“Yeah.” The manager ran tense fingers through his hair. “I got one on file.”
“I’ll need that,” Rick said.
The manager shook his head. “To think the guys were a little jealous of him. All his talk about how wonderful his girlfriend was and all the fun they were having was psycho crap.”
“We think so.”
The manager snorted. “Did she file a complaint against him? Did she catch him looking in a window or something?”
“No,” Rick said. “She was murdered.”
“What the hell. Did Wheeler do that?”
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
The detectives arrived at Ford’s small apartment a half hour later. Rick drew in a breath as he pulled on a fresh set of gloves. Keys in hand from Ford’s coat pocket they opened the door and flipped on the lights. The living room was barren, and there was not a stick of furniture except for a recliner and a television balanced on a couple of crates. However, the room’s lack of furnishings was lost immediately in the shadow of four walls covered with thousands of images. They all featured Nancy. Hundreds and hundreds of images of Nancy. Smiling. Talking. Rushing. Jogging.
“Holy crap,” Bishop said.
Rick walked into the center of the room as his gaze scanned. “He’s been following her for a while. Several seasons.”
“Tuttle started stalking Diane last fall.”
Rick shook his head. “No way this is coincidence.”
“Medical examiner has still not identified Nancy. It’s taking time to track down dental records.”
Rick moved to the wall filled with endless images of Nancy Jones. “Really think our victim isn’t Nancy Jones?”
“No.”
Rick studied the photographic collection. “Think it might have been some kind of pact between the two men?”
“Neither had the brains for this kind of organization.”
“I agree. But maybe together they figured it out?”
Bishop looked around the dirty room filled with pizza boxes, trash heaps, and too many empty beer cans to count. “I don’t see this guy planning much of anything.”
“So someone got ahold of these two men and set them on this path.”
“That would be my guess.”
Rick turned from the images. “We’ll search everything in both men’s backgrounds and compare. Maybe we’ll get a hit.”
“Maybe.”
Rick studied Nancy’s pictures and his thoughts returned to the Thompson case as he reached for his phone to call a forensics team. He called in their discovery to the team and then slowly slid the phone in his coat pocket.
He watched as Bishop took pictures of the room with his cell. He’d been careful about opening up too much to his partner, knowing the guy wasn’t crazy about his appointment. Though wiser not to say a word, he heard himself saying, “I read through the Thompson murder files.”
“Jenna Thompson’s family.”
“Yeah.”
Bishop turned his gaze, teetering on amused. “So is that your idea of a good time? Reading up on old murder cases?”
“Just struck me as odd, her being in town so close to the anniversary of her family’s death and her hooking up with KC and Georgia.”
“I’ll admit there’re too many coincidences for my taste, but why dig into the murder? You feel guilty about Martinez sharing Jenna’s history?”
Bracing, he said, “I wasn’t happy about it. Irritated me that she found something I missed.”
“Jenna Thompson is a big girl. She knew what she was risking by talking to the media. Hell, she might have agreed to it knowing she might be exposed.”
“The point is,” Rick said, “reading the files set off alarm bells.”
Bishop didn’t speak, but his attention didn’t waver.
“I see similarities between the Thompson case and these two.”
Bishop laughed. “Boy Scout, you’re really reaching. The Thompson case is twenty-five years old.”
“I know. It sounds nuts.”
Bishop folded his arms. “But—”
“First,” Rick said, holding up his index finger, “the victims were shot in the head. Second, there was accelerant in the house and scorch marks. The fire didn’t take. Sara Thompson was sexually assaulted. And the killer was found dead of a drug overdose.”
Bishop’s smile faded a fraction. “No kids involved in any of these new cases.”
“August twenty-six is the twenty-fifth anniversary. Might have triggered something in someone.”
“Triggered something? Like in Jenna?”
“No.”
“Don’t be too quick to dismiss the idea, Boy Scout. She could be pulling the strings of these men. She has the brains and know-how to kill someone.”
“Shit, no! That’s not where I’m going at all.”
“You should be. Think about it. She returns out of the blue, sets up her easel in front of KC’s bar, befriends Georgia, and volunteers to help on a case. Well isn’t she the model citizen.” He shook his head. “Perfect setup. Maybe what happened twenty-five years ago damaged the hell out of her and the anniversary is some kind of trigger.”
The logic fit. But he couldn’t swallow it. “No.”
“Dude, make sure the big head is thinking right now.”
Rick shoved out a breath. “The big head is doing the thinking.”
“If it’s not Jenna
, then who? This mystery manipulator has been off the radar for years.”
“Hell if I know. But it wouldn’t hurt to check into old homicides involving fires.”
Bishop rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Old homicides involving fires. You got any idea how long that will take?”
“A lot of time.”
“Time neither of us has.”
Rick imagined the number of dusty files that would have to be read. “Then let’s narrow the connection. Who was in the Thompsons’ life who had an influence on Tuttle and Wheeler?”
“It’s a needle in the haystack.”
“Those parameters narrow the haystack.”
“Not by much.”
Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and thought about his two victims. Successful. Female. Mid thirties. And then, he remembered something Linda Nelson, Nancy’s neighbor, had said. He flipped through his notebook until he found her contact information, a personal cell. He called and she answered on the third ring, “Linda Nelson.”
“Ms. Nelson, this is Detective Rick Morgan. You said Nancy’s mother was moved into a nursing home.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened to her house?”
“Nancy sold it.”
He pictured the trampled FOR SALE sign in Diane’s yard. “Do you know which realtor she used?”
“No, sorry. All the records would have been in her house.”
“If you think of it, call me.”
“Sure. Have you found Nancy yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Call me when you do.”
“Sure.”
He hung up. “Nancy sold her mother’s house and Diane was selling her house.”
Bishop snapped his fingers. “Now that’s a connection that makes sense.”
Rick flipped through his notebook again. “The sign in Diane Smith’s yard read ‘Nashville South Realty.’”
Bishop shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to this group.”
He plugged the name of the agency into his phone and after a few seconds a website appeared. “I’ve got an address.”
“Unless they have an all-night realty service, it’s going to have to wait.”
Rick checked his watch. It was well after midnight. “Right.”