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

After a half hour of searching and beginning to feel part fool and part lunatic, she sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. “Maybe I am losing my mind.”

As she leaned forward to rise, her gaze caught sight of something attached to the underside of the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. It was small, barely larger than a dime. She grabbed a chair, positioned it under the light, and climbed up. Her fingertips skimmed the warm glass until it slid over a small metal object. Heart racing, she plucked the metal disc from the underside.

She held it up to the light, triumph racing through her. It appeared to be a listening device.

For several long seconds, she stared at it, the sound of her heartbeat thudding hard in her ears. Philip. You bastard. Slowly, she closed her fingers over the device.

Four years ago, she’d have screamed into the device, telling Philip she knew he was listening! She’d have battled hysteria. Cried. And then she would have smashed the device before calling the cops. But not today. Today she was smarter. Afraid, yes, but wiser.

Carefully, she reattached the listening piece to the underside of the light fixture and smiled. Now it was a matter of setting the trap.

Chapter Twenty-One

Monday, January 23, 3 P.M.

Deke arrived at the forensics lab office after three. He showed his badge at the front desk and then swiped his access card, allowing him behind the security doors. He found Georgia in the lab, staring into a microscope. Her red hair was twisted into a topknot and a deep frown furrowed her brow.

“From the day Mom and Dad first brought you home, you were frowning,” he said.

She glanced up, her green eyes dark with curiosity. “I had three older brothers waiting for me and, genius baby that I was, I knew that meant trouble.”

He chuckled. “You were right. It’s a wonder Mom didn’t equip you with your own sidearm.”

“Believe me, I asked more than a few times for a handgun, but she said it wasn’t a good idea for a five-year-old to be packing.”

“Didn’t you ask Santa for a pistol one year?”

She laughed. “No one would give me one, so I went to the man himself.”

He rubbed his hand over his head. “Damn, how many little girls ask Santa for a handgun?”

“I think I requested a nine-millimeter Beretta like Dad’s.”

“Jesus. It’s a wonder Santa didn’t call child protective services.”

“Santa was an off-duty cop making an extra buck. He knew Dad had a houseful of hellions.”

“Ah, well.” He leaned against the side of the desk. “I understand you have an identification on my victim.”

She pushed away from the microscope and shuffled through a stack of files until she found the right one. “The one with parts missing?”

“That would be the one.”

“I do.” She opened a manila folder and read her scrawled notes. “You read Dr. Heller’s report. The victim was dismembered postmortem.”

“I did.”

“I’m also cross-checking DNA with the John Doe you found in the warehouse. Remember the one without hands, feet, and a head?”

“Stands to reason the two might be one and the same victim.”

“We’ll see. But I know who owned the hands and feet because I pulled a good clean print from the index finger of the right hand. We can thank the cold weather for that.”

Deke reached for his phone to text the findings to Alex. If the victims were one and the same, this case might break. “That’s about the only reason to like winter.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see summer again?”

“I’ll remind you of that when it’s July and we’re sweating buckets at a crime scene.”

Smiling, she glanced at her notes. “I ran the victim’s prints through AFIS and got a hit. Lucky for us, he was in the military. Served eight years in the army. His name was Brian Lawrence.”

The name meant nothing to Deke, but it would give him a possible address, job, and known associates. He texted the update to Alex. “So much for Alex’s theory that our guy was Philip Latimer.”

“The guy by the river isn’t Latimer. I have no conclusive information on the warehouse victim.”

“Guy gets out of the military with honors and a year later ends up in pieces on the banks of the Cumberland River.”

Deke had learned long ago not to become too closely attached to his victims. Emotions like anger, revenge, and guilt could be a hell of a motivator, but they could turn out to be your worst enemy. “Crossed the path of the wrong guy.”

Deke’s text on his mind, Alex left work after six intending to drive to Leah’s as soon as he swung by his house and got a bite to eat. They had a lot to discuss, but he hadn’t eaten in fifteen hours and he was starving. He would be at Leah’s by eight.

It was getting dark when he arrived home. The brick colonial was located at the end of a cul-de-sac that backed up to woods. He’d chosen a small rural community north of Nashville to build. Though he’d been in the house two years, he’d furnished only a couple of rooms, and those were sparsely done at best. Georgia had said it needed a woman’s touch and had offered. The idea of her pulling out paint cans and adding color to perfectly fine antique white walls made him smile. The house might not have much, but it was simple and quiet. Safe haven.

He pulled into the long gravel drive and shut off the engine. Out of the car, he fished for his house key on the ring as gravel crunched under the beat of rapid footsteps. Instantly, he tensed, twisted, and reached for his gun, but before he could free it, something hard hit him across the rib cage. He woofed out a breath of agony, rolled to the ground, and scrambled for his gun. He raised it, not even sure what was coming after him, only knowing he was going to kill whatever it was.

He glimpsed a hooded figure wearing a mask. The attacker gripped a baseball bat but, seeing the raised gun, hurled it at Alex and ran. The bat swished by his head, missing him by inches before it clanged and rattled on the pavement.

When he looked, his attacker had vanished.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered as he tried to sit up. Pain shot through his midsection. On the heels of the slicing pain, memories of falling off Miller’s Falls washed over him. “Damn it.” Anger juiced him enough for him to sit up and reach for his cell. He called Deke.

“Detective Morgan.”

“It’s Alex.” He took a breath and tried to step back from the pain. “I just got attacked in front of my house.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And I’m calling the local police.”

“Right.” Alex struggled for breath as he held his gun close and tried to push himself to his feet. However, he quickly discovered the pain in his side robbed him of breath and the will to move. Gritting his teeth, he angled his back toward his car. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but a chill had settled deep in his bones when, in the distance, sirens finally wailed.

The rescue squad and a sheriff’s car pulled up by his car, and when they got out, he shouted, “I’m here.”

A paramedic, a young woman with long, brown hair twisted into a knot, ran around and knelt beside him. “What happened?”

Breathing hurt. “I was hit with a bat. The guy threw it at me, so it’s around here somewhere. It might have his prints on it.”

She didn’t bother a glance toward the bat. Her gaze remained on Alex. “Where did he hit you?”

Alex winced, nodded toward the right side of his ribs.

The sheriff’s deputy hovered behind the paramedic. “Did you get a good look at the guy?”

“No. Didn’t see him coming.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

Alex shook his head. “No.”

The paramedic pulled on rubber gloves and gently touched his side. He groaned and gripped his gun tighter.

When the paramedic spotted the gun, she sat back. “Can you give that to me or the sheriff?”

“I’m TBI, and I’m keeping it until my brother

arrives.”

“Badge?” the deputy asked.

“Right breast pocket.” He gritted his teeth as pain bolted through him like lightning. “Get it and look for yourself.”

The paramedic pulled the badge and handed it to the deputy. “Agent Morgan.”

“That’s right.” Strained, tight words hissed through clenched teeth.

The deputy shifted his stance. “I know you.”

Pain cut. “And you hate my guts? Heard it all before.”

“Not at all. I admire the work. Bad is bad.”

Alex looked up, not sure if the guy was joking, and heard the screech of tires and, seconds later, saw Deke approach, his hand on his gun. He moved with quick, even strides, and his normally solemn expression darkened to murderous.

The paramedic flexed gloved fingers. “That your brother?”

Alex held tight to his gun, as if he expected the paramedic to reach for it. “That’s right.”

The paramedic sat back on her haunches, resting gloved hands on her thighs. “Give him your gun.”