Be Afraid (8 page)

“Your victim also didn’t die as a result of the fire. She was shot in the head. Judging by the hole made by the bullet at her right temple, I’d say she was shot at close range.” Dr. Heller reached for an evidence bag, which contained a single slug. “She would’ve died instantly.”

Rick took the bag and held it up. He guessed the gun had been a .45 caliber. “The fire was set to hide the forensic evidence.”

Bishop shrugged. “Or because the killer likes fires.”

A legitimate theory. Arsonists set fires for a variety of reasons. Some did it for profit, others to hide evidence, and others set their blazes because they liked to watch the flames dance and destroy.

“I X-rayed her bones and there’re no signs of older breaks or traumas other than the hip. I’ve run some tests on what flesh I do have and am testing for drugs but I won’t have toxicology test results for a few weeks on that.”

Rick stared at the bullet hole in the side of the skull and tried to imagine how the murder had played out. Murphy had said the fire had frozen her extremities outstretched, leading him to believe that when she’d been shot, she’d likely been tied to the bed. Had the killer planned the murder and fire all along or had the fire been an afterthought? If he had to guess, he’d say very planned considering the amount of diesel found at the scene.

“As soon as we’ve a name, we can start putting the pieces together,” Bishop said.

“Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“I estimate her height to be about five-seven. She was Caucasian.”

Rick pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled down the details.

Dr. Heller pulled the sheet back over the body. “Keep me posted. I want to know who would work so hard to destroy all traces of another human being.”

Rick nodded. “Sure. We’ll make sure you get updates. How about the little Jane Doe’s skull?”

“The child.” A bitter edge had crept into her tone.

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you much. At a young age, bones aren’t fully formed so many of the markers that would tell me more aren’t there.”

“We spoke to the forensic artist yesterday,” Rick said. “She’s agreed to help.”

Dr. Heller’s solemn expression grew more severe. “Whom did you line up?”

“Her name’s Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “She’s a sworn officer in the Baltimore Police Department. She’s taking leave and will be here a few more weeks.”

“I’ve heard of Jenna Thompson,” Dr. Heller said. “She has a good reputation.”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“It’s a small world. She’s done some excellent work. I look forward to meeting her.”

“I told her to be here by two this afternoon.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Heller moved to another cabinet and opened the drawer. Lying on the large slab was a collection of tiny bones.

Rick’s chest tightened and, with some effort, he mentally took a step back to study the bones with a critical eye. “Georgia has the blanket and the bag and is going over both. Doubtful there’ll be much but she’s going over it with a fine-tooth comb. Missing Persons sent us files yesterday. We set aside files of all possible matches, but they need more information from you before we can narrow the search.”

Dr. Heller folded her arms. “Jenna Thompson will give you a good likeness. And when she does, consider the media. They work with us on missing persons cases, especially when we’re dealing with a child.”

“The press.” Rick kept the bulk of his frustration out of his voice. “Got to love ’em.”

Dr. Heller grinned. “They aren’t all bad, Detective.”

He thought about the dash-cam video of his shooting that had played over and over again on the news stations. “I’ll keep telling myself that.”

Dr. Heller’s phone buzzed and she checked the display. She answered the call and listened. When she hung up, she looked pleased. “We’ve a call back on the hip implant. The company was able to match the serial number of the implant with a name. Your victim is Diane Smith, age thirty-six.”

Rick wrote down the name. “Damn, that was fast.”

“The implant was installed ten years ago. I don’t know if the address is still good.”

“Hell, this is more of a break than I was expecting.”

“Better to be lucky than smart,” Detective Bishop said.

Rick heard the meaning simmering under Bishop’s words but let it pass. Sooner or later they’d have a showdown about whatever was chewing on his ass, but not today. “Now that we’ve a name, we can get moving on this.”

With Diane Smith’s name in hand, it hadn’t taken long to find her home address and employer’s name. They opted to start with her employer, Temperance Real Estate. Rick dropped Tracker off with Georgia as she ended her shift and then he and Bishop drove to Temperance Real Estate, located in an historic stone building resting in the shadow of several sleek office buildings in downtown Nashville.

Temperance Real Estate offices were on the third floor of the building. After speaking with the company’s receptionist, who seemed a little rattled by the arrival of detectives, they were escorted to a corner office.

As they entered, a man moved out from behind a tall desk, buttoning his suit jacket as he moved. He shrugged broad shoulders and extended his hand first to Rick. “I’m Trent Lockwood. I own Temperance Real Estate. My secretary tells me you’re homicide detectives.”

“That’s right,” Rick said. “Rick Morgan.”

Bishop held up his badge. “Jake Bishop. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Diane Smith.”

Lockwood’s unnaturally dark hair was slicked back, sharpening the angles of a tanned, long face. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but preliminary recon before the interview put him in his sixties. His expensive, hand-tailored suit and gold cuff links spoke to the success his firm had enjoyed the last few years. Temperance and Lockwood had influenced three of the top ten Nashville development deals in the last two years.

A frown furrowed Lockwood’s brow as he absently tugged on his cuffs. “She’s one of our most productive real estate attorneys. Been with us about ten years. Why? Has something happened?”

Bishop studied the office, silent and content to let Rick handle the interview. Bishop had been giving Rick lots of opportunities on the cases and he suspected it had more to do with giving him enough rope so that he could hang himself.

“Does your company own a property in the West End? It’s on Dover Street,” Rick said.

Gray eyes narrowed as if Trent didn’t appreciate the dodge to his question. “I’ve no idea. I’d have to look it up. Again, why?”

“Has anyone questioned why Diane didn’t come in to work yesterday or today?”

“She’s on vacation. She’s been planning a trip to her cabin in the Smokey Mountains for months and finally texted in Saturday night that she was taking a break. She’s closed big deals lately and deserved the time off.”

He wondered if Diane had sent the texts. “Diane Smith’s body was found in the burned-out ruins of the Dover Street house yesterday.”

The lines rimming Lockwood’s eyes and mouth deepened. “Are you sure you’ve the right person?”

“We identified her from a hip implant. The serial number matched up to her name.”

His face paled. “She wasn’t recognizable?”

Rick studied his face closely. He’d developed a nose for liars since he’d joined the Force. Amazing how shocked and sad a really good liar could look when the spotlight shone on them. “No, sir. Not after the fire.”

“My God.” Lockwood’s eyes held the right blend of surprise and shock, but no one earned this kind of money without a good poker face. “Did she have any trouble with coworkers or clients?”

Lockwood’s buffed fingernails caught the light as he drummed his fingers. “No. She’s a talented real estate attorney slated to be partner in this firm by the spring.”

Bishop stared out the tall window behind Lockwood’s desk. He took his time shifting his gaze back to Lockwood. “Did she have any business deals that went sour? Make anyone mad?”

“Not everyone wins in every deal. That’s par for the course. Of course she bested other agents. That’s why she was slated to be partner.”

“What deals was she working on?” Rick asked.

“A new strip mall out on I-40. Several condo developments and a proposed housing project. All her work was high dollar with large profit margins.”

“Anyone express anger over a deal recently?”

“Bob Boone wasn’t happy with her.”

“Bob Boone?”

“He works for a competitor. He lost out on a development bid last winter. He was angry and called Diane a few choice words. Didn’t like losing to a woman. She’s stepped on toes, but you’ve got to break a few shells to cook the eggs.”

Diane had been most likely tied to a bed and shot at close range, both indicators that the killer had enjoyed controlling her last minutes. “Where can we find Bob Boone?”

Lockwood looked through contacts on his cell and rattled off a number and address. “He’s got a reputation for his temper but he’s well respected in the community. Active in his church.”

Neither Rick nor Bishop commented, both knowing they’d arrested their share of respected, churchgoing men.

“Where did Diane Smith live?” Bishop asked.

“She just bought a new home near Franklin. It’s an older home and she’s restoring it. I do know she was having trouble with her landscape architect over a bill. I don’t remember the name but if you visit her home you’ll get the number from a neighbor. Also speak to her neighbors. I’m not sure it’s the one to her left or right, but one of them wasn’t happy with a tree she’d cut down a few weeks ago.”

A real estate deal. A tree. A landscape job. People killed for far less.

“You said Diane worked here ten years?” Rick asked.

“That’s right.” The lines deepened with sadness. “She was one hell of an employee. She’ll be missed.”

After collecting Lockwood’s alibi contacts, Rick and Bishop left Lockwood’s office and climbed into Rick’s car. “Why do I get the vibe that guy’s not telling us all he knows?”

Bishop slid on his sunglasses. “Because he’s not.”

Rick fired up the engine. “We still have time before Jenna’s scheduled to be at the medical examiner’s office. Want to have a chat with the neighbor and Bob Boone?”

He scowled. “Would love to.”

A half hour later, they arrived at the 1920s home that Diane had just purchased. Its color was a faded white that peeled and bubbled in several spots. Three stories high, it sported a wide front porch, faded blue gingerbread trim, tall gabled windows and a high-pitched tin roof that had dimmed from red to a muddy brown. Overgrown bushes blocked the view of the large bay window. An oak with a trunk at least three feet thick hovered close to the house. The roots were thick, reached into the foundation, and likely threatened the house’s sewage system.

Rick had firsthand knowledge of old houses. He had learned a few valuable renovation lessons working on the Big House and just a glance told him that this place, though it had been a showpiece at one time, was going to cost a fortune to restore. “She must like a project.”

Bishop shook his head in disbelief. “Must like to spend money. It’s one hell of a money pit if you ask me.”

To the right of the house were three large, freshly cut tree stumps as well as a large, empty construction dumpster. Judging by the size those trees had been at least eighty to one hundred years old.

“Computer search says that the neighbor, Toby Stewart, is the president of the local historic association. He’s big on keeping the property as is.”

“She made changes and it looks like she was going to make a whole lot more.”

They walked around the side of the property into the backyard. Large stakes with orange flags marked a large square area that looked as if it was going to be a deck and maybe even a pool.

A glance at the back of the house showed five test strips of new paint color: white, gray, sapphire blue, fire engine red, and green. Rick couldn’t imagine the red or blue was a viable choice. Maybe she’d done it to stoke the neighbors who’d given her a hard time for the trees.

Boxwoods warmed by the sun had released an acrid smell in the air that you either loved or hated. Several were marked with red flags that made him wonder if they would also go the way of the trees.

They walked back around to the front of the property in time to see a white van pull up in front of the house. A magnetic sign on the side of the front doors read
STEWART RENOVATIONS
.

A long, lanky man unfolded himself from the car, pausing long enough to adjust wire-rimmed glasses and straighten a thin, black tie. His gaze slid over Rick’s car and to the detectives as they crossed the yard to him.

“I’m Toby Stewart.” He spoke with the authority of a man in charge. “I’m president of the historic preservation association. And you are?”

“Detective Rick Morgan and this is my partner, Jake Bishop.”

“Did someone finally call the cops on that woman?”

“That woman?”

“Diane Smith. What she’s done to this property is a crime.”

“What’s she done?”

Eyes widened with surprise. “See the tree stumps? See the tree out front marked for destruction. See the outline of the addition and the pool. She’s totally destroying the historic beauty of this house.” A sneer curled his lip. “She’s an attorney. A real estate attorney. Got it written into her mortgage that she could bypass the historic codes.”

“She wasn’t breaking any laws.”

His eyes widened with outrage. “Not technically. But she shouldn’t be changing so much.”

“You two argue about this?”

“Several times. Over dinner last week, I told her the landscape architect she hired was a butcher.”

“Dinner?” Bishop asked, as if he were bored.

“We’ve been out a few times. I like her. I thought we had an understanding but then she cut down the trees and told me about the addition.”

Rick looked at the house and shook his head as if he disapproved. “Sounds like you’re mighty steamed.”

He puffed out his chest as he rested a hand on his hip. “Steamed doesn’t come close. Like I said, what she’s doing is a crime.”

Is. Not was. “When’s the last time you saw her?”