science. My gut. I couldn’t boil it down to anything that could be proven in a court of law but the twitch I get around liars was there.” Many a cop relied on instinct and the intangibles when they interviewed suspects. Sensing what not to ask was just as important.

Eyes narrowing, a sign she was processing, she turned back to her brother. “As we all agreed, I also pulled the clothes Amber wore at the time of the fall. I reexamined the items a few days ago and collected more samples including hair fibers and a stain. I’ve sent it all off to the state lab for retesting. No answers yet, but could you lean on the lab?”

Deke shook his head. “You sound like Rachel. She’s always pushing for faster, more detailed DNA testing. The lab crews hate the sound of my voice.”

She unrolled the papers she was clutching and tried to flatten them out, but they rolled back up as if they too didn’t want to take orders. “But they do listen to you.”