Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

The boyfriend’s name was Billy Martinez. Billy. Ronnie’s best friend. Susan Martinez. A brother perhaps? He studied the picture featuring a kid with long, blond hair and with blotchy skin; Billy appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen. Rick searched the kid and got a hit. A few phone calls and he had the kid’s record.

Billy had met Sara at the high school football game. According to his record, he had come from a low-income family but had a charming personality that could convince anyone to do just about anything. Classic bad guy meets and corrupts good girl? Billy’s record started with a theft charge and within six months had progressed to arson. Arson. The fires had been small but most arsonists started with small fires. And as their need for excitement and thrill grew, so did the fires.

There’d been a small fire at the Thompson house the day the family had been slaughtered. But that fire had burned itself out far too fast. Had Billy set the fire? Had he been the shooter or working with the shooter? And if Billy had been involved, what had set him off? Often, the motives were simple. Love or money. Maybe it was as simple as Billy and Sara had suffered a falling out.

Billy’s police file ended right before the Thompsons’ murders. He’d avoided jail time but had been remanded to the custody of his sister, Susan. He dug deeper in the files searching for Susan’s last name. A flip of a few pages and he found the name. Susan Martinez. Half sister. The two shared the same mother.

Rick sat straighter. Susan Martinez had said she was having an affair with Jenna’s father. They’d all walked in the same circles. He called Susan’s cell but the call went to voice mail. He called the station and learned she’d quit.

Rick snapped a picture of Billy’s mug shot and on a hunch texted it to Jenna.

Can you do an age progression?

Seconds passed.

Must buy supplies.

Short, clipped, pissed. “Shit, Rick. Try a little harder.” He texted her again.

I’m not just thinking about work right now.

More seconds passed.

Tell me.

Later. In private.

We’ll see.

He smiled at the response. If he wanted Jenna Thompson in his life, he was gonna have to work for it.

Rick got the call around five P.M. that Loyola Briggs had been spotted at a hotel that rented by the hour. He’d driven directly to the motel. The manager had taken him to her room and when they had entered, they’d found her splayed on the motel-room bed, unconscious. Rick checked for a pulse and found it very weak and thready.

Rick hung up and relayed the information to his partner.

“Is she dead?” Bishop asked.

“Damn near close. She’s on her way to the hospital. Seems she’s got such a high tolerance for the stuff she didn’t overdose like a normal person.”

“Shit. I don’t want to lose her. I want Heather’s story told.”

“What about Danny? Has he said what happened to Heather?”

“No.”

Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “Loyola is gonna live and Danny will talk.”

“You can’t bulldoze your way through everything, Boy Scout.”

“Watch me.”

When Rick and Bishop arrived at Loyola’s hospital, a news crew greeted them. He glanced around expecting to see Susan Martinez, but found a blond reporter in her early twenties headed his way.

“Detective Morgan,” the woman shouted. “I’m Brandy Corker with Channel Five. Can you tell me if you’ve found the mother of the Lost Girl?”

“Where’s Martinez?” Rick mumbled to Bishop, waving Brandy away, as if swatting away a fly. He and Bishop turned and hurried into the hospital.

“Flew away on her broom.”

“I suppose.”

Bishop glanced back at Brandy. “She’s a looker.”

Rick shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. She’ll eat you up and spit you out for a story.”

Bishop glanced back toward the reporter. “I might risk it.”

The detectives found Dr. Bramley, Loyola’s doctor, on the second floor at the nurses’ station.

He was a young guy, not much more than thirty, with thick brown hair and a young face weighted down by fatigue.

Opening the chart, Dr. Bramley read over his notes. “You got her here just in time. Five more minutes and she’d have died.”

“So she’ll live and stand trial.” Bishop flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Good. When will she be awake?”

Dr. Bramley closed the chart and tucked it under his arm. “She’s making some sounds now.”

“Can you give her something to wake her up?” Rick asked.

“Her system has been through a real trauma.”

Rick dug deep for an ounce of pity but couldn’t find any. “She’s a suspect in a missing child case and, most recently, an arson case. I need to know why she set the fire and if she had help.”

“I can’t stimulate her with drugs, but if you make noise, talk to her as loud as you can, you might reach her. It’s clear she’s used before and is burning this stuff off faster than most.”

“Thanks.”

Rick and Bishop pushed into her hospital room, the doctor on their heels. Rick approached the bed, staring at the pale, thin figure.

“Loyola!” Rick spoke sharply, hoping his tone would reach through the haze.

She stirred but didn’t open her eyes.

“Loyola!” He clapped his hands and this time she did stir.

“Go away,” she mumbled. She turned her head to the side and tried to bury it in her pillow.

Rick clapped his hands again. “I’m not going anywhere. Why did you set the fire?”

She flinched and moaned. “I didn’t . . .”

“You did. We found accelerant in your motel room and pictures of Jenna. When did you decide to burn her house down?”

“I didn’t . . .”

“You did. You tested positive for accelerant. You set that fire.”

She tried to lift groggy lids. “No.”

If Rachel Wainwright remained her attorney, all this would get thrown out of court. But he wasn’t worried about an arson conviction right now. He wanted whoever put her up to the fire and then he’d nail her on murder charges.

Rick leaned close enough to get a whiff of a sick, sweet smell emanating from her body. “Loyola, who told you to set the fire?”

She shook her head. “I set it.”

Rick patted her face with his hand over and over until she opened her eyes and looked at him. “No way. You couldn’t have found Jenna’s address that fast.”

She stared at him, eyes part vacant and part defiant.

“Tell me who showed you how to set the fire. Let me help you.”

Her brow wrinkled. “You don’t want to help me.”

Bishop nudged Rick aside. He drew in a calming breath, sat at her bedside, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “I do. I do. But you’ve got to work with me.” He smiled.

Touch was a powerful tool and Rick knew Loyola craved approval. He knew this, but was too angry to give it to her.

She swallowed as if her throat hurt. Her gaze locked on Bishop. “I don’t have a name.”

Bishop took Loyola’s hand in his. “No name?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t care.” Her voice drifted and Rick sensed he was losing her.

“How about a description?” Even Bishop’s normally abrupt accent had softened.

She closed her eyes. “Not tall. Not thin or fat. Just regular. Wore a bulky hoodie.”

“Hair color. Eyes?”

“Brown and brown.” Her breathing grew deep and though he repeated more questions, she was drifting back into unconsciousness.

Bishop rested his hands on his hips. “That description narrows it down to about a million people.”