I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville 3)

He imagined Deidre had clicked on the light and sipped her water when cop radar prompted a return to her purse to retrieve her gun. Had it been a knock at one of the doors?

Alex shifted his attention to the kitchen and moved carefully past the breakfast bar. He saw his sister, Georgia, dressed in a Tyvek suit and booties, her red hair tucked into a surgical cap as she leaned over the body, snapping photos. Blood pooled around the body and under Georgia’s feet. Judging by Georgia’s equipment and grim face, she had been here several hours documenting the scene. He knew this because she would never have stepped into the blood and disturbed the evidence until it was well documented.

Georgia’s body blocked a full view of Deidre, but he caught a glimpse of one pale arm, slashed and cut. The upturned palm, gashed and gaping, conjured images of Deidre blocking the blade with her arms and grabbing the knife’s edge. She was a tough woman. Could hold her own against most men. How had this killer gotten close enough to stab her?

Georgia rose up, moistened dry lips, and turned from the body. A glance up at Alex revealed anger mingling with sadness.

Refusing to acknowledge the liquid emotion in Georgia’s eyes, he took his first hard look at the body.

Deidre lay on her back, her arms and feet splayed. She was fully dressed in the pantsuit he’d seen her wearing when she’d faced him in the lobby at TBI. Knife cuts had slashed the white silk top, cutting into flesh and soaking the delicate fabric with the dark ruddy brown of blood. Knife wounds slashed through her pants, cutting deep into flesh.

Who the hell would do this to her? What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Sympathy warmed in the pit of his belly. She might not have been totally clean, but she’d done good work as a cop, and that counted in the big scheme. Loyalty for a fallen comrade threatened to melt the ice before he summoned cold winds to burn it away. Later, after the killer had been caught, he’d allow anger. Outrage. But not now.

Alex turned from Deidre’s body and faced his brother. “Who found her?”

“Leah Carson.”

“What?” He was rarely caught off guard. “Leah Carson?”

An open notebook in one hand, Deke clicked the end of a pen in the other. “Yeah, ain’t that something? Your date found the body.”

He’d seen her at the clinic yesterday. What was the time? Four? “Why was she here?”

“Deidre missed running practice this morning, and when she didn’t answer her phone, Ms. Carson came by to check on her.”

He’d been at the park this morning, watching the group run. He’d noted Deidre’s absence but hadn’t worried too much. She’d missed before. Cops always missed because of the job. But this morning he’d been drawn to Leah and her dogged determination to keep up with the group. Even when it was clear she’d finish dead last, she’d kept moving.

Alex folded his arms. “Continue.”

“She saw her purse inside through the front window. Front door was locked so she walked around to the back. It was ajar.”

Georgia met his gaze. “Did you know they ran together?”

“Yes.”

Georgia eyed him closely, shooting him a demanding look.

Alex disregarded the silent demand. “How’s Ms. Carson doing?”

Deke shrugged. “She’s rattled. Siting in the back of a squad car.”

An urge to go to Leah surprised Alex. And the struggle to refrain surprised him more. The case first. “What happened?”

Georgia stepped out of the blood pool onto a tarp, where she rolled her head from side to side. Crime scenes like this one could take days to process. So much data to be collected and sorted, and Georgia wouldn’t leave until she’d found every trace. “Leah apparently came into the house through the back door, saw the victim in the kitchen, and then ran to the bathroom, where she threw up. She called nine-one-one from her cell outside.”

The image of her fragile frame, pale and drawn, chipped at the ice. More pity flickered. Another struggle to contain.

Lines of worry etched deep in Deke’s face. “No signs of forced entry. Nothing appears to have been taken from the town house, but we’ve got a call in to her sister. She’s coming in from California and won’t be here until very late tonight. Gun, money, credit cards all appear to be in her purse.”

“Where’s her husband?” Alex asked.

“Haven’t contacted him yet,” Deke said. “You said they were getting a divorce? Not friendly, correct?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t have details.”

Hands resting on his hips, Deke shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts. “I know her husband. He’s a sheriff in a small town about twenty miles north of Nashville. Given the basic facts, he’s at the top of my suspect list.”

“That’s a logical conclusion.” When a woman was murdered, statistics proved it was someone she knew and at one time loved.

“Signs of sexual assault?” Deke asked Georgia.

“None from what I can tell,” Georgia said. “The medical examiner will have to make the last call on that.”

“The bedrooms weren’t disturbed, but there’s a window in the back bedroom that’s slightly open. My guess is the killer came in through the window and surprised her.”

“Deidre was no fool,” Alex said.

“Whoever did this was smart,” Georgia said. “I’ve found very little forensic data.”

Alex tugged at his cuffs. “I want to hear every detail, but first, I’d like to talk to Leah Carson.”

Brow arched, Deke slid his hand into his pocket and rattled the loose change. “I’d like you involved in this case.”

Georgia raised her gaze to her brother’s. This was an unusual request from Deke, and one he wouldn’t make lightly. Her gaze narrowed, suspecting there was more but knowing other officers were within earshot, stayed silent. The questions would come later.

Alex leveled a cool gaze on his older brother. “I want lead.”

The Morgan family could be surly and, behind closed doors, could fight like cats and dogs. In public, they banded together into a united front. “You’ll need to keep me posted. Daily.”

“Done.”

Alex turned and left, passing several uniformed officers. He paused at the door and turned to the guard-dog officer who’d stopped him initially. “What car is the witness in?”

“The one in the back, next to the ambulance.”

Alex stripped off his rubber gloves and tossed them in a medical waste disposal bin before making his way toward the squad car where Leah sat. The crisp, cold air felt good as it sizzled through his skin to his molten core. Anger could do that. Boil the blood. He’d now use his anger as fuel. It could drive him for days without much sleep or much food.

He moved toward the squad car, keeping his steps purposeful and steady. It never did well to rush in front of others. Rushing telegraphed a lack of control or fear. He never showed either.

As he approached the backseat, he noticed Leah was staring sightlessly toward the row of town houses and the ring of onlookers who’d braved the morning cold to watch the scene unfold.

Her hair was dark, though, judging by the faint blond roots, not her natural color. The other night her hair had been swept just above her shoulders, but today it was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore a black jogging suit and clutched run gloves and a knit hat in her hands. A thick scarf, loosened into a long loop, hung around her neck. Her breath was slow and steady, but he sensed she counted each inhale and exhale.

He lightly rapped on the glass to serve warning before he opened the door, but the sound of knuckles against glass made her jump. She turned toward him, her green gaze wide with shock and bloodshot. She smoothed her hands over her running pants and straightened her shoulders, as if mentally collecting the threads of her composure.

He opened the door, the rush of the car’s heater reaching out to him. “Leah.”

“Alex. What’re you doing here?”

He rapped on the b

arrier separating the back and front seats, and when the officer glanced in the rearview mirror, Alex motioned for him to leave. Scowling, the officer got out of the car.

When the door slammed, Alex said, “Investigating the case.”

Fingers twisted around the black gloves. “She was Nashville Police.”

“I investigate cops.”

“You were investigating Deidre?”

“I’ll be investigating her murder.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can we talk?” He inclined his head toward the seat, as if waiting for her permission to enter.

She scooted to the far side of the car. “Sure.”

He slid inside, adjusted the folds of his overcoat, and closed the door behind him. His frame was lean, and though he wasn’t as muscular as Deke, he stood several inches taller at six foot three. The long body was not a comfortable fit in any backseat, but the wire barrier walling off the back from the front made the space feel all the smaller. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. The officer already asked.” She swiped a dark wisp from her face.

“Can I ask you about this morning?” He always led polite, even though it scraped against a natural instinct to badger. Witnesses, even suspects, responded better to soft tones.

She eyed him as if reconciling this politeness to her overly direct date on Saturday. “Deidre and I run together.” She allowed a breath to shudder over her lips. “She never misses a run. Last night we spoke on the phone, and she said she’d go running this morning. When she didn’t show, I got worried. I called her on her home and cell phones a couple of times but there was no answer.”

“Do you always check up on people who miss a training session?”

“No. But Deidre is different. I texted her and she didn’t respond. She always would text back. I just got a bad feeling.”

“So you came by the house?”

She twisted her gloves in her hands before releasing them and flattening her palms on her thighs. “I don’t live all that far from here, and I had the morning off so I thought I’d check.”

“How did you meet Deidre?” Her nails were cut short but were neat and polished. She wasn’t wearing perfume, but there was a faint hint of soap that blended with the fresh air from her run.

“The gym. She mentioned the running group. I joined in just after the first of the year. It became kind of a New Year’s resolution for me. Fresh start.”

“Why did you need a fresh start?”

Her gaze rose abruptly, as if she hadn’t realized what she’d said. “Doesn’t everyone start over at the new year?”

“I suppose they try.”