Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

“Ray, show him to the study cubbies.”

“Sure, professor.”

Jake and Ray left Professor Robbins standing in the hallway staring after them as they made their way to the elevators. Ray punched the bottom floor button and soon the two were in a windowless section of the building. Crowded in the corner was a collection of cubbies. Ray took him to Elisa’s space.

Books neatly stacked lined the back of the cubicle. There were pictures of a smiling Elisa with her roommate as well as two older people whom he recognized as her parents. In one image, grand mountains reached up to a dark cloudy sky. Also on the table were neatly sharpened pencils, a pack of gum, a clean red coffee cup, and a pack of matches and notepad both from the Palmer Motel.

“Did she smoke?” Jake asked. Dr. Heller had said her lungs were clean.

“No.”

Jake flipped open the matches. The inside flap was blank with some missing matches. But on the notepad he noticed indentation from writing made on the previous page now missing. He picked up one of the pencils and shadowed over the blank page of the notepad. The pencil darkened the page while highlighting words indented from the last page. The name Scott, circled several times, appeared along with “Palmer Motel.”

“Damn,” Ray said.

“Not high-tech forensic work, but effective. She say anything else about this guy?”

The kid glanced back to make sure Dr. Robbins wasn’t close. “She said the guy was into kinky stuff.”

“Kinky stuff?”

“They’d not tried anything yet, but she said it all sounded exciting. I’ve never seen her so giddy.”

“What did he suggest they do?”

“He was into strangulation.”

“And you didn’t think to call the cops about that?”

His gaze dropped before meeting his again. “I thought about it. Wanted to, but just wasn’t sure how to go about it.”

Jake allowed the flash of anger to chill before he held up his phone. “Not only takes pictures but it makes phone calls.”

* * *

The sun had burned off the morning chill when Jake arrived at the Palmer Motel. It was a seedy one-story motel with two dozen rooms strung together like a collection of little boxes. He parked in front of the office, which wasn’t more than a cinderblock box outfitted with a counter and a cigarette and soda machines. The young guy standing behind the counter was of medium build with short dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His shirt was clean and starched and his jeans looked new.

Before Jake could pull his badge, the counter guy asked, “Cop, right?”

Jake nodded. “That’s right. And you are?”

“Barry McGraw. Day manager. I’m in school and working here lets me study while I get paid. Not much happens. Mostly, I make sure no one rips off cigarettes or sodas.”

Jake fished the matches out of his pocket. “Barry, I found these matches at a crime scene. Trying to link them to a suspect.”

Barry’s eyes widened. “Sure. Who are you looking for?”

He unfolded the sketch Jenna had drawn. “Seen this guy around?”

“Sure. That’s Scott Murphy. Room 18.”

“He’s there now?”

“I haven’t seen him since I started my shift a few hours ago. But I can open his room for you if you like. Boss always said if the cops show, give ’em what they want.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Key in hand, Barry led Jake to the room, but as he readied to knock, Jake shook his head. “Give me the key. You step back.”

“Yeah, sure. Right. What if he’s waiting for you, right?”

“Exactly.” Jake knocked hard on the door, careful to stand just off to the side, his hand on his gun. When he heard nothing, he banged again. “Mr. Murphy, this is Detective Jake Bishop with the Nashville Police Department.”

The manager stood to the right of the detective, hovering close to the wall. “Like I said, I haven’t seen him come back yet.”

Jake always entered a room assuming a loaded gun waited for him on the other side of the door. “Are there any other windows or doors connected to the room?”

“None. Just cinderblock walls.” Barry glanced around as if he expected trouble. “You gonna go in there?”

Jake reached for his cell and dialed. “As soon as backup arrives.”

“Right. Makes sense. He could have a gun.”

“Would you do me a favor and return to your office and wait for the police to arrive? Safer that way.”

Barry shoved out a breath. “Yeah, sure. But can I watch from my office window?”

“I’d get behind the counter.”

“Right.” Barry hesitated, then catching Jake’s gaze, tugged the edge of his shirt over his belly, turned and walked back to his office.

Within seconds, a patrol car pulled up in front of the door, lights flashing. The officer, tall, lean, and very young, reminded Jake of himself when he had first moved to Nashville. He’d been twenty-eight when he opted to give Nashville a chance. Had he looked that young?

The officer got out, and with a nod to Jake, moved to the other side of the door. A second patrol car arrived and took position at the curb.

Carefully, Jake unlocked the door and pushed it open, still angled to the side. When he heard nothing, he flipped on the light and glanced to the left. Seeing nothing, he allowed his gaze to sweep above him and then immediately behind the door. Momentarily satisfied, he moved toward the bed, and while the officer covered him, he glanced underneath the mattress.

“Clear,” he said. The officer moved past him to the bathroom and announced it, too, was clear.

The officer did a second sweep of the room before moving back toward the threshold. Jake thanked him and slowly holstered his weapon. He pulled on latex gloves as he stood in the center of the room. The thick stale air closed in around him. On a dresser next to the television stood a stack of pizza boxes and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Rumpled sheets clumped in the middle of the double bed and on the nightstand sat a half bottle of whiskey and several scattered unopened condoms.

An old guitar covered with stickers leaned against the wall. Hard to live in Nashville or hang out with Georgia Morgan and not learn something about guitars. This one appeared to be a low-end model. Georgia would know more than he, but he guessed the sound wouldn’t have been great. But he doubted Elisa cared about acoustics as long as the player was a good-looking guy who paid attention to her.

A shadow appeared at the door and Jake turned to see Rick. “Heard you called for backup. Find anything?”

“Our man Scott Murphy liked his pizza and booze. He fancied himself some kind of musician. It’s been a few hours since the manager has seen him.”

“There was a brief mention of a person of interest in this case on the midday news. Media used Jenna’s sketch,” he said. “Our guy could have heard something and bolted.”

“Or he’s out hunting again. He left his guitar behind. That’s what caught Elisa’s imagination.”

“Maybe he has a few lures he uses to catch a girl’s attention.”

“Maybe.”

Jake rested his hands on his hips, his elbow brushing his gun holster, before moving toward a closet filled with a pile of dirty clothes. He rummaged under the clothes and found a worn black backpack. Carefully, he lifted it so that Rick could get a good look.

“Elisa Spence’s backpack?”

Jake unzipped the bag and pulled out a laptop covered in flower stickers and a single shoe that matched the one found on Elisa’s body. He opened the computer and powered it up. He selec

ted a word document and the first he opened had Elisa Spence’s name at the top. “Call in the forensic team and have them sweep the room. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pull prints off something.” DNA would be collected and tested, but like he said earlier, getting DNA results would take too long for him. Scott Murphy, or whoever the hell he was, could be long gone before they had solid results. Boots on the ground would catch this monster.

He found several rumpled receipts on the floor. One was for burgers. Another was from a drug store where he bought bandages, antibiotic ointment, and candy. The last for rope from a hardware store. “We need to check each store and see if they had surveillance cameras rolling at the time of his purchase.” He’d learned firsthand after knocking on shop doors for surveillance footage that many stores didn’t have cameras. And if there was a camera in place, there was no guarantee it was hooked up. These days, with the economy tightening, expenses got cut, and that included surveillance cameras.

* * *

Jake arrived at the downtown offices of Walter, Owen & Davis, a Nashville law firm that specialized in entertainment law. He had traced Tim Taylor, Mike’s best friend at St. Vincent, to this firm where he worked as a law clerk while attending law school at Vanderbilt.

He stepped out of the sleek elevator and approached the receptionist, a slim petite blonde with green eyes the color of emeralds. She wore a blue silk blouse and a black pencil skirt. A strand of pearls dangled around her neck. She was as sleek as the office.

She smiled up at him. “Can I help you?”

“I called earlier. I’m Jake Bishop with Nashville Homicide. I’m here to see Tim Taylor.”

“Right. Tim. Let me buzz him.” Manicured hands picked up the phone and she pressed several numbers before an extension buzzed. “Detective Bishop. Of course.” She hung up. “He’ll be right out.”

“Thank you.”

She rose, running her hands over her narrow hips.

“I’m Alexandra Jones. Call me Alexandra.”

He nodded.

“I’ve been trying to guess why homicide would want to talk to Tim. He’s about the most mild-mannered guy you’d ever want to know.” Her smile widened. “But isn’t that what they say about all the serial killers?”