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“I’ll get those to Martinez,” Bishop said. No hint of bravado or challenge.
Rick handed over the pictures. Whatever turf war these two were having, well, they’d called a truce during this case.
They moved down the hallway, down to the first floor and out to the parking lot. The sun had set and a gentle breeze blew cooler air. She fished her keys from her purse and opened the back door. She grabbed her art box.
Rick took the box from her. “Her office is three blocks that way.”
“Handy location.”
“She’ll tell you she picked the place because it’s cheap. Her place used to be a restaurant. She works on the first floor and lives on the second.”
As they walked down Union, she inhaled a deep breath, savoring the open space. “Where’s Tracker?”
“Home. We had to swing by the house for a few minutes and this late in the day he’s better off resting.”
“I bet he wasn’t happy.”
“No. Not thrilled. But I gave him a chew stick and that seemed to buy some forgiveness.”
A smile played on the edges of her lips. “I took leave from the Force willingly and I realized today how much I miss it. I can’t imagine having it snatched away.”
“It’s not fun.”
The walk to Rachel’s office took ten minutes and just as they reached it, Rick’s cell buzzed.
“Deke,” he said as he raised the phone to his ear. He listened and nodded. “Great. I’ll let her know.”
As he hung up, Jenna said, “Ms. Wainwright has agreed to the sketch.”
“She did. She’s getting her client ready now.”
“She doesn’t waste time.”
“She’s a dynamo. Not the kind of attorney I’d want to deal with in court.”
Deke, who’d driven, had beaten them to the office, a brick building with a large plate-glass window that read WAINWRIGHT AND ASSOCIATES.
Deke and a slender woman with short, black hair greeted them. Intensity radiated from the woman who wore a black sleeveless dress that showed off fit arms and the lean legs of a runner.
“Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “Meet Rachel Wainwright. Attorney-at-law and champion of the downtrodden.”
Rachel arched a brow. She was tall, lean, and possessed a severity that might have made her unapproachable if not for her eyes. They radiated a softness that weakened some of Jenna’s defenses.
The attorney extended her hand to Jenna. “I hear you’re a forensic artist.”
Jenna accepted her hand, noting Rachel’s firm handshake. “I am.”
“She’s very talented,” Rick said.
Jenna shrugged. “I am.”
Rachel’s gaze sharpened. “I like a woman who knows her worth.”
“Where’s your client?” Jenna asked.
“And you don’t like to waste time. We might become friends,” Rachel said. “My client is inside. She’s taking a quick shower but will be downstairs in a minute.”
They entered the building to find a large, open floor plan. There were two desks, one piled high with papers and the other stripped clean as if it had been vacated. Looked like “and Associates” was for show.
“Is there a private place she and I can meet?” Witnesses often relaxed in more private conditions.
“No formal conference room but there is the kitchen. It’s become an impromptu conference room at times. My client will join us there soon.”
She glanced toward double swinging doors that looked as if they led to the kitchen. “Great.”
“I’ll be sitting in, of course.”
“No,” Jenna said.
“Excuse me?” Rachel’s tone took a hard right from easygoing to challenging.
“I always meet with my ‘clients’ alone. In the early years, I’d allow friends and, once, an attorney, to stay. But having the other person in the process affected the outcome. The witness will always relax more if it’s just the two of us.”
Rachel looked as if she’d bitten into something sour. “I’m looking out for Belinda’s best interests. I wouldn’t hamper her description.”
Rick, to his credit, did not offer a comment. Points for him, she thought. She fought her own battles.
“You wouldn’t mean to, but you would. We always alter what we say based on our audience, even if we don’t realize we’re doing it.” She knew her job, but these folks didn’t fully believe that. One sketch had earned her some points but cops, and clearly Rachel Wainwright, were a hard sell. “I promise it will be best. You’ll end up with a better image.”
Hands planted on narrow hips, Rachel considered Jenna. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Rick shook his head. “On that note, I’ll leave you two.”
Rachel looked at Rick as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Thanks.”
Smiling as if accustomed to Rachel’s tunnel vision, Rick saluted and with a nod to Jenna said, “Good luck.”
The Morgans didn’t smile much as a general rule but when they did, it was hard to be indifferent. “It’s getting late and this is going to take a few hours.”
“Sure.”
As Rachel led the way, Jenna followed. The two entered the industrial kitchen equipped with well-used stainless-steel appliances and a large counter surrounded by a half-dozen stools.
Rachel reached in a bulky briefcase and pulled out a thin file. “I was just assigned her case this morning. Her name is Belinda Horton. She’s twenty years old and she’s a waitress at a local pub in East Nashville.”
“What happened?”
“She was attacked. Raped. The man held a knife to her throat and told her if she moved, he’d cut her throat. She was terrified and complied.”
Jenna had felt helpless and terrified when she’d been five, but as an adult, she’d learned self-defense as well as how to handle a gun. She’d never, ever wanted to feel that kind of fear again.
As if reading her thoughts, Rachel added, “She’s a small woman and her attacker was well over six feet. She’d never encountered any violence before.”
“Why was she in jail?”
“According to Belinda, the attack happened two months ago. She never told anyone and she never sought out help after the attack. She’s been drinking heavily. Last night, she was drunk when she slammed her car into a park bench. She walked away unscathed but totaled her car as well as the bench. The judge wasn’t happy and wanted to send a message to drunk drivers.”
“Understandable.”
“He’s ready to throw the book at her. When I got the case, she started weeping almost immediately and told me about the rape. No one else knows.”
“Could be a convenient lie.” Jenna traced her finger over the smooth edge of the visitor’s table.
“I know. Believe me, I know. That’s why I’d like a picture of her attacker. If we can somehow identify him then maybe we can prove the attack happened and she can receive counseling instead of jail time.”
“Fair enough.”
Seconds later, they heard footsteps in the back hallway and the back staircase doorway swung open to a petite woman whose short, blond hair hung damp around her round face. Mascara had smudged below her eyes and the jeans and gray shirt she wore made her skin look sallow. She wore chipped red-tipped nail polish and had a small butterfly tattoo on
her wrist.
Belinda’s eyes were bloodshot as she looked at Rachel with a measure of relief. “Ms. Wainwright.”
Rachel smiled. “Belinda. How’re you doing?”
“Hanging in there. I’m so tired and want to sleep but my brain won’t shut off.”
“It will later tonight and then you can get some sleep.” Rachel placed a steady hand on Jenna’s forearm. “This is Jenna Thompson. She’s a forensic artist and she’s here to help you remember the face of the man that attacked you. We’ve pulled a few strings to have her here.”
Belinda shook her head as she sat at the counter. “I don’t want to remember. I’ve been spending the last few months doing my best to forget.”
Rachel slipped behind the counter where a pot of coffee brewed. She poured her client and Jenna a cup. “You have to remember. You have to or you’re going to jail for as long as that judge can send you away. I have to prove that you’ve been suffering post-traumatic stress from the rape.”
Tears welled in her blue eyes. “I can’t.”
Jenna cleared her throat. “Rachel, why don’t you give us a few minutes. We’re just going to talk and I’m going to draw. Nothing serious. No pressure.” She’d get the image but getting the details would be slow-going.
Rachel smiled at Belinda. “I’ll leave you with Jenna. She’s a nice lady and she’s here to help.” Rising, she took a step back, hesitating when Belinda swiped a tear from her face.
Jenna sat at the counter and opened her sketchpad to a face she’d drawn earlier. She showed it to Belinda. “This is one of my drawings.”
“Is that a bad guy?”
Jenna glanced at the image of a man she’d drawn just a couple of days ago. “No, he’s a cop. Detective Rick Morgan. I draw pictures when I get bored. I just wanted you to see what I can do.”
Belinda sniffed. “It’s good.”
“I think so. Though I’m not sure of the eyes.” She studied the image with a critical eye and as with most artists thought about a dozen things she’d do differently if given another chance.
“How’d you get started drawing faces?”
“When I was fifteen I talked my aunt into letting me draw portraits in Inner Harbor in Baltimore. I set up an easel and she watched as I waited for people to stop. That first day was warm for so early in the summer and I was soaked in sweat when my first customers stopped, a woman and her boyfriend. I drew her and she loved it so much he gave me a twenty-dollar tip. I spent several summers on that corner and made money for school.”
