The images had haunted her all week, as had the threats from her boss, Agent Carter Jackson. Jackson’s normally controlled southern drawl had sharpened with anger as he had watched the doctor examine Melina’s ankle in the hour after the attack.
“You’re lucky!” he yelled. “And the reverend is no smarter! Protocols are in place for a reason!”
“It was worth it,” she countered.
“You do not speak, Agent Shepard. You listen.” He began to pace the room. “You’re confined to your desk while I decide if I reassign you to Records Division for the remainder of your career!”
She understood Jackson had been so upset because he was worried. She only hoped in a week or two he would cool off.
Yesterday, she had stopped at a coffee shop and picked up a triple espresso for him. She had set the peace offering on his desk and dawdled, hoping he would look up from his computer. He had not acknowledged her.
She was not only way up Shit Creek, but Jackson had snapped her paddle in his big bare hands.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed while staring at the digital time. “Fifteen more minutes of sleep.” She whispered the words like a prayer, mentally calculating how fast she could dress and be out the front door.
Handcuffs. Syringe. Bleach.
Her heart thumped faster in her chest. Who was she kidding? Sleep, if that is what she had attempted last night, was not returning anytime soon.
As she scooted to the edge of the mattress, her oversize T-shirt twisted around her waist. Bare feet skimmed a cold hardwood floor, and she remembered the shag carpet was still waiting in the virtual shopping cart, along with a dozen other items she could not afford until payday.
She was slow to put weight on her right ankle. She could walk now without a limp, but there was still some swelling.
She stood, padded down the long hallway to the galley kitchen, and turned on her coffee maker. No matter how tired she was or how late she got home the night before, she always set up the coffee. One-quarter cup of grounds to four cups of water. The perfect blend that soothed her cranky morning self.
Melina grabbed almond milk from the fridge and poured a small amount into an oversize UT mug. The handle was a little too big for her hands, but the twenty-ounce capacity saved her return trips. She dug a frozen bagel out of the freezer and put it in the toaster oven. Ten minutes at 350 degrees promised what would taste like an almost freshly baked bagel.
A scratching sound at her back door had her turning to see a cat peering under the edge of her blinds. She retrieved a can of tuna fish from the cupboard and tried not to get the contents on her hands as she placed it onto a clean plate.
She unlocked the patio door secured with three locks her father had installed. She tiptoed barefoot toward the patio table, where the small calico cat patiently waited for her daily meal.
“It’s the good stuff, Wild Kitty,” Melina said. “I promise no more generic brands of tuna.” She had learned that lesson when the cat had taken one sniff and pushed the plate off the table. Snob.
The cat now took a nibble, as if testing. Satisfied, she began to eat, growling as she bit into large chunks of tuna.
How did the saying go? “Dogs have masters and cats have staff.” She carefully ran her hand down the cat’s back once or twice, knowing any more displays of affection would not be appreciated.
“Eat up, kid. See you tomorrow.”
The cat did not even look up. Melina retrieved yesterday’s dish and went back inside and set the plate in the dishwasher. She filled her mug to the brim with coffee and headed toward the shower. She switched on the tap and, as it heated, sat on the side of her bed and read emails on her phone.
Agent Jackson had sent her a text last night, demanding an early-morning meeting. Shit. This was day seven since her encounter, and she had no idea what Jackson had planned for her next.
She pressed the hot mug to the side of her head.
Melina rose, dug a clean white shirt and black pants from her closet. The good thing about desk duty was that she had time to go to the dry cleaner and linger in the grocery store. It was nice to have a stocked kitchen and a dresser full of clean clothes. The extra workouts had been a bonus, too.
If her schedule got any more consistent, she was going to go insane.
She shrugged off the T-shirt and stepped into the shower. Carefully, she dunked her head under the spray while avoiding the sensitive spots.
Stupid stunt. Juvenile. Dangerous. Agent Jackson’s words rattled in her head, until finally she tuned out the sound of his voice.
She had screwed up.
Time to move on.
He would get over it.
Out of the shower, she gently dried off her thick hair, wrapped herself in a towel, and wound a second towel around her head. It smelled of lavender, and she liked it better than the lemon scent.
“Oh, God.” She caught herself before she shifted to a critique of cinnamon bagels versus poppy seed. “I’m already turning soft.”
Time to get dressed and face the music. Agent Jackson was still aloof. When he passed her office, he sometimes stopped and shook his head, but he did not bother to engage.
As she buttered her poppy seed bagel, her thoughts shifted to her attacker.
Who the hell was this guy? His little horror-show-on-wheels had not been thrown together on a whim. It had been the fulfillment of years of fantasy and countless hours of work. The slight smell of bleach she had detected still made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She walked to the back window and noted that Wild Kitty had vanished. She had places to go, mice to kill. The $1.29 of tuna was gone.
As she turned from the window, her thoughts went to the girls who worked the streets around the Mission. During Melina’s very predictable lunch hours this week, she had visited Sarah. There had been no sign of the two missing girls nor of the white van modified to inflict pain.
“Where the hell are you?” she muttered to herself.
She filled a travel mug with the remainder of her coffee, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the front door. As she twisted her key in the dead bolt, a man called out to her. It was her neighbor Travis. Or Trey. Some name that ended in s. Or y.
“Hello, there!” he shouted.
Melina tightened her hand on her backpack’s strap and turned to face the man who lived on the other end of her unit. In his late fifties, he had told Melina his life history. A resident in the complex for ten years. Former schoolteacher. Was married but divorced for the last six years.
“Melina!”
“Yes.” Melina could hear her mother’s voice, dipped in its southern charm, warning her to be nice. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen my cat, Simba?”
“Simba?”
“She’s calico and has a white patch on her chest.”
Ah, so Wild Kitty was not as orphaned as she pretended. Her fat cheeks should have been the dead giveaway. “I saw her this morning.”
“And she seemed fine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She didn’t come in last night. When the weather gets warm, it’s hard to keep her inside.”
“She looked like she could take care of herself.”
Travis or Trey held up a ringed pink collar with a heart-shaped name tag jingling from the front. “She slipped her collar again.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like pink.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“She’s a little too independent for her own good,” he said. “I’m afraid a wild animal is going to hurt her. If you see her, bring her home to me. I’ve a bag of dried kibbles for her.”
“I’ll let her know.”
When Melina reached her car, she noticed a trio of cigarette butts. They were behind her car and she imagined someone leaning against her bumper, staring toward her unit. There was a faint hint of pink lipstick on each filtered edge. The guy next door dated a lot of women. Maybe one had been out here waiting for him to return from his bartending shift.
She leaned against her trunk, staring toward the line of town houses. It took time to smoke three cigarettes. Fifteen or twenty minutes if rushing, longer if killing time. “So, who’s being watched?”
Frowning, she slid behind the wheel of her car. The engine fired, and she backed out of the spot and headed toward the office. At least the white-van driver had not been wearing pink lipstick.
Fifteen minutes later, Melina arrived at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation’s offices on R. S. Gass Boulevard. The road into the complex wound over a lush, rolling landscape past modern buildings that contained TBI’s Nashville offices. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation was the state’s primary criminal investigative agency. Agents investigated crimes related to drugs, corruption, organized crime, terrorism, and fraud. Down the road was another building that housed the state medical examiner’s office.