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“The sketches she did with Pamela and the rape victim match.”
Bishop studied the computer screen picture, his gaze narrowing. “He’s like Tuttle and Wheeler, not the type to plan.”
“No, but he looks like he could be easily manipulated. And remember our alleged rape victim. She said there was a second guy in the room.”
“I think we should pay Cyrus Mitchell a visit.”
“Agreed.”
Twenty minutes later, blue lights flashing from the marked backup cars, Rick and Bishop stood on either side of Cyrus’s East Nashville front door. The house was one level, made of cinder block and covered in a gray peeling paint. Rick pounded on the door, his hand on his weapon, his body clear of the door and the potential line of fire.
Memories of last year’s I-40 traffic stop flashed in his mind. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire ricocheted in his head.
Shit.
Shaking off the memory, he banged on the door again with his fist.
Finally, footsteps sounded in the house and the door snapped open. Standing before them was a midsize man wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “What do you want?”
Again, Rick was struck by how much the man looked like the sketch. “Cyrus Mitchell.”
Seasoned eyes narrowed. “Yeah, who wants to know?”
Rick and Bishop held up their badges and identified themselves. “Ever met a woman named Pamela Grayson?”
Even as he shrugged, his eyes widened just a fraction. “Am I supposed to?”
“She thinks you two have met.”
Narrowing eyes reflected pleasure. “What’s she saying about me?”
Rick shook his head, declaring he ran this Q and A. “Do you know her?”
He shrugged. “Does she run a fancy dress shop in Franklin?”
“She does. Have you ever been to her shop?”
He scratched his chest. “Yeah, sure, I made deliveries. But I never went into the shop.”
“That so?”
He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “Do I look like the kind of guy who visits dress shops?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Mitchell shifted his stance as tension rippled over his features. “Did she say something about me?”
“She did. She says you’ve been following her.”
He flexed the fingers on his left hand. “Why the hell would I follow her?”
Rick slid his hand to the handle of his gun. “You tell me. She says you’ve been following her around for weeks.”
“She’s wrong. I might have made a delivery to her store, but I don’t know the woman. And I sure as shit wouldn’t care enough to follow her.” He shook his head. “A store like that means she’s got money and money means time to stir trouble. Rich women are a pain in the ass.”
Bishop adjusted his pinky ring. “Why would a woman like her stir trouble?”
“Bored. Or maybe she’s a vindictive cunt who likes to put the screws to a guy.”
Anger leaked through the words. “Why’re you mad?”
“I ain’t mad. I just hate it when a woman thinks she’s all that and goes out of her way to ruin a man.”
It didn’t take much to stir this guy’s temper. Another push or two and he’d say something he hadn’t intended to say. “Is that what she’s doing, ruining you?”
“You’re here, ain’t you?”
Rick held up pictures of Tuttle and Wheeler. “Ever met these guys?”
His gaze barely skimmed the pictures. “What, do they think I’m stalking them, too?”
“No, but they did their share of following women around. A lot like you.”
“Hey, just because they do that kind of stuff don’t mean I do.” He rubbed a calloused, beefy hand over an unshaven jaw. “I got my hands full looking for a job.”
“Your job.” Bishop wagged his finger as if he’d just remembered something. “You get fired from your last job?”
The play was all bravado. They’d not tracked down his former employer yet.
Mitchell’s scowl deepened. “Got downsized. That wasn’t my fault.”
Bishop rubbed his square chin as if he were a poker player assessing a winning hand. “According to your ex-boss you were hassling a female employee.”
“Well, he’s a damn liar. And my ex-boss is worried about being PC and not getting sued so he took her side over mine.”
Rick picked up the threads of Bishop’s bluff. “Lots of liars in the world. And they’re all ganging up on you.”
“All I know is that I ain’t been bothering nobody.”
The man’s nerves oozed tension and worry. Rick kept his expression relaxed. “Mind if we take a look around your house?”
Mitchell shifted and raised his hand to the doorjamb. “Matter of fact, I do mind. You can’t just bust in here like a bunch of Nazis.”
Bishop dialed his phone and seconds later said, “Magistrate’s office. I need a search warrant.”
Mitchell huffed. “That supposed to scare me?”
“Nope.” Bishop sounded bored. “Once we get the search warrant, we’ll see what you have to say.”
Mitchell’s agitation grew. “You can’t just come into my house. This is my property. My land.”
“No, but we can arrest you on suspicion of stalking and rape.” Rick reached for his cuffs.
Mitchell tensed. “I ain’t raped nobody.”
“Got a witness that says otherwise.”
“Fuck. She’s a liar.”
Rick rested his hands on his hips. “I say we don’t search his place or bother with the rape charges. I say we leave him for the other man to kill.”
Bishop chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Mitchell shouted.
“Whoever is pulling your strings, did the same with a couple of other guys,” Rick said. “Both those guys ended up dead in an alley. Drug overdose.”
Bishop checked his watch. “They were dead within twenty-four hours of the crime. My guess Mitchell is next on the list.”
“This is bullshit,” Mitchell said.
Bishop glanced at his nails as if he was already bored. “I say leave him to his boss. Let him do his thing.”
Neither had any way of knowing what would happen but if they were right about a master manipulator, Cyrus knew it as well.
“We got another errand to run, so you be careful, Mr. Mitchell,” Bishop said.
Rick paused before he turned. “And in case you’re wondering, Pamela’s got around-the-clock
surveillance. So does that gal you raped.”
Mitchell’s face flushed red. “I ain’t like those other guys. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Rick tucked the cuffs back on his belt. “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”
They left Mitchell shouting obscenities. Neither was in a rush as they moved toward Rick’s car. As they slid into the front seat Rick’s cell phone rang. “Morgan.”
“This is Dr. Heller.”
“Doc, what do you have for me?”
“That second murder victim from the fire is Nancy Jones. I just confirmed with dental records.”
“Thanks.” As he fired up the engine he relayed the information to Bishop.
“Two successful women. In real estate. Both with dark hair. Attractive.” He leaned back in his seat. “Now we need to figure out who knew both these women.”
Georgia glanced up from her computer screen when she heard the tap of knuckles on her door frame. Rick stood with his feet braced, as if ready for a fight.
“You’re always in battle stance,” she said. “Like you’re always expecting a fight. Waiting for a challenge.”
He shrugged and didn’t bother to deny it. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
“Not me,” she teased. “I have no issues.”
He laughed but was smart enough not to detail her quirks. “Right.”
She cocked a brow. “What, you don’t agree?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to judge or comment. You said you had information on my case.”
“Right, I do.” She shuffled through file folders. “We had a look at the handwriting you found scrawled at the first fire. The word was faithless. I got the bright idea to cross-check the handwriting against the word bitch written on the doll’s head left at Jenna’s house.”
He moved into the room, his interest humming. “And?”
“The two words have three letters in common. The I, T and H.” She fished through the file and found samples of both words that she’d snapped with her digital camera. “Note both words are written in block letters. Not upper and lower case but all upper case. Almost as if the word is being shouted. And note the top of each I. There’s a slight gap between the top slash and the middle line. Not noticeable at first glance, but look at it long enough and you see stuff like that. Also look at the last letter of each word. The end of the S and the H both curve in slightly.”
