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

“This struck a major nerve. Somewhere along the way . . .”

“What . . . ?”

“I don’t know.” In his pocket, he fingered a receipt for the tank of gas he’d bought that morning. “But I’ll figure it out.”

As the medical examiner’s van arrived, Leah Carson shuttled to the edges of his thoughts. The mystery of Leah would have to wait.

Alex and Deke stood outside the town house as the medical examiner’s technicians entered the house with the gurney. The crowd of residents ringing the edges of the crime scene tape watched as if they were on the set of a cop show. Out here, it was easy for a bystander to pretend it wasn’t all that real.

Twenty minutes later, the technicians rolled out the gurney carrying the body bag. A few startled gasps rose up from the crowd. A couple pointed. One or two took pictures with their cell phones.

Alex moved toward the crowd, wondering if the killer lingered to watch the chaos. At the edge of the tape he caught the gaze of a tall man with a thick stubble of beard, wide-set eyes, and short, dark hair. He wore plaid pajama bottoms, a UT sweatshirt, and a thick sheepskin-lined jacket.

Carefully, Alex pulled out his badge. “Alex Morgan, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Mind if I ask you a few questions.” A question that didn’t sound like a question but an order.

“Sure.” The guy lowered his phone and tucked it in his pocket.

“Your name?”

“Tim Rogers.”

“You know the resident of that town house?”

“Leggy tall brunette. Liked to run. She just moved in a few weeks ago.” He leaned in a fraction. “Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Seen anyone coming or going from her town house?”

“No.”

“But you noticed her.”

“I mean, I’d steal a look or two when she jogged. Hot. But I didn’t track who came and went.”

“Anyone around here who would have noticed?”

“You could ask Carol. She lives next door. She pays attention.”

“She here now?”

“No. Likely at work. She’s a lawyer.”

“Okay. Carol got a last name?”

“Rivers. But I don’t know the name of the law firm.”

Alex glanced at the town house next to Deidre’s and noted the address. “Are all the places here furnished?”

“No. The guy who owns that unit works for a bank. Got transferred to New York or Charlotte. He’s renting because he can’t sell. Left a few pieces of furniture, hoping it would rent.”

“Thanks.” He walked back toward Deke, careful to keep all trace of emotion from his face. The less fodder for the news crews and cell phone cameras, the better. They didn’t need footage ending up on the Internet or networks.

Only when he turned away from the crowd and stood shoulder to shoulder with Deke did he speak. “I’m going to nail the prick who did this, Deke.”

His brother’s face resembled chiseled granite, but his eyes sparked. “I’m letting you off the chain on this one, Alex. Good hunting.”

After the medical examiner removed the body, Alex took a few minutes to stand in the cold and allow his mind to inventory and process what he’d seen.

None of the furniture, drapes, or carpet appeared to have been disturbed in Deidre’s town house. Of course the killer could have taken something, but he had no way of knowing now. No signs of sexual assault. Whoever had come into her home appeared to have come with one goal in mind: kill Deidre and cover his tracks.

He turned and strode back toward Deidre’s place. “Have you searched the premises yet?”

Deke nodded. “We’ve got officers going through her room and the back end of the house, and then they’ll move into the living area. Georgia is still working the kitchen. She’s dusting for fingerprints now.”

Alex imagined Leah’s pale face and the very faint scar that ran down her cheek. It had darkened the longer they sat in the car. He hadn’t noticed it on their date. No doubt she used a special makeup to hide it. “She’s rattled. But she had a good command of the facts.”

“Does she have any theories?” Deke asked.

“Deidre told Leah the divorce wasn’t easy. Her car was keyed. It won’t be hard to find her husband and pay him a visit.”

“Regardless of what she did, I want her killer found,” Deke said. “I want to know what she was doing before all this happened.”

“Understood.”

Deke eyed Alex. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say this didn’t affect you at all.”

Alex arched a brow. “You’re more emotional than I ever was.” His voice monotone, he might as well have been reciting the alphabet. “You hide it well, but it’s there, boiling below the surface. But for me, emotion has never been a significant factor when I’m on a case. It clouds my judgment.”

Deke’s eyes blazed darker. “RoboCop has nothing on you, Alex.”

“That’s the perfect description for Alex since Miller’s Falls,” Georgia said as she exited the kitchen. She’d stripped off her Tyvek suit and booties and now wore her khakis and a long-sleeved, collared forensics shirt. She still wore rubber gloves. “But my all-time favorite Alex description is ‘Iceman.’”

Alex didn’t like references to Miller’s Falls and refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he flipped through a mental catalogue. “Should we share some of the nicknames we had for you?”

She shrugged. “Carrot top, daywalker, ginger. Give it your best shot, bro. Mine are hair-related. Yours stem from a much deeper place.”

If outsiders were eavesdropping on their conversation now, they’d peg them all as heartless and unfeeling. But jokes and jibes at times like this eased the pressure valve on explosively deep emotions.

“You’re the only person I know who can take your emotions, put them in a box, and lock them away until you need them. And, I might add, you need them almost never.”

“Don’t forget agent orange,” Alex offered.

Georgia stuck out her tongue.

Alex only tolerated this kind of guff from Georgia. She was a pain in the ass, but, as he and his brothers often noted, she was their pain in the ass. “How many knife wounds did you count, Georgia?” Alex asked.

Her lips flattened in a stark line. “At least a dozen, but there could be more.”

“I would say this is a case of overkill,” Alex said. “It wasn’t just enough to stab her once or twice, which would have done the job, but the killer stabbed her at least twenty times. Legs, arms, the face several times. This attack carries all the hallmarks of rage. This killing was personal.”

“She’s arrested and pissed off a lot of very bad guys over the years.”

“And, so far, the killer hasn’t left any trace evidence,” Georgia said.

“Nothing?” Deke asked.

“If you plan it right, you won’t leave evidence,” Georgia said. “All cops know about Tyvek suits.”

“So it could be Deidre’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Tyler Radcliff?” Deke asked.

“Statistics suggest Radcliff, but time and evidence will tell,” Georgia said. “There’s always something.”

“When will you have a report?” Alex asked.

“Need time to sort, bro. Will keep you posted.”

“I expect this case closed,” Deke said.

“It will be.” Alex moved past Georgia into the kitchen to stare at what remained of the blood evidence.

Not only was there blood on the floor but it had also splattered the walls and the ceiling. A thin red spray of blood indicated the killer had struck an artery. And the dots and dashes of blood on the back wall had flicked off his knife as he drew it back before plunging it again.

This killer would have been covered in blood. There’d be no way to escape unmarked. But the blood trail stopped outside the back door. Georgia’s theory of a Tyvek suit made sense.