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“Too bad.”
She didn’t comment as she rose and began to pack up her supplies. “Thanks for the business.”
He hesitated and then with a quick nod, turned and left. She watched him move down the sidewalk crowded with laughing tourists and then vanish around the corner. Her fingers trembled. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
She thought about the Lost Girl’s picture in her case and suddenly had a real need to give it to Rick and be done with the case.
Jenna packed up her supplies, loaded them in her car, and drove to the Nashville Police Department. She parked in the nearby lot and shut off the engine. Large humming lamps cast an eerie glow on her pale skin as she grabbed her sketchpad and headed across the lot to the front doors. She moved to the main desk where a uniformed officer sat.
“I need to leave a sketch for Detective Rick Morgan.”
The female officer had red hair twisted into a tight bun at the base of her head. The sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose did little to soften her demeanor. “And you are?”
“Jenna Thompson.” Explaining herself had not been as easy as she’d hoped. Carrying a sketchpad and saying she knew Rick Morgan didn’t mean squat to the officer on duty, who would not let her inside without a badge.
“I need identification.”
She’d left her badge in Baltimore. “Best I can do is a driver’s license.”
“That’ll do.”
She dug it out of her purse and handed it over.
A glance at the license prompted a frown before she handed it back to Jenna. “Detective Morgan should be back in the next fifteen minutes. You can wait or give whatever it is you need to give him to me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
Instinctively, she hugged the sketchpad closer to her chest. “Thanks. I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself.”
She moved to an empty bank of chairs and sat. Seconds later, two uniformed officers moved past the front desk, flashing badges and exchanging smiles with the redhead before vanishing behind the locked double doors.
How many times had she breezed through the lobby of the Baltimore Police Department, barely tossing a glance toward the people in the waiting room? She’d never given a thought or questioned her total access.
And now here she sat. She was on the other side of the desk. An outsider. She’d chosen to take leave from the Force. She’d needed the break. But until this moment she had never felt like an outsider looking over the thin blue line. She missed belonging to a fraternity that was more family than job.
Ten minutes passed. She drummed her fingers on her thigh as she sat and watched people come and go. Whether they were laughing, frowning, or stoic, they moved beyond the double doors with ease.
Rick Morgan pushed through the front door. His jaw was set, his gaze hard and focused. Not a happy camper by her estimation.
Good. Join the club. She stood. “Morgan.”
At the sound of her voice, he turned, assessing her with a quick sweep of his gaze. “Jenna.”
With her sketchpad tucked under her arm, she moved toward him. “I have your sketch.”
Surprise widened his eyes a fraction as he met her halfway. “It’s finished?”
“Yes.” She nearly explained that, as always, she’d struggled with the eyes but caught herself and remained silent.
“Come on upstairs. I’d like to have a look at it.”
She could have handed it off to him and been done with it. In fact, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. But she couldn’t do that to the Lost Girl. Somewhere along the way she’d become invested in this case. She might have crossed the blue line, but this case was as much hers as it was his. “Sure.”
They took the elevator and wound through a series of cubicles and desks until they reached a windowless conference room. He flipped on a light and reached for his cell. “I’ll text Bishop. He’ll want to see this.”
“Okay.” On a credenza, a coffeepot filled with stale coffee that resembled sludge reminded her of the Baltimore Police Department. The furniture looked overused and tired. The walls had faded from white to a dullish gray. Some things were universal. She set her sketchpad on the table.
Rick’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “He’ll be here in twenty.”
More waiting. She’d not have done it for anyone other than the little girl whom she’d captured in her sketch. “Sure.”
“Can I get you coffee?”
She laid her sketchpad on the table. “Was it made in the last decade?”
A smile quirked the edge of his lips. “Within the last few weeks. I’ll make a fresh pot.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I could use one.”
“Then, sure.” The coffee would mean she wouldn’t sleep but her racing mind had already signaled this was going to be a long night.
“Be right back.” He vanished and reappeared minutes later with two steaming cups. “I’m fairly good at making coffee.”
It smelled fresh, rich. “A man of hidden talents.”
He nodded, and a smile curled his lips as he raised the cup to his lips. “Sugar or milk?”
“No, thanks.”
He motioned for her to sit and if she’d been left alone, she’d have stood. Too much energy buzzed in her body. But if she stood, so would he.
She sat in the chair and watched as he sat and angled his seat away from the table so that it faced her. “Can I have a look at the sketch?”
“You don’t want to wait for your partner?”
“No.”
She hadn’t been away from the Force so long that she’d forgotten how to read a tense vibe. “There a turf war between you two?”
His fingers tensed a fraction as he sipped from his cup. “No. I just don’t feel like waiting.”
“You ooze tension, Morgan.”
The next smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t know what you’re seeing.”
She opted not to press. “Long as it doesn’t interfere with this case, then I don’t care.”
“You talk about it as if it were your case.”
“It is. Not officially, of co
urse, but I’m invested. I want her killer caught.” She opened her sketchbook and flipped past several pages filled with sketches of half-drawn faces.
He studied her a beat. “You miss the job, don’t you?”
“Sure. I miss it.”
“Why’d you quit?”
Ah, there was the question. The elephant that danced in the room each time they were together. “I didn’t quit. I took leave.” He’d turned the tables on her. “Does it really matter?”
“Not in the big scheme but I’m curious.”
“Just needed a break.”
He shook his head. “That’s a lame answer, Thompson.”
Just because he asked, didn’t mean he deserved an answer to the question. “Didn’t you take a break after you were shot?”
“A bullet to the hip forced the time off so I gave school a try while my body healed. Matter of time before I returned.”
“We should all be so lucky to have your clear vision.”
Jenna shifted, her discomfort growing like a flame fed with dry kindling. “Let’s look at the sketch.” She opened her sketchpad, more than ready to be finished with this conversation.
As she flipped through the pages his attention was drawn away from her to the page filled with eyes. “What’re those?”
“I’m always drawing. Often, I’m intrigued and work on a face and then I lose interest and don’t finish it.”
“You got a thing for eyes.”
“They’re the mirrors to the soul.”
“You believe that?”
“I do.”
“Seems odd that you wouldn’t finish the sketches. Or maybe that’s kinda your thing. Not finishing a job.”
“Damn, Morgan, does your brain only entertain one thought at a time?” Irritation burned under her tone.
“I’m like a dog with a bone.”
Did he just want her gone from Nashville? “I didn’t come here to talk about me. These partial drawings are a part of the drawing process.”
“Whom are you trying to draw?” he said, pointing to the eyes.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You don’t know?”
This close, his energy radiated. She offered another shrug of her shoulders to soften another incomplete explanation. “Artists and their quirks.”
