Eight months ago, we had another body, at another fancy downtown Nashville hotel, very much like this one. The elaborate setup, the skimpy dress, the high heels, the blindfold, and the best-of-the-best suite with a tray of strawberries and a bouquet of roses—though these were white—in a silver vase. It’s all the same. I don’t like to hedge my bets before the game even gets started, but I’m not liking the look of this at all.
Especially when I consider the fact that the first case, involving a woman by the name of Gwen Bridges, is still unsolved, unexplained, and getting colder by the day.
“You noted a needle injection in Gwen Bridges’s neck too, Booth,” I comment, and Booth nods thoughtfully.
“If I recall, her tox came back with massive amounts of fentanyl in her system.”
“It did,” I confirm. “And Gwen Bridges didn’t book her room herself. I bet if we look into it, this girl probably didn’t either.” I look at Shane. “We looking into the security camera footage and reservation info?”
“Kutch is already on it,” he answers.
Whoever booked the room Gwen Bridges died in paid cash and used a fake name. The security cameras in the lobby were down for maintenance—had apparently been down for an embarrassingly long time, per Grand Azure’s general manager—and the staff working the reception desk that night were completely unreliable. One employee told us it was a man in his late forties, another told us it was an eighty-year-old woman who needed a cane to get around, and a third said the original booker of the room didn’t book it the night the murder occurred.
All that took us on a wild-goose chase, where every single lead led to a dead end. The only thing we know for sure about Gwen Bridges is that she didn’t have any history of drug use, even though she had a shitload of fentanyl in her system.
I look at Shane again. “Have we IDed her yet?”
“Her name is Heather Turnwat.”
I jerk my head toward the nightstand then. “Forensics dusted and photographed all this stuff?”
“Yep,” Dr. Booth chimes in. “They started in here.”
I swipe the cell phone from its spot next to the tray of strawberries and scroll through the list of calls. The last ten of twelve all come from the same number. I fish my phone from the interior pocket of my black suit jacket and dial it myself while Shane riffles through the small glitter-encrusted purse that was sitting beside the phone. He holds out the ID, which matches the name he told me, and I nod.
The phone rings three times and then clicks over to trippy music before finally connecting. “Hello?” I say when the person on the other end doesn’t immediately offer a greeting.
“Right.” A female voice fills my ears, and the woman clears her throat. “Hello. Hi.”
“Hi. This is Detective Dominic Dunn with the Metro Nashville PD. Who am I speaking to?”
“Detective?” she says, pausing for a beat before answering. “Right. Yes. Hiii, Detective Dunn. I’m ... Ruby.”
“Hi, Ruby. Listen, I’m calling because this number is involved in an active police investigation.”
“Oh nooo,” she says slowly, flattening her voice into a weird whisper. “Have I been a bad girl, Detective?”
My head jerks back. “Excuse me?”
“I ... I guess I’m a bad, bad girl. Do I need to ... pay my tickets? Or, um, would you like to cuff me up real good?”
What the fuck is she talking about?
“Ruby,” I respond, trying to get this conversation train back on track. “This is Detective Dunn with Metro PD. I’m calling about an active investigation.”
“An active investigation. Right,” she says, and her voice drops into the strangest purr. “I’m super-duper active and ... wet. And so, so ready, Detective. So you go on with your questioning.”
“Ruby.This is a serious matter.”
“Yes, of course. I’m such a serious, serious girl, Detective, ready and waiting for you to tell me what else you want me to do.”
“Ruby, what in the hell is going on?”
Nothing she says makes sense or even remotely takes the seriousness of this into account. I’ve made a lot of calls to a lot of persons of interest, and this one feels like the weirdest yet. In fact, I’m starting to wonder ifI’vebeen dosed with fent.
“You tell me, Detective, what’s your ... um ... pleasure? Tell me allll your serious investigation pleasures.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, and Shane holds up his hands in question. I wave him off and grab the pen and notebook from my suit jacket pocket. “Ruby, what’s your last name?”
