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“And I was found.”
He leaned toward her a fraction. “I’ve had two murder victims in the last week and a half. Both were shot and both of the crime scenes were burned to the ground.”
“Sounds like a pattern.”
“You’d think, but we found the first killer dead of an overdose before the second victim died.”
“So it’s not the same guy.”
“No. In fact, we’ve film from a delivery-store surveillance camera just an hour ago. It showed a man cutting in front of a woman named Nancy Jones, who we think is our second victim. The two got into an argument. We’re looking for him now.”
“You think he was working with the first guy?”
“I don’t know.”
“So why’re you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. The whole setup reminds me of your family. Stalking. Shooting. Fire.”
Hope flickered, but she tamped it out. “A bit of a stretch.”
“There’re lots of similarities between these two cases and your family’s.”
There’d been a time when she’d have laughed off his theory. Her case was closed. End of story. But in the last few weeks, with the appearance of Shadow Eyes, she didn’t feel much like laughing or calling him a nut. “The anniversary of my family’s death is coming up.”
“Four days.”
The tow-truck driver called Jenna over and she went immediately, suddenly wanting to be home and away from all this death and violence.
The driver was tall, lean, and wore a red T-shirt covered in grease smudges. “The Jeep appears to be drivable,” he said. “You didn’t do any damage to it. Just got it stuck.”
Escape. As long as her wheels were functional she could deal. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. What do I owe you?”
The tow-truck driver named a price and she went to the Jeep, got her purse, and dug cash out of her wallet. The cash had come from the bride portrait. She paid him one hundred dollars.
She tossed her purse back on the passenger-side seat of her Jeep. “I’m not sure what to say now, Detective Morgan.”
“Where are you headed?” Rick asked.
“Home. I need a cold glass of wine and a hot bath.”
“Is that smart? Going home alone?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The deputy returned and gave her back her gun. She tucked it in her purse.
“I don’t like you going to that cabin alone.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. I managed to survive working on the streets of Baltimore for nine years. I think I can get myself home. Besides, this guy has got to be long gone if he has even half a brain.”
“You don’t have to be smart to be mean and determined.”
“Well, I’m smart. And I’m a good shot. And going forward, I’ll have my antenna up.”
“I could leave Tracker with you. He’s not fast but he’s got a mean bite.”
The offer touched her deeply. She understood the depth of the gesture. “Thanks. I know he’s a tough dog. But he’s better to stay with you. I’ll be fine.”
Jenna stopped at the hardware store on the way home long enough to ask a clerk where she could find nails and a hammer. Following instructions, she strode to aisle six, walked down the row until she came across a wall of nails. She selected a heavy gauge and then tracked down a hammer.
After checking out and looking twice before she crossed the parking lot, she slid behind the wheel of her Jeep, wincing only a little as her bruised shoulder reminded her that two hours ago, she’d been tumbling down a hill.
In that moment, the weight of the accident caught up to her. She sat there, key in ignition, wondering again why she’d returned to Nashville. Ronnie’s motive had been as simple as insanity. He was dead. She had justice. She should have peace and a sense of well-being.
Maybe Shadow Eyes was just a figment of her imagination, a representation of her doubts or delayed post-traumatic stress. Maybe, as a therapist had once suggested, the past might one day catch up to her. Now that she had dealt with Ronnie, maybe Shadow Eyes would go away.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
She fired up the engine and drove back to her house. Soon, her leave would end and she’d leave Nashville behind. There’d been a time when it conjured only bad memories but going forward, many of the new memories would be good. Georgia, KC, and Rick.
Jenna liked Rick. Liked his swagger, his deep, rough voice and the way he looked at her as if she were the only person on the planet. His gray eyes reflected loss and worry that she knew mirrored her own. He understood facing death. Understood having your life ripped out from under you. Understood that on a cellular level it could all go sideways in a beat.
Rick or no, it didn’t make sense for her to stay here much longer. She had a job, friends, an apartment, and a life waiting for her. Nashville wasn’t real life for her. And sooner rather than later, she’d have to get back to real life.
Rubbing her tense neck with her hand, she exercised the stiffness now creeping in after the accident. She needed a hot shower, as she’d originally planned, and a good glass of wine. But first, she’d pound a nail in each window frame on the first floor so that no one opened her window without her knowing it.
Rick and Bishop got the call an hour later: unidentified male, dead of an overdose in a downtown alley. The lights of Broadway winked against his windshield as he drove past the tourists toward the river. A right on First Street and he spotted the collection of cop cars.
He and Bishop got out of the car and made their way to the uniformed officer standing at the edge of the yellow crime-scene tape. Rick shook his hand as did Bishop.
“What do we have?” Bishop asked.
“The victim’s name, according to the driver’s license in his pocket, is Ford Wheeler. He’s thirty-six years old and works as a busboy in a chain restaurant. Lots of scrapes with the law.”
Rick scribbled down the details in a notebook. “How did he die?”
“He’s got the look of a drug addict. Old needle marks on his arms. Medical examiner will have to make the final call. But if I had to guess, he overdosed.”
“Thanks.” As the officer looked away, Rick said, “Another overdose on the heels of a murder and fire.”
“Fits the pattern.”
“I know.” Again his thoughts circled back to the Thompson murder, and the fire and death of their killer. Was that a part of this pattern or a strange coincidence?
The detectives ducked under the tape and, donning rubber gloves, moved toward the body covered with a blue tarp. Rick knelt down and lifted the edge to find the body faceup. “Have a look.”
Bishop studied the man’s face. “He’s the dude from the package-delivery-office video. The one that cut in front of Nancy Jones.”
“He sure is.” Rick studied the guy’s arm and noted the track marks.
Bishop searched the man’s pockets and pulled out a hardware store receipt. “He bought gasoline two days ago.”
“Another successful woman and another loser guy who kills her. What do you think we’ll find when we see his home?”
“Pictures of Nancy.”
“It would be my guess.” Rick searched his pockets but only found a gum wrapper and a few pennies. “What the hell is this? Some kind of murder club?”
“I don’t know what it is. But Tuttle and Wheeler are connected in some way. These two cases are just too damn much alike.”
“Wheeler could have read about the first murder in the paper.”
“He got too many details right that weren’t released.”
“Let’s have a talk with his boss.”
The drive to the brightly colored restaurant took twenty minutes and when they arrived, the parking lot was full. They found the hostess who, seeing their badges, took them to the manager. He was squirreled away in a small office, counting receipts.
The manager was a tall, heavyset man with dark hair parted deeply on the right side. His white shirt was cri
sp, his name badge polished and level straight. The badge read BOWER. “I’m Seth Bower and I’m the manager.”
Rick noted the extra emphasis on the tail end of the sentence before making introductions. “We’re here about an employee. Ford Wheeler.”
“Ex-employee as of one o’clock yesterday. He said he had to go to the package-delivery office and would be here for the afternoon rush. He never showed, so I left him a phone message and told him not to come back.”
“How long did he work here?”
“A year, give or take. He was good at first. Seemed to try hard and did well with the customers. Then about four months ago he started to get belligerent. Started acting like he was the boss. I couldn’t have that.”
“What do you think caused the change?”
“That’s about the time he started dating his girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nancy, I think.”
Rick reached in his coat pocket and pulled out the DMV photo of Nancy Smith. “She look like this?”
The manager studied the image and nodded. “Yeah. That’s her. Maybe she can tell you what ideas she was putting in his head.”
Bishop scratched behind his ear as if annoyed. “She never came by the restaurant?”
“Not once. I saw other photos of her and I never would have put a gal like her with a guy like him. He was nice enough but he didn’t attract an A-list kind of woman, if you know what I mean.”
“Did he have any other friends here at work?” Rick asked.
The manager glanced toward a waitress who held up a bill, her gaze questioning. He held up a finger as if asking her to wait. “Friendly, but he never went out drinking with the other waiters when they did go. Kind of a loner until Nancy.” The manager studied the two detectives. “So, what’s this about? This some kind of domestic problem?”
“Ford Wheeler was found dead in an alley a few hours ago. Drug overdose.”
“No shit.” He rested his hands on his hips. “I knew he’d had problems with drugs a couple of years ago. He told me straight up when I interviewed him. I told him I appreciated his honesty and he seemed relieved, as if my approval mattered. He appeared clean until a few months ago. Maybe this Nancy chick got him into drugs.”
“We don’t believe he was dating Nancy,” Rick said. “We believe he was stalking her. Do you know where he lived?”
The manager blinked and shook his head. “This is the kind of crap that happens on television.”
“It happens everywhere,” Bishop said. “You got that address for Wheeler?”
