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What a lucky break that would be.
When Ammon had finished looking for fingerprints, hairs, trace fibers, etc., on the victim’s skin, I was ready to go. I had no desire to witness the inhuman mutilation of the body. Certainly I understood that the procedure was necessary, but I still didn’t care to stand around and watch.
Patterson sauntered out alongside me. If he’d been the least bit squeamish about any of the procedures, other than the genitalia exam, he’d kept it to himself. He had nothing on me there. I could hang with the best of them. I was the only one in my class at the forensics academy who hadn’t thrown up the first time watching an autopsy.
When I reached my Jetta, Patterson hesitated before moving on to his own vehicle, a big shiny red SUV. Figures.
Barlow talked to me this morning, he said, looking straight at me as he did so.
I told myself to hear him out before I jumped to any conclusions. “Oh, yeah?”
Patterson nodded. He wants this partnership to work out. He shrugged nonchalantly. I just wanted you to know I plan to do my part.
How sporting of him.
“That’s great, Patterson. Why don’t we get on down to the office and we can both do our part.”
He looked uncertain as to whether my comment was positive or not. But only for a couple of seconds. See you there. Then he sauntered on over to his big, macho-man SUV and climbed aboard. I had two brothers who drove vehicles very similar to that. Gas hogs.
I slid behind the wheel of my conservative, ultra-efficient Jetta and headed for Metro.
I didn’t want Barlow running interference between Patterson and me. We needed to work out this relationship on our own. On my terms, of course. I planned to keep that part to myself.
I considered Patterson’s actions at the scene and then in the lab. He hadn’t said a hell of a lot about the case. Just that one remark about having a serial killer on our hands. If he was half as good a cop as Barlow thought he was, he’d surely formed a number of conclusions. Just as I had.
But he’d kept them to himself.
Maybe that was partly my fault. I hadn’t mentioned any of my thoughts thus far. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for doing the same thing.
As soon as the stench of death had cleared from my senses, I would make an effort and invite him out to lunch. It was Sunday, might as well make the most of it. Break the ice so to speak.
But first we had to see what we could find on Mallory Wells and look for any connection, if one existed, between her and Reba Harrison. We could start at her place of residence.
Verifying the similarities between this murder and the ones four years ago wasn’t necessary, I could already see that we either had a copycat on our hands or an old killer was back in business.
Someone in Nashville was killing young women who were chasing after the stars, literally and figuratively. Reba Harrison had been a known groupie for at least two country music stars, but she was also a singer herself.
If there was a connection we hadn’t discovered yet between Reba Harrison and Mallory Wells, that link could lead us to the killer.
But it would never be that easy.
Nothing ever was.
Chapter 3
Being nice is definitely overrated.
If I’d ever thought otherwise, I knew differently now.
Ray Patterson might be younger than me, with less seniority in the Homicide Division, but that didn’t stop him from bucking to be the boss. Or from being nosy as hell.
The chief seems awfully protective of you. You think it’s because of your hearing impairment?
See what I mean?
“He’s concerned about all his detectives,” I countered, a subtle warning of don’t go there in my tone. “That’s his job. He knows our strengths and weaknesses. That’s how he decides who would be best on what case when it comes to something like this.”
Like the Starlet Murders, you mean, he suggested.
There he went, using that old moniker. I mean, maybe it’s because I’m a woman, but I just didn’t like it. In my opinion the case should be called the Jealous Male Scumbag Murders.
Thank God the food arrived. Kept me from saying something Barlow would probably make me regret. I imagine Patterson took my grunt for a positive response since he didn’t pursue the subject further.
The deli-style restaurant was one of my favorites in town. A quaint little sandwich shop near Metro. Between the police force and other city workers, the place never hurt for business. Since most grabbed their sandwiches on the run, dining in was never a problem and could always be counted on for a relaxing environment, especially on a Sunday afternoon.
My thoughts drifted back to the case. Mallory Wells’s home had revealed the same as Reba Harrison’s—nothing. Typical single, white, working-female abodes. The murders definitely hadn’t happened in either place.
I read the file on the Reba Harrison murder and some of the reports from the Starlet cases.
I wasn’t surprised. A good cop would want to be prepared whether he landed a case or not. It paid to stay up to speed on the goings-on in the city, especially those in your division.
“What’d you think?” I took a bite of my turkey sub and chewed as he considered what he wanted to say.
Twenty-seven. College drop-out. Had her heart set on a career in country music.
That told me what he’d read but it didn’t answer my question. “Reba was good,” I countered. “Just a few days before her murder she’d been invited to sing at the Wild Horse.” That was a big step in a new performer’s career—maybe my new partner wasn’t aware of that. Reba Harrison hadn’t even gotten a CD on the market and already her talent was gaining some momentum.
Patterson nodded. In more ways than one. Had herself an affair with Chase Taylor. Apparently it was no secret, although his wife claimed she had no idea the two had been involved. Adultery is a pretty good motive for murder.
“Since the sexual assault continued after the murder, that pretty much discounts Taylor’s wife,” I argued. “And Taylor had an airtight alibi.” He’d been on stage at the Grand Ole Opry at the time. A few thousand people had been watching. The affair between him and Harrison had happened ages ago and wasn’t relevant, in my opinion.
Patterson swallowed a mouthful of ham on rye, then said, He could have paid someone to do it. Someone who took things a little farther than he’d been paid for.
“That’s a possibility. That avenue has been under investigation.” I shrugged. “But the dynamics of that murder have changed now. Unless, of course, we can find a similar connection between Mr. Chase Taylor and our latest victim.” Not to mention we had to keep in the back of our minds that we had a four-year-old unsolved serial investigation that mirrored almost exactly our two current cases.
Unless his hired killer decided to have some more fun on the side for no extra charge.
It wasn’t that his suggestion was completely impossible, it was simply highly unlikely.
“It’s our job to find out what happened,” I said, as much of an agreement as he was going to get out of me on that one. We would definitely check out every avenue. Leave no rock unturned, as the old saying goes. “It’s possible that our killer remembers the Starlet cases and hoped to disguise his killings that way, shift our focus. That’s why we can’t assume anything at this point.”
Something about the way he looked at me then riled my temper but I kept my mouth shut. No point making something of it. He was likely curious about the deaf woman. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten one of those looks. I knew exactly what it meant.
Weren’t you once engaged to Heath Woods?
Boy, I hadn’t seen that one coming, even this close. I blinked, startled. My personal life, past or present, was none of his business. That he had the brass balls to ask surprised me.
I mean, he clarified, obviously sensing my discomfort, he’s in the business. Would he be a source of inside information we could tap?
Did he really think I hadn’t thought of that? Please.
If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him, Patterson suggested, I’ll be glad to do it.
No way. If anyone talked to Heath it would be me.
“He’s away on some secret vacation,” I said pointedly. “None of his people can get in touch with him. Believe me, I’ve made life difficult enough for them. He can’t be reached. I’ll be the first person they call when he’s found.”
Patterson shrugged. Oh.
I studied my new partner a moment, decided that at least he was beginning to share his thoughts. I suddenly wondered if there was a woman in his life. He was certainly cute enough. Thick brown hair cut short for easy care, and because it looked damned good that way. Matching brown eyes. I realized then that I actually knew very little about him.
“What’s the story with you?” I found myself asking. I hadn’t actually meant to, but the question was on the table. There was no taking it back.
This time he was the one taken aback by the direction of the conversation. What do you mean?
Like he didn’t know.
“You have a girlfriend? Engaged?” I shrugged. “Any family in the area?” Might as well get the whole story while I was at it.
I don’t have a significant other, and I don’t like mixing my personal life with the job.
His closed expression along with the stern line of his jaw told me he’d made the statement quite sharply.
Before I got all ticked off again, I reminded myself that my prying into his business would likely keep him wary of digging into mine. He would be scared to death I’d ask him something else. So, my snoopy question had, in a roundabout way, served my purposes, as well. And, jeez, he was the one who’d started it.
“We should get back to the office and start that digging expedition.” I gathered my leftovers and stood. “I’ll see you there.”
After making a drop at the trash receptacle I headed for the door. As I settled into my Jetta, Patterson made his exit. He didn’t look my way, just walked straight over to his big red SUV and climbed in.
Although I couldn’t lay my finger on the problem, something about Patterson didn’t sit as it should with me. He didn’t mind saying right up front that he had a problem with a female partner, nor did he hesitate to ask me about my ex-fiancé. But when I asked a straightforward question about his marital status, he balked. Hmmm. Interesting. What was my new partner hiding? A messy divorce? A tawdry affair? A work-related situation? That could explain his reasons for not wanting to work with a woman.
It looked as if I might have a little extra digging to do. After all, one couldn’t go into a relationship of any kind without all the facts.
The victim, Mallory Wells, had changed a number of things about herself, besides her cup size, after coming to Nashville. Her real name was Margaret Anita Wellersby. In addition to changing her name, she’d had her nose done and breast augmentation at the suggestion of a music video producer with whom she’d had a brief relationship. It was still unclear what she’d done in the way of repayment for the costly surgical procedures, since her financial resources had been somewhat limited.
My best guess was that the producer and the cosmetic surgeon had a racket going on. The surgeon worked cheaper than usual, but had lots of extra business thrown his way by the producer. The producer got his kickback in the way of sexual favors from the prospective patients. Or maybe both men enjoyed the perks of their alliance.
Sick, huh?
The producer, Rex Lane, and the surgeon, Xavier Santos, were now at the top of my super-short suspect list. Especially since Reba Harrison had been an extra in a music video by Rex Lane’s company, Lucky Lane Productions. That particular aspect of Miss Harrison’s past hadn’t been significant until now.
I can track down the surgeon, Patterson offered. I know the places his type likes to hang out.
Another curiosity-arousing statement. Patterson didn’t look like the country-club type. “I’ll take the producer.” No problem. They both had to be questioned.
Patterson gave me a nod and left my cubicle.
While we’re on the subject of cubicles, I should mention that the term is probably not the right one to use. I don’t have any walls around my desk. Mostly I have my space. About a yard of beige carpet all the way around my beige metal desk. There’s a chair, also metal but embellished with a little fake leather, sitting in front of it for interviewing folks or conferencing with one’s partner.
I was somewhat protective of my space. The day the desk had been pointed out to me I’d taken steps to make it mine. Framed family photos and a mug turned pencil holder were my only personal items on top of the desk. The mug had been given to me by the kids in my last class as a teacher. In an effort to clearly delineate the boundaries of my space, I’d brought in a six-by-eight burgundy rug to go beneath my desk. Needless to say, no one else had marked their territory in such a way. Coffee stains and the like were about all that surrounded the other detectives’ desks, even the other two that belonged to females.
Oh, well, I’d always been different. Why change now?
I downed the last of my coffee, grimaced, and grabbed my purse. Sometimes I carried my gun in my purse, but only when I couldn’t wear my shoulder holster. I preferred the latter. The .9-millimeter made my purse weigh a ton.
However, wearing the shoulder holster sort of dictated my wardrobe. It usually meant I would need to wear a jacket to hide it. Not a problem, because jackets were okay with me. Today I wore navy slacks—my favorite color—and a soft baby-blue blouse with a navy jacket, short cropped with no pockets and a cool zipper instead of buttons. The shoes were sensible pumps with two-inch heels. No one would vote me the best-dressed woman in Nashville, but I looked reasonably snazzy for a cop.
The drive to Franklin didn’t take that long. Mr. Rex Lane lived in one of the more glamorous residential neighborhoods of Franklin. So did a lot of stars. Franklin and Brentwood were the two most popular areas outside Nashville. The commute was short and the houses were huge with masterfully landscaped lots. Though Patterson and I were supposed to be a team, time was of the essence here. Splitting up was the most efficient way to do the job.
I stopped at the gate and pressed the intercom button. I felt sure Mr. Lane wouldn’t like having unannounced company on a Sunday afternoon, but I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to be away when I showed up at his door.
I laid my hand on the speaker to feel the vibration when and if someone answered. Worked like a charm.
After moving my hand, I said, “Detective Merrilee Walters, Metro Homicide, to see Mr. Rex Lane.” I quickly placed my hand back on the front of the speaker and waited. I didn’t get an audible response but the gates began a slow swing inward. I took that as a “come on in” sign.
When the gates yawned open fully, I let off the brake, allowing the Jetta to roll forward. The driveway sprawled out before me, a good half mile long. As gorgeous as the landscape was, it didn’t hold a candle to the circular parking patio in front of the house. A large fountain amid the seeming acres of cobblestone lent an old-world flair.
“Big bucks,” I muttered. This guy was making some major money in the video business. My ex had always said that these guys made almost as much money as the performers themselves. Definitely beat out the song-writers, he’d complained. Though Heath appeared to be doing pretty well these days. I’d noticed that one of his new songs, performed by a seasoned veteran, had topped all the charts.
Good for him, I mused. Maybe he’d choke on all the money he was probably making. No hard feelings.
As I got out of my car, the front door opened and the man himself, Rex Lane that is, stepped out onto the granite landing that stood at the top of about a dozen matching steps. Wide, luxurious steps. No expense had been spared in making this Italianate-style home an awe-inspiring mansion.
Detective Walters, what brings you to my home on a Sunday afternoon? he asked with a polite smile.
Well-washed jeans, a comfortable striped button-down shirt and leather Birkenstocks dressed the man who looked around thirty when the background I’d pulled up indicated he would turn forty this year. Maybe the good doctor had done his partner in crime a few favors.
Back up, Merri, I told myself. I hadn’t proven the two were partners in anything just yet.
“I have a few questions for you regarding one of your clients,” I said as I climbed the elegant steps.
This client has a name, I presume, he said as I took the final step, bringing me up alongside him on the wide landing gracing the front of the mansion.
“Had,” I corrected. “She’s dead.”
That got his attention, just as I’d intended.
The expression on his face shifted from annoyed to startled. Come in, Detective.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter before him. As I did I couldn’t help but notice his—or the decorator’s—exquisite taste followed through to the interior. Marble-floored entry. Soaring ceilings. Beautiful artwork and tapestries. Marvelous antique pieces made up the furnishings.
I could almost smell the money.
Lots and lots of the stuff.
He said something I missed as he turned to lead the way to wherever he wanted to do this. I followed, kept an eye on his profile in case he said something else, despite my desire to admire the decorating.
When he led me into a parlor, he asked, Would you like something to drink, Detective?
