Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

From his pocket, KC dug out a battered small notebook exactly like thousands of others he’d carried for years. He flipped through the pages until he’d reached the middle section. “I talked to a group of men who passed the victim about three o’clock in the morning. They said she grinned at them as she dug her cell from her purse. One of the boys whistled. She smiled but kept walking.”

“No one was following her?”

“They didn’t see anyone.”

“What’s their story?”

“Students at Vanderbilt on their way to a party. They said the party was a dud, which was why they left early and passed the crime scene at four a.m. I went to the party house and banged on the door. A not-too-happy kid answered. He verified that the boys had been at the party. The four had played video games, drank a beer, hoping girls would show and when the girls didn’t materialize the witnesses left.”

“Anyone else?”

KC flipped a page in the book. “A woman who lives a block over reported hearing a car backfire about the time of the murder. And we did find the victim’s cell phone. Back of the case was knocked off and I’m thinking she had it in her hand when she was attacked. Dropped, hit the sidewalk and back popped open. Forensics bagged it and will search for data.”

Frustration burrowed under Deke’s skin. “No one saw anything?”

KC shook his head. “I knocked on twenty doors this morning. Woke up a lot of people and messed with several morning routines. No one saw the murder.”

He shoved out a breath. “Did the uniforms find the murder weapon?”

“It would be long and thin judging by the injuries. Like a pipe or a tire iron,” Dr. Heller said.

KC again shook his head. “No sign of a weapon and the uniforms have been beating the bushes.”

A search of the victim’s purse at the crime scene had produced a napkin with a number scrawled on it. The logo on the napkin had read RUDY’S, which he knew was a honky-tonk on Broadway. The place was a local institution where the best of the aspiring singer-songwriters played hoping to get noticed by a record producer. His baby sister Georgia had been trying to get a spot on the evening lineup but so far, no luck. Georgia, unlike her three older brothers, could carry a tune but like her brothers had joined the force. She worked forensics.

If Dixie had been singing at Rudy’s then she’d had some talent.

“I’ll swing by Rudy’s this morning,” Deke said. “He might remember a customer who’d shown interest in the victim.”

KC stepped back from the table. “I can do that if you like. Rudy’s is my watering hole.”

His partner favored the tried and true police techniques. He’d gladly knock on doors before doing a computer search. “If you run the victim’s cell phone records, you can leave now. I’ll observe the autopsy and tackle Rudy’s in a couple of hours.”

KC grinned. “Deal.”

Dr. Heller reached for a set of bone shears and snipped them. “You don’t want to stay?”

“Sorry, Doc. Sacrifices have to be made.” KC turned, then stopped as he fished in his pocket. “By the way, Deke, I came across this flyer when I was wandering around Vanderbilt.”

Deke accepted the rumpled paper and smoothed it open. His mood soured instantly at the headline that read: JUSTICE FOR JEB JONES. “What the hell?”

KC shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Tension, like molten metal, seared his muscles. “She doesn’t know when to quit.”

Dr. Heller raised her brow. “And she would be?”

“A troublemaker,” Deke said.

KC’s demeanor toughened. “She is Rachel Wainwright, a local attorney who is wanting to reopen one of Buddy’s old murder cases. Look up Pain-In-The-Ass in the dictionary and you’ll see her picture.”

“How old is the case?” Dr. Heller asked.

“Thirty years.” Deke balled up the flyer. “She wants the DNA on the murder weapon tested.”

Dr. Heller watched the wadded ball sail across the room and bounce off the trash can rim. “Thirty years ago would have been before DNA testing. Hers is not an unreasonable request.”

“We didn’t need DNA to prove this guy was guilty of murder. We had a solid case,” KC said. “Wainwright is trying to make a name for herself.”

Deke picked up the wadded paper and dunked it hard in the trash. “She’s got a legal right to ask for the test.”

KC snorted. “She’s looking for her fifteen seconds of fame so she can build a book of business. The guy we sent away got what he deserved.”

Deke adjusted his tie, ignoring the temptation to loosen it. “She’s got a legal right.”

KC stripped off his gown and tossed it in the trash before reaching in a pocket for a stick of gum, Brenda’s current substitute for his preferred cigarettes. “Fucking ambulance chaser, if you ask me.”

“No one’s asking, KC,” Deke said.

The attorney was out to cause trouble for trouble’s sake, but bitching and moaning wouldn’t stop her. “Didn’t you say you had work to do?”

“Yeah.” KC studied the body and took a step back. “Talk to you soon.” The swinging doors soon whooshed behind him.

Dr. Heller reached for her scalpel and sliced a Y incision into the victim’s chest. The next couple of hours gleaned minimal facts about Dixie Simmons. She had not been sexually assaulted but she’d had an abortion within the last year. Her body didn’t bear the needle marks of a drug user, nor did she have old fractures to suggest any kind of abuse. She had breast implants and she’d had her nose redone.

By the time Dr. Heller had finished her exam, Deke had more information on his victim but no real answers. After Dr. Heller closed the body she rotated her own head from side to side, working out the tension.

“I’ll walk you outside,” she said.

“Sure.”

&n

bsp; Deke and Dr. Heller stepped into the crisp morning air. He patted his jacket pocket and remembered he’d left his cigarette habit at the house he’d lost in the divorce.

She inhaled a deep breath and tipped her face to the sun. “I never take a pretty day for granted.”

Deke pulled his own notebook from his pocket and stared at the number he’d scrawled off Dixie’s napkin. “Let’s see if finding a killer is as easy as dialing a number.”

Dr. Heller pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the side pocket of her white lab coat. “That possible?”

“It would be about the easiest case I’ve ever solved.” He watched her light up, the old cravings tugging at him. “That stuff will kill you, Doc.”

She inhaled and then slowly exhaled. “Something’s going to kill us all.”

“Maybe.” He unclipped the phone from his belt and dialed the number.

She offered the pack to him. “You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll pass.”

She tucked the pack back in her pocket. “How long has it been since you quit?”

“Six months and two days.”

“I quit once for a year.”

“As a doctor don’t you worry about what it will do to you?”

She inhaled and grinned. “Nope.”

“I’m not going back. I bought a one-way ticket, Doc.” Deke studied the napkin and the dark number written in a heavy, masculine scrawl. It rang once. Twice. At the tenth ring, with no answer, Deke hung up.

“Looks like it’s not your lucky day.”

Deke shrugged. “I’ll run the number back at the office. We’ll have a name soon enough.”

“I’ve no doubt.” She studied him an extra beat, as if she wanted to say more but then turned and inhaled again.

“If you get a hit with the tox screens you’ll let me know?”

“Always.”

Deke left the doctor to finish her smoke. The drive across town and down Broadway to Rudy’s honky-tonk took less than fifteen minutes. He managed parking on a side street within a half block.