Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

“Except that there’s a body in the house,” Rick added. “Any clue who it might be?”

“Not yet,” Prince said. “Waiting on the medical examiner’s van.”

“Who’s in charge of the arson investigation?”

Prince pointed to a broad-shouldered man wearing a fireman’s jacket and pants, heavy boots, and a helmet. “Inspector Dean Murphy. He’s the one that found the body.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Rick and Bishop made their way across the water-soaked yard, up a cement sidewalk to a set of brick stairs that now led really to nowhere. In the center of the blackened remains stood Dean Murphy.

“Inspector Murphy,” Rick said.

The man held up a hand, asking Rick to wait, as if he were engrossed in midthought. He scribbled notes on a page and then slowly faced them. In his early sixties he sported a large stock of white hair, full eyebrows, and a ruddy complexion.

Rick made introductions. “The uniformed officer tells me it was arson.”

Inspector Murphy shoved out a breath. “No doubt about it.” He pointed to several sections of the ruins that had all but disintegrated. “Those spots are ignition points where our arsonist poured lots of accelerant, likely diesel or kerosene. As you can see, we’ve got multiple ignition points, but if you look over here where the body was found, there’s quite a bit of damage. That area was the bedroom.”

Rick studied what had been the bedroom and could make out the faint impression of a body. High heat not only seared flesh but it melted the body’s fat and ate into bone turning it to ash and dust.

“At this point, I can’t tell you how the person died,” Murphy said. “Witnesses tell me the house was vacant except for the staged furniture. A neighbor was keeping an eye on the house. I don’t know if this is a suicide or a murder. Can’t even tell you at this point if the victim was a male or female. The fire was deliberate and intended to obliterate the house.”

Removing a body from a scene damaged by fire was tricky. Often the body had fused or dissolved into the surrounding area so crews scooped up all they could from around the body and took it, knowing it could be sorted at the medical examiner’s office. However, lots of photos would be taken and the scene carefully mapped before the body could be removed.

Flashing lights reflected off the windows of the house in the yard adjoining this one. Rick turned to see the Nashville Police Department’s forensic van arrive.

“Can you take me closer to the spot where the body was found?”

“Spot is still too hot. But there’s something I can show you,” Murphy said. He pulled a digital camera from his pocket, clicked on the camera, and scrolled through several pictures. “Have a look at this.”

Rick and Bishop stared at the image. At first, it only appeared to be blackened wood, but closer inspection revealed the faint impression of letters. “A word.”

“Appears to have been carved into what I think was the headboard of the bed. “I missed it the first time through.”

Rick removed his sunglasses and, squinting, studied the image. “I see an F and an A.” The remaining letters were faint, but a careful study of the letters’ curves nudged the puzzle pieces into place. “Faithless.”

Murphy rubbed his hand over the side of his square jaw. “That’s exactly what I saw. I also think, judging by the remains, that the body was tied spread-eagle. Likely to the bed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Most people die in the fetal position. They’re trying to protect their face and airways. This person is facing up with hands out.”

Fire ate through the outer extremities first: fingers and hands, toes and feet. The limbs of this victim were gone but shoulders remained in place.

“Hell of a way to destroy evidence,” Bishop said.

Murphy shrugged as he shut off the image. “Fire obliterates a lot but not everything.”

Rick stretched his neck from side to side. “Faithless.”

It was after ten by the time Rick reached KC’s bar. The former cop had retired last year after thirty-five years in the Nashville Police Department. KC and Rick’s father, Buddy, had been partners for twenty-nine years. KC and his late wife had never had children, but they had been honorary members of the Morgan clan and had broken bread with them many times.

Short, with a thick chest and a large, hard belly, KC wore a Hawaiian shirt that hung loosely over jeans. He’d let his regulation short hair grow since he’d retired and now secured it back in a small ponytail at the base of his neck. KC, badass cop, had gone native.

The walls were decorated with hundreds of black-and-white photos of country-western singers. Some had shot to stardom while most faced obscurity. Tradition dictated that when a singer hit the big-time they returned to Rudy’s and had their picture taken with Rudy. His image taken over decades covered the walls. No signs yet of KC with a big star but he’d said it was only a matter of time.

No band onstage tonight. Piped-in music blared overhead as Rick moved toward KC who filled a couple of beer mugs from a tap. When he set the mugs in front of a couple of women dressed in sparkling denim, he glanced up and caught Rick’s gaze. He grinned and, grabbing a towel, wiped his hands before motioning to a second bartender and ducking out from behind the bar.

He extended a large hand to Rick. “Well, look what the damn cat dragged in.”

Rick shook KC’s hand and smiled. “Looks like you’re staying out of trouble.”

“Can’t complain. We seem to pack them in night after night.”

“There’s life after the department?”

“Who knew? Where’s Tracker?”

“Home. He was ready to call it a day. Georgia’s staying at the Big House most nights.”

“How’s she doing?”

Rick shrugged. “Putting one foot in front of the other.”

KC’s smile faded to a troubled frown before he caught himself and straightened. “So what brings you down here?”

“I’ve come about Jenna Thompson.”

“The artist?” A thin veil dropped over his expression and Rick sensed he’d mentally shifted to attention. Was he expecting trouble or ready to defend Jenna? “What’s up?”

“You know she’s on leave from the Baltimore Police Department?”

He puffed his chest, a proud peacock. “She didn’t say she was a cop but I knew right off she’d worn a badge. Something about the vibe.”

“How’d you two meet?”

“She just showed up and ordered lunch. While she ate she started drawing me. Hard not to look.” He jabbed his thumb toward a sketch tacked to the wall behind the bar. The pencil sketch had captured KC laughing.

“Hell of a picture.”

“That’s what I said.” He cast another glance at the picture and then faced Rick. “She said if I let her draw pictures outside the bar, people would stop. Would really help with the families—the before-seven-P.M. crowd. Said she’d done it a good bit back East and always had a crowd. The overflow would come in here.”

“Just like that.”

He leaned in a fraction. “She didn’t blink once and gave me the sense she was doing me the favor. I like confidence in a woman.”

Rick could see KC had a slight crush on Jenna. Thirty-plus years separated them in age, but hell, a man could dream. “So you said yes?”

“I refilled her coffee and we chatted. Never can be too careful.”

The bitterness humming below the surface hinted to KC’s last girlfriend who’d done a number on him. He was cautious these days when it came to women.

“But you said yes.”

“I thought it couldn’t hurt. No skin off my nose to give it a few nights. Hell, I really expected her not to show.”

“But she did.”

“Right on time. And she was correct. She brings in business.”

“How long she been here?”

“Two weeks. Her one night off is Monday. Come back tomorrow and you’ll see her.”