Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

Moving inside the double doors he was nearly to the elevator when he saw the uniformed cop standing guard. Shit. He needed to stay out of sight. And when Amber got out of the hospital he would find her. One way or another, they would be together. She owed him that much after all he’d done for her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday, October 6, 9:00 A.M.

When Jake arrived at the Marlowe residence, a truck was parked at the top of the driveway. The sign on the side read PIPER LANDSCAPING. Two gardeners armed with rakes were collecting the leaves that had fallen over the last couple of days while a third bagged a neat pile.

Jake hurried up the steps and rang the bell. Footsteps sounded and the door opened to the housekeeper who had answered the door the other day for him. Calmly, she escorted him into the study and promised to get Mr. Marlowe right away. He paced the floor, his hands in his pockets as he thought about what he was going to say to Marlowe. He did not like the man, but the news he had to deliver would cut in a very cruel way. No one deserved that kind of pain.

“Detective Bishop,” Marlowe said from the door.

Jake turned to find Marlowe dressed in black slacks, a black turtle neck, and loafers. He wore a large silver watch on his wrist and his salt-and-pepper hair, neatly brushed back, accentuated lines that looked deeper than they had just days ago.

“You have news for me?” Marlowe asked.

“Yes, sir. I spoke to the medical examiner.”

“She wouldn’t give me details about my son’s death. She said it had to come from you. Part of the investigation.”

“Yes, sir. We’re keeping a tight control on the news we release.”

“I am his father.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m here to give you a report.”

This time Marlowe didn’t walk to the sideboard and fill a glass with bourbon. Instead, he stood tall and rigid. “How did my boy die?”

“There was a single gunshot wound to his head behind the left temple.”

“Shot. In the head.” Marlowe crossed the room and sat on the plush leather sofa. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He sat, breathing in and out as he struggled to control the pain from this latest one-two punch.

Finally, Marlowe drew in a breath and rose. “How did Bethany die?”

“She was stabbed.”

“Jesus.” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea who shot my boy?”

Jake cleared his throat, his gaze unwavering. “We’re theorizing that he shot himself.”

Dark eyes flared. “That’s bullshit. My boy wouldn’t kill himself. He had everything to live for.”

“He was found in a rear chamber of the cave next to Bethany’s body. The cave was walled up. The scene was staged to look like a murder/suicide.”

“No!” He pointed a finger at Jake. “My boy didn’t kill that girl and then himself. That is just wrong.”

“I agree. The original scene was staged that way, but with the discovery of the latest victim, we realize we’re dealing with a killer.”

“Where the hell is Amber in all this? That bitch could have killed them both and made it look like a murder/suicide.”

“Why would she do something like that?”

Marlowe stiffened. “The girl is not what she seems.”

“How so?”

He shook his head. “She’s beautiful. Charming. Smart.”

“And?”

He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “She’s a manipulator. She likes to hurt people.”

“She sustained a very nasty fall in the woods that day. Grade-three concussion and a fracture of the arm. The evidence suggests that she saw something horrible and started running and fell.”

“And you think that horrible thing absolves her of the death of Mike and Bethany?”

“She could have been running for her life that day. She might have seen something terrible in those woods. She was attacked just last night.”

“Really?”

“Where were you?”

“Here.” He shook his head. “Do not be fooled by her, detective. You want a killer, go after her.”

Jake flexed his fingers. “This investigation is still very much open and I have more people to interview. The reason I stopped by today was to deliver this information in person. I will get to the bottom of this, but I need to go.”

Marlowe’s jaw set in a hard line. “Don’t hurt my boy any more, detective. You’ve been warned.”

Jake turned, moving toward the front door. The sound of the older man’s weeping leaked out from the study and followed him out the front door.

* * *

Jake drove straight to St. Vincent after his visit with Marlowe. As he got out of his car and climbed the steps, his eyes itched from fatigue and too many hours of staring at a computer screen last night. Even the caffeine was losing its punch. Still, it had been worth it. He spotted Elisa on surveillance camera, which was mounted in a shoe store and shot through the main display window. Elisa paused in front of the window to admire a pair of heels. Closer inspection revealed a fuzzy image of their suspect across the street, stopping to stare at her. That had been this past Wednesday, September 27.

Jake parked in front of the school, pausing to stare at the white columns and the neatly manicured lawn void of a stray stick or leaf. A collection of tall planters held vibrant yellow flowers with ivy cascading over the sides. Gilded letters spelled out ST. VINCENT on a sign attached to two stone columns surrounded by a thick bed of ivy. This was your typical school for rich kids.

Amber had been one of the few exceptions, earning a scholarship from the business community at the age of sixteen by wowing school officials with PSAT scores and an essay. Her scores, along with the public relations they would milk from offering scholarships to disadvantaged kids, were a win-win for both sides.

He climbed the wide marble stairs, wondering what it would have been like for a kid like Amber to come here. Despite her intelligence, she was pegged an outsider from day one. Making friends would have been a challenge. Hell, he was twenty-eight when he moved to Nashville and found himself on the outside trying to crack the police department culture that heavily favored locals. Standing on the outside looking in was not an enviable position to be in, but he was up to the challenge. For all his life he was the guy from the neighborhood. The guy who knew everyone. The guy that naturally maneuvered the ins and outs of the town. Cops respected him. Even the guys in the mob had a measure of respect for him because they knew he always did what he promised. He was discrete.

But that had been in Boston. In Nashville, no matter how long he lived here, he’d always be the abrasive carpetbagger from up north. But as much as he disliked his outcast status, it was better than the memories and the sense of loss he had felt back home.

He didn’t pretend to understand the mind of a teen girl, but he could guess she’d have wanted to fit into the crowd. To blend. Mix. Blend. Isn’t that what all teens really wanted? Acceptance.

He pushed through the large, polished lacquered double doors that fed into a black-and-white tiled entryway. He heard the distant hum of conversations as he studied a large trophy case filled with glittering gold and silver cups. Tennis. Soccer. Football. You name the sport and some student had won an award.

He was a baseball guy. Had played it nonstop as a kid. He tried out and made the high school team, but he blew his chances of playing when he got into a pissing match with the coach after complaining about his lack of playing time. He argued he was one of the best hitters on the team and that the old man always gave preference to a couple of senior players. Jake’s teenage brain didn’t know how to put the brakes on his mouth or his temper. He said if he could not play, he would quit. The old man didn’t argue and Jake sat on the bench for the remaining games. By the end of the season, he made good on his challenge. Stupid.

Jake turned from the trophy case, wondering if his life would be any different if he’d had better control of his tem

per. Though he sometimes looked back with more than one or two regrets, he was old enough now to accept that sometimes life delivered a shit sandwich and expected you to eat it. All of it.

He moved down the hallway toward a set of doors marked OFFICE and went inside. Sitting in a bank of chairs were a couple of boys. Collars askew, both had dirt stains on pressed white shirts. Yeah, you could dress a rich teen boy up, but that didn’t mean they were any less boneheaded than a poor kid.

Jake pulled his badge from his belt and caught the attention of a tall, sour-faced woman standing behind the counter. She was filling out a tardy slip for a young girl with braids and wearing a plaid skirt and a white shirt. The girl politely thanked the woman, and grabbing the note, turned to leave. She glanced quickly at Jake, stopped, stared for a beat or two and then hurried on her way. A homicide detective fit as well in a posh school as did Amber five years ago.

The woman behind the counter was in her late fifties. She tied her gray wavy hair back in a short ponytail and perched thick glasses on a wide-set nose. A white shirt drained what little color she had from her pale face.

“May I help you?” Her gaze flickered to his badge as she looked more intrigued than worried.

“Detective Jake Bishop. I’m with the Nashville Homicide Department. I have an appointment with Principal Byrd.”

She stacked the pile of pink slips until the edges were again sharp and neat. “I’ll get him. Please wait a minute.”

“Thanks.”

Jake tucked his badge back on his belt and turned toward a bulletin board covered with notices about a fall dance, yearbook pictures, and football games. As he shifted, he noticed the two scuffed-up boys staring at him. He didn’t smile, instead choosing to stare until they looked away. “Keep your nose clean. You don’t want me showing up at your door.”

The boys sat straighter, blanching, as Jake turned to the sound of footsteps and the sound of his name. “Detective Bishop.”