Be Afraid (13 page)

“But . . .”

She glanced over her shoulder out the office window as if half-expecting to see him or her pimp. She lowered her voice a notch. “I’m reaching for the cuffs and he puts a gun to my head and asks me to beg for my life.”

Rick tapped a calloused index finger against the smooth leather of his belt, inches in front of his gun holster. Diane had been shot in the head. “That’s all he said?”

“He said, ‘Beg me, bitch, for your life.’” She hesitated. “‘Beg for your life.’ I won’t forget that too soon.”

“How’d you get away?”

“Fucker was nervous. Sweating like a pig. I could tell he hadn’t done anything like that before.” With a trembling hand she fished inside a pack of cigarettes tucked in the waistband of her skirt.

Rick watched as she raised a cigarette to her lips and lit it. “He was scared.”

She inhaled and blew out a lungful of smoke. “He was real scared. I was scared but I was also mad. He was gonna be my last score for the night and I thought, ‘Great, I’m gonna die here,’ when I was thinking I’d be home in thirty minutes and standing in a hot shower. I love hot showers. Shit. I fought back and he just about pissed in his pants. Big guy but no balls.”

“How did you get away?”

“I popped him in the nose with the heel of my hand.” She drew in another lungful of smoke and released it slowly.

“And he let you go, just like that?” Bishop’s gaze shifted from the shadows rimming the parking lot to her face.

“I think the bloody nose freaked him out. I didn’t stop to ask or think, but just ran.”

“Did he mention the other woman’s name?”

She stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Deidra. No. Diane. He said her name was Diane.” She met Rick’s gaze. “Johns call me all kinds of names. As long as the money’s green I don’t care. And I don’t usually remember.”

“But he put a gun to your head,” Rick said.

“That has a way of making words stick.” Again trembling hands raised the cigarette to her lips. “Something happened to Diane, didn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?”

A seasoned gaze danced with bitter humor. “Because you’re here. You ain’t the kind of cops that care about pimps and whores. Bigger fish to fry.”

Rick released a sigh. “Any other girls talk about this guy?”

She arched a brow. “I made a point to ask around. A couple knew him. No one likes him. We all deal with crazy but he’s crazier than most.”

“He’s a user?”

“I don’t know. Last I heard, you don’t need blow to act crazy. Crazy is crazy.” She scratched the blotchy skin of her forearm. “I got to get back to work or I’m going to get beat.”

“You got a name?”

“Jane. Jane Fuller. But on the street ask for Terry.”

“If I need to talk to you again?”

She dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the pointed toe of her scuffed cowboy boot. “Terry’s here every night. Just ask. I’m easy to find.”

Hollow, eyeless sockets stared at Jenna, emanating a desperate energy that pulsed from the inky depths. She turned, covered her own eyes, but the phantom eyes glimmered back at her, reached out, and beckoned.

I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.

The words, or rather, the feeling, radiated as she started awake. Her gaze darted around her bedroom, lighted by several night-lights she always kept burning. She dragged a shaking hand through her hair. Breathe. Breathe. She’d had nightmares before and used the breathing techniques the psychologist in Baltimore had prescribed.

I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.

Breathe. In. Out. Seconds passed, and the whispering voice faded as her vision sharpened on the blue dresser with a half-open top drawer dripping with clothes she’d not bothered to quite put away.

Jenna swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes curling as they touched the cold tile. She always kept the AC low and huddled under thick blankets . . . another trick from the psychologist when her insomnia had been at its worst.

She moved toward the window near her bed, which looked out over the thick woods that circled the cabin. The air-conditioning had left condensation dripping down the window. Through the mist, she stared at the stand of darkened trees that ringed the property.

Jenna had spent nearly an hour today cradling the tiny skull in her hands, staring, trying to picture the face. She wanted to imagine smiling lips and light brown hair that framed full pink cheeks. But as hard as she tried to conjure the face of a healthy child, she knew this child had not been healthy. The eyes would have reflected stress, the hair would have been thin and the lips flat in a grim line of worry.

She’d left the skull and gone to KC’s to draw for a few hours. She’d made a hundred bucks, grabbed food at a grocery store, and returned home.

Under the glare of the fluorescent lights at the medical examiner’s office, she could distance herself from the reality of that child’s life. But during the quiet hours of the night, alone, the emotion ruled. Faces of this dead child haunted her and she wanted to weep for the Lost Girl.

She traced her finger through the condensation on the window and knew she would not cry now. She was too much of a cop to give in before the job was done. For now, emotion wouldn’t run the show. Instead of decrying this sad loss to the world, she’d focus on bone structure and the sinew that stretched and wound around this small face. She’d think about hair and eye color.

Later, much later, once the job was done and the case closed, she would give emotion a small nod. A tear or two would make sense and certainly would be healthy but she’d not allow them. Nor would she succumb to the shallow promises of booze or sex. Sex. Sex with Rick Morgan would be a very tempting diversion but sex with him promised too many complications.

After this case was solved, she would get in her car and drive for hours; perhaps she’d volunteer at an animal hospital or stroll around an amusement park and savor that joy. And perhaps she’d finally come to terms with the lost child who had brought her to Nashville.

She glanced at the clock. Three thirty. It would be an hour later on the East Coast and she knew he would be awake. Like her, Mike didn’t sleep well. His own unsolved cases and demons would not allow him more than a few hours of sleep at night.

She reached for her cell and dialed.

He answered on the first ring, his voice clear and bright. “You said you’d sleep better if you left Baltimore.”

A wan smile tweaked the edges of her lips as she cradled the phone closer to her cheek. “I did, too.”

The low hum of his television filtered through the phone. “The ghosts have found you again.”

No sense lying to him. He’d hear the false words in her voice. “Yes.”

A silence emanated worry. “Old or new ghosts?”

She stared into the darkened line of the trees wondering what lurked in the shadows. “Both, I think. But you know me. I’m good friends with ghosts.”

Ice clinked against a glass as he sipped his favorite scotch. “You never told me about the old ghosts.”

Tension radiated up her spine. “I never thought about them much.”

“Until that case. It was that case that drove you out of Baltimore.”

The Lost Girl. The child locked in the closet. “I didn’t realize the ghosts had such power until I found that little girl.”

She imagined Mike sitting in his recliner, his large hand tracing the outline of the television remote buttons. They’d been friends for nearly five years and three weeks ago as he helped her pack her belongings into her Jeep, he’d leaned in to kiss her. The kiss had started as benign, but the skin-to-skin touch overwhelmed her senses. Desperation and fear had welled and before she’d stopped to think they’d been half-naked and moving toward her bedroom. A coherent thought shouted,
Don’t screw up the best friendship you’ve ever had!
A tidal wave of lust had obliterated the warnings.

She’d not pulled her lips from his or tugged away from his embrace. She’d allowed him to tug off her shirt, unsnap her jeans, and push inside of her with a desperation that had surprised them both.

“Stay,” he’d whispered in her ear, as their hearts had hammered in wild unison. “We’ll figure this out together.”

“I can’t,” she’d whispered back.

He’d risen up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. “Stay.”

A shake of her head and he’d drawn in a breath and pulled away. No anger. No begging. In Mike’s mind, no was no. End of story. She’d moved from the bedroom, fearing that if she didn’t get away from the bed, she’d toss reason to the curb and ignore Nashville.

Mike had left immediately, as if he warred with his own angels and demons, but he’d returned early the next day as she’d closed up her Jeep. She’d hugged him and told him she loved him. He’d kissed her on the cheek and told her to be careful. Call whenever.

“I’ll be back soon,” she’d said. “Only six weeks.”

His smile had been sad as if she’d already left forever.

She’d not called him in the last couple of weeks. She’d been tempted many times but she’d held back. Now, she hoped the distance between them would make it easy to fall back into the roles of friends. No more danger of being lovers tonight.

“What does the little girl have to do with you?” Mike asked.

“I think she’s why I’m back in Nashville. She made me realize there’s something lurking in the shadows I’ve got to find.”

“Back in Nashville. When were you ever in Nashville?”

She rubbed a stiff muscle on the left side of her neck. “I was born here. Lived here until I was five.”

“I didn’t know you were from Nashville.” His frown radiated through the line.

“I didn’t talk about it much because I didn’t remember much. All I really remembered was Baltimore.”

More silence, a signal of a deepening frown. “What happened in Nashville?”

Scant memories of Nashville remained: echoes of laughter, a mother’s embrace, a father’s tender kiss, and a sister’s good-natured jab. And then, of course, there was the closet. The nine days in the darkened, stinking box where she’d been deprived of light, decent food, and her family.

“I’m not exactly sure,” she hedged.

His voice dropped as if he questioned a suspect. “Aren’t sure or aren’t saying?”

Her lips curled into a smile. Mike was one of the best cops she’d ever known. Could piece together the fragments of a murder faster than anyone. So intuitive, it was as if he could read minds. “Don’t do your suspect voodoo on me.”

He chuckled. “I just asked a question.”

“You never just ask a question. You’re always searching for the extra layer that lurks beneath the words.”

“What’s the extra layer, Jenna?”

She didn’t know. All she knew was that she’d chosen to work outside of KC’s bar because he’d not only been a cop, but a cop old enough to have worked her case. She’d said yes to Rick Morgan not only because of the child but because he was a step closer to the case files that held the details of her past. “When I’ve a few more answers, I’ll call, okay?”

“Not ready to say?”

“Not yet. But I’ll call.”

“Promise?”

She tucked the phone close to her lips. “I promise.”

A heavy silence hummed and she dreaded a reference to her last night with him. Finally, he said, “Get some sleep.”

Relief washed over her. “I will, if you will.”

They both laughed. Neither would get any more sleep tonight. Soon, he’d give up on his late-night movies and go into the office. And as soon as she could get into the medical examiner’s office she’d be drawing again.

After she hung up, she rose and moved into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. Steaming coffee in hand, she moved into her studio and flipped on the lights. She had several hours to work on the commissioned portrait she now had and, knowing mornings were her best time, she opted to see what she could finish.

She turned the picture of the young bride around and studied the image. She’d captured the gown with long, sweeping strokes of white and ivory. She’d drawn lovely elegant hands grasping irises of vibrant purples. She was even pleased with the sweep of hair the color of wheat and gold. This project was coming together nicely and no doubt would earn her more commissions.

However, her gaze was drawn away from the bridal job. Instead, her gaze was drawn to the board where she’d pinned pictures she’d snapped at the medical examiner’s office and printed off on her laser printer at home. They were the pictures of the Lost Girl’s skull.

The skull was no longer naked. It was now covered in small plastic markers. She’d spent most of yesterday cutting and gluing twenty-one rubber markers onto the skull’s forehead, cheekbones, and chin. The depth of the markers mirrored a standard table of measurements created by forensic anthropologists. Based on sex and race, the markers served as landmarks that indicated the skin’s thickness at various points on the face.

She set down her cup and reached for a piece of transparent paper, which she placed over the demarcated skull. Carefully, she taped the paper to her drawing board so that it would not shift.

Moving her head from side to side she reached for a drawing pencil. Her work was part science and part guesswork. She had scientific formulas that determined the sides of the eyes and bone markers to help shape the nose and lips but as with any artist she made judgment calls throughout the process. Her judgments would add the spark of life that made the sketch all the more real.

Pencil point at the midpoint of the eye, she began to draw the ligaments that controlled eye movement. She worked for nearly an hour just on the basic underlying structure of the eyes. And then she moved to the lids. The upper lids curved slightly more than the lower and dipped partially over the iris of the eye. Soon, a set of colorless eyes stared back at her and she found herself setting down the pencil and reaching for her coffee.

She winced when the cold liquid touched her tongue and she gratefully moved away from the image to heat the cup in the microwave.

Punching in a minute, she watched the microwave’s interior light up and the cup rotate in slow steady circles. Her thoughts strayed to Tracker. The animal’s gaze burned with his desire to work, to be relevant, and to be needed. Rick had included Tracker and her in his work, giving them both a sense of purpose. But was she, like Tracker, too damaged to ever be a real cop again?