Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

A begrudging respect flickered for the woman who didn’t surrender. She had the tenacity of a pit bull. And tonight, she’d held on to her composure after the blow. With the media cameras rolling she could have demanded Margaret be jailed. She hadn’t.

Rachel Wainwright wasn’t his kind of woman. Her voice didn’t sooth but snapped. High cheekbones and a keen chin were made sharper by short ink-black hair and milky pale skin. A long lean body didn’t fill out her pencil skirt and white blouse but skimmed beneath the fabric like chiseled stone. What rescued her from severity were her eyes. They were the color of cut sapphires and looked upon the world as if it were filled with urchins and discarded puppies, all in need of her saving.

Deke believed Buddy had gotten it right thirty years ago when he arrested Jeb Jones. His father had often said fear had gripped Nashville after the violent attack and disappearance of the young beautiful mother. Women, Buddy had said, were afraid to go out. The police were flooded with tips or calls of suspicious-looking men. One man had been attacked by a group of young boys who’d believed they’d caught Annie’s killer. Nearly beaten to death, the man had woken up in the hospital three days later with his name cleared after the cops had established his alibi.

And then there’d been the calls regarding Annie’s body. The cops had received hundreds. Most had been ruled out but there were at least ten sites that the cops had dug up looking for her body. And then one of many anonymous tips had been followed and the fragmented bones of a woman had been found in the woods near the Cumberland River. Annie’s necklace had been found among the remains. Diamonds shaped into a heart. The search had ended. But the terror and fear had not. And then the confidential informant, or CI, had given them Jeb. He’d been arrested. And the city had returned to normal.

Deke knew his father and the man’s flawless integrity. He and his father, physical carbon copies, were also a match in temperament. Shouting matches and butting heads were more common than not. So Deke knew in his core Buddy might have been tough on Jeb during the interviews, but he’d gotten his confession fair and square. He wouldn’t have steamrolled Jeb for the sake of closing a case. Justice was Buddy’s life.

Deke had been about ten at the time of the trial and he’d remembered his dad coming home from work late, exhausted and paler than a ghost. He’d remembered his parents talking in the kitchen in hushed whispers and of his father’s conviction that Jeb was the killer.

When Rachel’s request for DNA testing had first crossed Deke’s desk, he’d laughed. He’d heard Jeb had recanted but then Jeb wouldn’t be the first killer who’d cried innocent when facing the rest of his life in prison.

Deke had wanted to dismiss Rachel’s request, but he didn’t. He’d trusted Buddy’s work enough to believe it would stand up to science, so he’d sent the DNA to the state lab, knowing the backlog ran months and sometimes years.

Rachel wasn’t so green an attorney that she didn’t realize this. Every first-year law student understood the system could be slow—that current murder cases, rapes, and robberies took precedence.

The harder she pushed for an answer, the stronger his resolve not to rush the results. Let her prod all she wanted. She’d get her answers when he was damn good and ready.

“Yes, I do believe the killer remains free.”

In the darkness, the small television framed Rachel Wainwright’s face. Pretty expressive eyes announced worry and doubt as her unwavering tone added punch to her words. Whether she believed the statement or not didn’t really matter. She’d spoken them out loud and into the lens of a camera that broadcast her face all over the Nashville metro area. Her words had planted seeds of doubt, not many, but one or two placed in the right place was all it took.

Rachel Wainwright was a do-gooder who didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. She stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and stirred up trouble for trouble’s sake.

Sitting back, Baby conceded taking care of Rachel would be easy. Ideas of hitting her with a car or striking her with a hammer elbowed their way to the front of Baby’s mind. If Rachel died, Jeb’s case died. No more problems. No more worries.

The ceiling above Baby’s head creaked with the footsteps of another. The hum of the television had reached upstairs and aroused trouble. Baby took one last look at Rachel’s face then clicked off the set.

The door at the top of the basement stairs creaked open. “Baby?”

“Down here.”

“What are you doing? It’s late.”

“Watching television.”

“It’s late.”

“I know.” Baby rubbed tired eyes. “I’ll be right up.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. Go to bed. I’ll be right there.”

Rachel Wainwright was trouble but she could be an asset if pointed in the right direction. Killing would solve a lot, but sometimes the easy way wasn’t the smart way. Smart people killed two birds with one stone.

And Baby was smarter than most gave credit.

October 24

Sugar,

I’ve decided that diamonds suit me. When I hit it big, I’m gonna be dripping in diamonds. My roommates are jealous of the necklace and the dumb-luck grin always slathered on my face when I admire the way it catches the sunlight. They want to know who gave me such an expensive gift. Again and again they ask as if I will somehow slip. But I won’t slip. Mum’s the word. And yes, I will have dinner with you on Thursday.

Xoxo,

A.

Chapter Three

Friday, October 14, 6 AM

The alarm clock shrilled, jarring Rachel awake. She sat up and instantly her head throbbed and her neck cramped. When she breathed, her ribs flinched. She’d never been cold-cocked before and now realized the initial blow didn’t hurt near as bad as the aftermath.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed to the chilled, roughly hewed wooden floor. Her toes curled. A draft wafted through large insulated windows that had appealed so much when she’d first looked at the former restaurant space on a warm spring morning.

Her bed butted against a tall brick wall. A salvaged wrought-iron door served as a headboard and pallets functioned as box springs. She’d covered the bed with a heavy indigo comforter and lots of pillows. A long dresser and a silver-streaked mirror, both scavenged at yard sales, hugged the long wall that stood opposite the bank of windows now covered with long strips of canvas. Some would have described her look as chic, in a scruffy kind of way. She called it for what it was: cheap. She’d furnished the entire space for less than two hundred dollars.

She’d chosen the building because, like her furnishings, it was affordable. She’d found the place when it had gone into bankruptcy, had negotiated a great price and become a landowner. She lived in this space but also maintained her law offices on the first floor. Cursing the cold, she rose and hurried to the bathroom where she kept a small space heater. She clicked on the heater and turned on the shower. Soon the room warmed.

She wiped her hand over the steaming mirror, ignored spiked bed-head hair, and studied her jaw. Purples, blacks, and blues colored the pale skin stretching from her chin to her ear. She worked her mouth from side to side, touching her fingers gingerly against the skin. She flinched. A check of her teeth left her grateful that none had been broken or cracked. She didn’t need a dentist’s bill.

She threaded her fingers through her hair. Dark circles hovered under her eyes, a sign that she shouldn’t have stayed up until two a.m. reviewing briefs in another upcoming case.

“Burning the candle at both ends,” she grumbled as she stepped into the shower. The wet heat soothed the lingering chill, coaxed some of the aches from her bones and tempted her to loiter and disregard the time. But time was money and both were rare luxuries.

Her law practice was barely making ends meet and she’d scarcely made her mortgage payment and the light bill this month. She’d not drawn a paycheck in weeks but hoped enough billable receivables came throu

gh the door in the next day or two so she could draw a small wage.

Instead of choosing her regular work clothes—yoga pants, a loose top, and slip-on shoes—she opted for black slacks, a fitted black V-neck sweater, and black ankle boots. Clients weren’t on the docket today, which was all about cranking out the work. But after last night’s media coverage she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ended up with a visitor.

Her memory flashed to the eleven p.m. newscast. It had lasted barely thirty seconds but the cameraman had caught Margaret’s right hook connecting with her jaw. She considered herself physically strong and agile and yet a woman twenty years her senior had dropped her like a stone. She’d replayed the scene and then, irritated, had shut off the television.

The media. The vigil’s coverage hadn’t captured inspired sound bites but a street brawl. There’d been a quick mention of Jeb’s DNA request, a flash of the crowd holding candles, but the lion’s share of footage had been dedicated to Margaret’s punch.

“At least they spelled my name right.”

Rachel took extra time applying her makeup, using added layers of foundation and powder to cover the bruise on her chin. After several tries, she’d all but covered it and could admit in most lighting, it wasn’t noticeable. She didn’t need to be sporting a bruise for any media follow-ups.

Rachel worked stiffness from her jaw, remembering Detective Deke Morgan’s amusement. She’d harassed the man nonstop and he clearly had enjoyed her public humiliation.

“Damn.” She descended the iron spiral stairs to the first floor. A series of bookshelves created the feel of a smaller more intimate law office where she worked and saw clients. Beyond the shelves, she moved past dusty half-finished porcelain sculptures, bits of wires and gadgets, which she fashioned into chess pieces in her now rare spare moments. Through swinging doors, she moved into the former restaurant’s industrial kitchen. Her growing practice had gobbled her days, nights, and weekends giving her little time for cooking, let alone art.

Behind the long stainless steel counter, she turned on her single-serve coffeepot. The kitchen equipment, designed to feed hundreds, now warmed pizzas and restaurant leftovers or witnessed the frying of an occasional egg. Most days she lived on peanut butter, which she doled out by the tablespoon. On the counter a collection of red and orange retro canisters added the lone pop of color to a sea of silver and black.

While the coffee perked, she tugged open the huge fridge, all but empty save for a bottle of milk, a tub of cream cheese, a half bottle of white wine, and what remained of a deli roasted chicken she’d grabbed at the grocery three nights ago.

She took the milk, smelled it to make sure it really was fresh and then splashed it in a mug. From the red cookie jar she dug out two teaspoons of sugar. From the cabinet she pulled an industrial-sized jar of peanut butter and scooped an extra large spoonful.

Peanut butter spoon and coffee in hand she moved to her L-shaped desk piled high with books and papers. She clicked on her computer and for the next ten minutes read emails as she ate peanut butter and sipped coffee.