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

“You were never crazy. Never forget what happened was all Philip’s doing. How many days has it been since you called?”

“A few.”

“Why don’t you call her again tomorrow? Be polite and ask her about Philip. Just double-check. It will make you feel better. Do you think it could be Philip’s grandmother? She always took his side.”

An unspoken tension hummed between them. “His grandmother passed last year, but I know he had cousins and a half brother.” She moved toward the front door, peered past the drawn drapes at the dark parking lot. She double-checked the dead bolt on the door. Locked. “He also had friends who weren’t happy with me. They could have sent them.”

“How would they know our new addresses?”

“Philip was clever. No one ever questioned his intelligence. For all we know, there could be others in his family or at his old job just as clever.”

“Only a monster would support something like that.” Her aunt spoke carefully, as if speaking to a wild horse ready to spook. “Just call the detective tomorrow and save the card, like you had to do in the old days.”

Leah moved to her purse and pulled out her journal. “I’m sorry we can’t ever have a real conversation. I’m sorry there’s always a problem.”

“You didn’t deserve this. It was never your fault. And I’m happy to talk to you any time.”

“I insisted on dating Philip. Mom was against it, and we argued a few times about it.”

A sigh shuddered through the phone. “Maybe one day I’ll share with you some of the boneheaded things I did when I was young. And a few things your mother did as well.”

A mental picture of two mature women, neatly put together, didn’t jive with the confession. “You two couldn’t have been that bad.”

“You might be surprised. Just do me a favor and don’t let this throw you into a tailspin. Stay away from the cigarettes and keep going to your group meetings. You’re still going, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I went yesterday.” As much as Leah wanted to talk about Deidre, she didn’t dare. She’d brought more than enough trouble to her aunt’s doorstep and didn’t need to bring anymore.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She pulled a pen from her purse. “I’ll be fine. Sorry to bother you, Aunt Jane.”

“Don’t worry about it. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Call me when you figure this out.”

“I will.” She ended the call and immediately began to write about the incident in her journal.

Alex arrived at the state medical examiner’s office minutes after eight, a newly acquired file tucked under his arm. He approached reception, showed his badge, and stated he had an appointment with Dr. Heller. He’d only had minutes to wait before she appeared at the side door. Dark slacks and a chestnut-brown turtleneck accentuated her long frame. She wore her hair pinned up in a tight bun at the base of her neck. Reading glasses perched on her head.

She crossed the lobby, smiling. “Alex, what can I do for you?”

“I have a file I’d like you to review.”

“Sure. Come on back.” She scanned her card at the door and it clicked open, and the two moved to a small conference room off the lobby. She sat at the head of the table and he took the seat to her left. “What do you have for me?”

“It’s an autopsy report. Done by a coroner in South Carolina.”

“Okay.”

He pushed the file toward her. “Read it and let me know what you think. It’s only a couple of pages.”

She perched her glasses on her nose and leaned forward as she opened the file. She read the first page and frowned. The second page deepened that frown, and by the time she’d reached the third page, she looked puzzled.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s rather incomplete. The body was badly burned in the car accident, but there was no DNA testing done, nor were dental records pulled. The identification was made solely on a charred wallet at the scene, a ring on the victim’s finger, and hearsay from several witnesses.”

“If you were going to fake a death . . .”

“I’d pick a jurisdiction like this. It’s rural, the county coroner isn’t a medical professional by trade, and it would be a place where identification mistakes are likely. That’s not to say they didn’t ID the right guy. They may have, but I’d want more evidence to make a ruling.”

He sat back in his chair, almost sorry his instincts were proving correct. “Right.”

“Why pull this file?” She glanced at the name on the file again. “Why care about Philip Latimer? It’s way out of your jurisdiction. Why care about a guy who died in South Carolina four years ago?”

“Latimer was a police officer in Nashville until four years ago. His boss disciplined him when his estranged wife filed stalking charges against him. Latimer ended up trying to kill her.”

Frown lines appeared as she tapped a finger on the file. “I think I remember that case. She survived.”

“She did.” Alex mentally traced the scars on Leah’s palm, remembering their roughness. “Latimer stabbed his wife twenty-three times.”

Dr. Heller yanked off her glasses. “Deidre Jones was stabbed twenty-three times.”

“Yes, she was.”

“Are you suggesting a connection to the Deidre Jones case?”

“I am.”

She wrapped her index finger around a thin gold cross hanging from a chain around her neck and absently slid it back and forth. “How’d you come up with this guy’s name?”

“The woman who found Deidre’s body was Leah Carson. Also known as Leah Latimer. She was the wife Latimer stabbed twenty-three times. Deidre’s sister also got into serious trouble five years ago. Drugs. The arresting officer was Philip Latimer, and the key evidence in the case vanished.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I have no hard evidence, only a theory. I think Deidre approached Philip for a favor, and he helped her out. Then, a couple of months later, when he was on the run after nearly killing his wife, he called in Deidre’s favor. She helped him get out of town.”

A deep frown furrowed her brow. “And fake his death?”

“I don’t know. But you’re not happy with the quality of the report. And given the manner of Deidre’s death—twenty-three stab wounds—I’m wondering if Latimer might be alive.”

“Why come back after all this time?”

“Money. Deke had a suspicion Deidre was skimming money from some of her cases. Up until a month ago she worked hard at her job, and there were no whispers of scandal. Then money started vanishing. Maybe she got tired of paying and Latimer killed her.” That didn’t explain the John Doe at the warehouse, or how Deidre’s business card had ended up in a bag nearby. He didn’t have all the pieces but he would.

“You really think Deidre helped him?”

He always relied strongly on instinct. “I do.”

She closed the file, absently tapping her index finger on the folder. “Have there been any signs that Latimer is alive? Has anyone seen him?”

“If they have, they haven’t said.” Maybe the charred body was an unlucky bastard who spotted Latimer. But it begged the question: if Latimer were alive, why had he left Leah alone these past four years? Why hide out and not go after her again?

“Has his ex-wife noticed anything that would suggest she’s being stalked?”