In answer, the attacker quickly raised the rod and brought it down hard and direct against her shoulder. She gasped in a breath, the pain so blinding she couldn’t make a sound as she rolled on her back. Her vision blurred into black splotches. She wanted to fight, but couldn’t string two thoughts together. Whatever was gonna happen, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Why?” she gasped.

“Whore. Harlot. I’ve had it with watching you parade your pert little ass around. I’ve had it. You’ve hurt too many people.”

Dixie blinked her vision into focus and glimpsed dark eyes staring at her through the mask. The tire iron rose. She braced hoping against hope she could mitigate the blow’s damage by tensing.

“No mercy,” the stranger said.

The next blow struck her temple and in a flash her vision went dark.

Baby exhaled, breathless and excited.

An hour ago Dixie had flickered bright on the stage, swishing her skirt and flirting with the crowd. Now Dixie’s crumpled body lay on the cold, damp ground in a pool of blood.

Four well-placed blows had obliterated the sweet, seductive siren’s high swipe of cheekbones, full red lips, creamy skin and thick eyelashes into pulp. No whore deserved to go into the next world with her looks. That smacked of injustice in Baby’s book. A beautiful whore could well strike a deal with the Devil and then return to the earth to haunt.

The idea of Dixie returning had Baby gripping the cold iron high and slamming it on Dixie’s face in another crushing blow. Blood splattered. Bone crushed. Again and again the tire iron struck until finally, Baby, breathless and blood-soaked, stopped.

Stepping back, a satisfied smile curled at the utter ruin and destruction of one once so beautiful.

Dixie Simmons wouldn’t be parading her tart ass around town anymore or singing those songs designed to ruin men’s lives.

Dead and gone.

October 18

Sugggar . . .

You are a dirty little man. You shocked me but good when you whispered those bad boy words that swirled in my head like a merry-go-round. Each time they pass my knees go weak. You’ve got me curious. So forget all that I said about good and evil. Come on by after the show tonight. You might find I’m ready to play.

A.

Chapter One

Thursday, October 13, 8 AM

Rain dripped from Detective Deke Morgan’s jacket as he pushed through the doors of the Tennessee medical examiner’s office, his shoulders tense with fatigue and a headache hammering his eyes. His latest homicide call had come after three thirty a.m., minutes after he’d polished off his second beer and scrawled his name on papers dissolving his second, and what he’d sworn would be his last, marriage. Conditioned by fifteen years on the force, he’d swapped regrets, faded jeans, and a Titans T-shirt for purpose, a coat and tie, and strong coffee.

With rain falling and thunder rumbling in the distance, he’d arrived at the murder scene by four thirty, greeted by the swarm of cops and news vans. “Driver’s license says Dixie Simmons,” said a young uniformed officer, eyes watery and troubled. The license showed the face of a pretty woman, thick lightly colored hair and eyes bright with amusement.

As the media had been corralled on the opposite corner and were firing questions at Deke, he’d donned gloves, passed the pallid faces of more uniforms, and ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape. When he had lifted the bloody sheet, he’d found an unrecognizable mess, which he’d studied with a clinician’s eye. As he’d left the scene he had heard whispered comparisons to his cop father, also known for a fearsome detachment that had made him as efficient as he was untouchable.

At the medical examiner’s security desk, separated from the lobby by a thick glass wall, Deke tossed the dregs of a fourth coffee into the trash and dug his badge from his pocket. With an all clear from a burly guard, the locked side door clicked open and he wound his way into the building.

Assistant medical examiner Dr. Miriam Heller had texted him a half-hour ago and told him his victim would be autopsied in exam room two. Outside the double doors, he put on a gown and gloves and then pushed inside the exam room.

Dr. Heller stood at the head of a stainless steel exam table, the body of Dixie Simmons covered in a clean white sheet.

Standing at five-foot-ten, Heller was a slim woman in her midthirties with a smooth olive complexion and long dark hair she kept twisted in a tight knot. Dark thick lashes framed blue eyes with a slight almond tilt. She rarely wore makeup and favored skinny jeans, flats, and sleeveless blouses. Caring and compassionate, she also possessed a dry sense of humor that kept most of the cops on their toes.

“Dr. Heller.”

She peered around the computer screen. “Detective Morgan. Where is your partner in crime?”

Detective KC Kelly had five days remaining until Department retirement. With thirty-two years on the Nashville Police force, he’d worked with everyone who’d been on the murder squad, including Deke’s father, the late great Detective Buddy Morgan.

Deke stretched the kinks from his neck. “He’ll be here soon.”

She tsked. “Short-timer? Less than a week to go but he’s already quit.”

KC now talked constantly about sailing the seas with his new girlfriend, who’d given him renewed purpose after his wife lost her life to cancer last year. “No. He’s still hitting it hard. He was interviewing witnesses at the murder scene when I left.”

“He doesn’t like my office. Calls me Morticia behind my back.”

“No offense intended, Dr. Heller.” KC was a good cop, but could run his mouth. “He doesn’t like the ME’s office.”

Eyes flashed with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. “Then why choose homicide?”

“I never said he was sane.”

“Which one of you on the squad is?”

“Point taken.”

The Nashville homicide team had five members, Deke and KC, Ian McGowan, Jake Bishop, and Red Dickens. All solid cops and, except for KC and Deke, under forty.

“Is he having a big retirement party?”

“So I hear. I kicked into the kitty but haven’t paid much attention to the plans. When I’m told where to go, I’ll go.”

She adjusted the overhead microphone to within inches of her mouth. “Still working on that house?”

“Getting around to unpacking last night.”

A dark brow rose. “You’ve been out there what, six months?”

“There about. Never a fan of chores.” Unpacking amounted to accepting failures and a new life that still didn’t fit right.

Dr. Heller cut through the small talk to the heart of the matter. “If you want to sell, then do it. No law says you have to live in the family home.”

“The Big House is wrapped around a lot of family history. Got to give it a try.”

His mother had inherited the white plantation style house set on thirty acres from her parents and she and Deke’s father had moved into the showpiece right after they’d married. The four Morgan children had been a tight-knit pack thanks to their mother who’d served dinner nightly at the big table. Buddy took his place at the table often enough to regale his children with wild cop tales and to infect each child with the law enforcement bug. When their mother had died twelve years ago, the family tapestry had frayed and when a heart attack had claimed Buddy six months ago it had unraveled. Though all the Morgan children lived or worked within miles of each other they saw one another only when their jobs demanded it. The Big House was the last bit of Morgan glue.

Deke touched his dark necktie. “Tell me what you know about the victim, Doc.”

Dr. Heller pulled back the sheet. The body had been stripped of clothing, and exposed pale skin made the bruising and dried blood all the more obvious and grotesque. “Assuming the driver’s license did belong to this victim, Dixie Simmons was twenty years old, stood five-foot-two, and weighed approximately one hundred and ten pounds. There’re no defensive wounds. The first blow likely caug

ht her by surprise. All her blows, except two, were sustained on or about the head and each would have been crippling.”

Deke studied the misshapen, crushed face. “He destroyed her face and her identity.”

She cradled the fractured face in her gloved hands and rotated it to the right to display a shattered cheekbone and eye socket. “She was hit eight to ten times on her face.”

He studied the carnage. “One blow would have been enough to kill her but to keep hitting her face . . . that feels personal.”

“I’ve seen drug abusers commit great violence that wasn’t personal.”

“Her purse wasn’t taken. None of her jewelry was taken and there’re no signs of sexual assault, correct?”

“I’ve not done a thorough examination but so far no bruising on the inside of her legs, which would indicate rape.”

“Now it’s my job to figure out what whack-job in Dixie Simmons’s life hated her so much.”

The double doors to the exam room swung open and KC eased into the autopsy room like a man facing a rattler. He’d shaken off his jacket but his near bald head glistened with rain. “Five days to go. I was saying last night to Brenda that if I never saw the inside of this place again, it would be too soon. No offense, Dr. Heller.”

She smiled. “None taken.”

He took extra time to tug on gloves before approaching. He stopped several feet from the body and studied the victim’s face. Sadness deepened the craggy lines etched around his eyes. “I won’t miss this.”

Deke shook his head. “I’ll give you two weeks before you are back hanging around the station. Brenda’s nice enough but not working is gonna drive you insane.”

KC shook his head. “No damn way. I put in my time, and I’m retiring before the job kills me.”

He stopped short of saying Buddy’s name but they both knew the force had taken its toll on Buddy’s heart. Eyewitness accounts had said Buddy had risen from his favorite booth at the diner after a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, winced, and dropped. He’d been dead before he’d hit the floor. “Before you take off, tell me what you learned. Witnesses have information?”

Tags: Mary Burton Morgans of Nashville Suspense
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