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“No, thank you.”
He indicated the sofa and I sat. He settled into a leather chair directly across from me.
How can I help you?
That he didn’t prod some more for the client’s name alerted me to his nervousness and the possibility that he already knew.
“I’m sure you remember a client who came to you a few months ago named Mallory Wells.” This was a statement, not a question. I didn’t want to give him an easy out. I wanted him to worry about just how much I knew.
He took his time answering. Most of that time he used to arrange his expression into a thoroughly un-readable one. But he didn’t accomplish that before I picked up on surprise and then a moment of horror that wilted into remorse. He hadn’t known she was dead. He felt sick at the idea.
Both of those things helped lower his ranking on my suspect scale.
But I didn’t mention that to him. Let him sweat.
Yes. He moistened his lips. His posture grew considerably more rigid. I knew her quite well, as a matter of fact.
“It’s my understanding the two of you were involved in an intimate relationship,” I said bluntly. Now this is a tactic known in cop world, or in poker, as bluffing. You take rumor and innuendo, or maybe a wild guess, and formulate a theory. In other words, you lie. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
He blinked. I wouldn’t call our relationship intimate, he hedged.
This time it worked.
“What would you call it?” I pressed. I wanted to ask him the most personal questions while the shock was still new.
It was intense but mostly about business.
“But you knew her in the biblical sense.” Another statement of presumed fact that would amp up his discomfort.
We slept together once, he insisted without meeting my eyes. That was the only time.
So far so good. That he admitted having had sex with her surprised me. I wondered if he assumed I had evidence to back up my assessment. Apparently. “Did you part on bad terms?” I stayed clear of specific adjectives on this point. I didn’t want to lead him, I just wanted to prompt him.
He gave a halfhearted shrug. I suppose you could say that. She wanted more than I could give her.
I found Mr. Lane’s honesty refreshing. He was either totally innocent or completely stupid.
“Love?” I suggested.
He shook his head. Nothing like that. She wanted to be a star. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before meeting my gaze once more. That wasn’t going to happen. She was a nice girl and I liked her, but she wasn’t star material.
The worst kind of heartache. In my experience with the entertainment business, a guy could break a girl’s heart and she would get over it, but having him doubt her ability to become a star, well, that was a whole other epic struggle.
“How did she take it?”
Not well. She egged my Bentley.
Poor guy. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
Then she spread rumors about me to my friends.
“Rumors?” My curiosity piqued again. This could be significant. Maybe she got involved with the wrong people in an effort to get back at Lane.
That I was gay. He made one of those faces that said he was mortified and very nearly mortally wounded. I can’t believe she would do that. We may have had only one night but she had to know.
That her final hours had been spent engaged in violent sex flitted through my mind. A scorned man might very well see that as the perfect revenge.
“When did you last see her, Mr. Lane?” I purposely made my voice accusing. I wanted him to squirm some more.
He shifted in his chair. Excellent.
Let me see. Another shift of position. Perhaps two weeks ago. There was a party. He waved a hand. You know the type, where everyone who’s anyone makes an appearance.
Yeah, I knew the type. I’d been to a couple myself. Before. But that was another story. Another life. Definitely not anything I wanted to dwell on today.
Mallory had too much to drink, as usual, he went on. She completely embarrassed herself.
“Who was she with at this party?” That information could be very useful. Could give me a contact who’d had more recent dealings with the victim.
His brow furrowed in concentration. Jones. He scrubbed his hand over his chin. The new guy making all the circuits. I haven’t had the pleasure of working with him. TriStar got him.
Rafe Jones. Young. Gorgeous. A little wild, according to the gossip rags. A rising star, according to country-music gurus. He had that controversial country-rap style down to a personal style that appeared to suit his sexy persona.
TriStar was another music video company in Nashville. The biggest, actually. A new company that had breezed into town three years ago and knocked the old-timers out of the top spot. Most likely made a few enemies in the process.
“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Miss Wells?”
He thought about my question for a time then shook his head. Not really. She could be cloying but she wasn’t a bad girl. And it wasn’t that she lacked talent, she simply didn’t have that star quality. The club circuit was the best she could ever hope for.
“Like Reba Harrison?”
This question startled him all over again.
“She was one of your clients, as well,” I went on. “Did the two of you have a physical relationship?”
No. Strictly business. She hadn’t been my client in almost a year. And you’re wrong—she had real talent.
That might be true but he was not telling me everything. The way he kept his eyes averted and allowed his hands to fidget told the tale.
“She had been invited to play the Wild Horse.”
Yes, I know. He met my gaze briefly. Her death was quite a shame.
I found it surprising that he would know her agenda if they’d no longer had a business relationship. “You keep up with who’s playing at the Wild Horse?”
He looked surprised at the question but quickly recovered. Detective Walters, I keep up with everything related to this business. It’s what I do.
Okay, I guess his answer wasn’t as surprising as I’d thought.
I stood and thrust out my hand. He got to his feet almost awkwardly and took it. The brief exchange revealed a sweaty palm and a shaky grip.
“Please let me know if you remember anything else that might be useful to this investigation.” I took a card from my shoulder bag and passed it to him. “No matter how seemingly insignificant. You never know what will make or break a case.”
He saw me to the door. I stopped there, frowned in concentration a moment then said, “By the way, do you know of any reason someone would be out to make you look bad?”
His face paled. Certainly not.
“With two murders victims linked to Lucky Lane Productions, it looks like being on your client list is hazardous to a girl’s health.”
I left, closed the door behind me. I wanted him to think about what I said…stew over it. I could imagine him leaning against the massive wood door and trying to pull himself back together.
Maybe he was innocent, and personally I leaned in that direction, but he was nervous. A one-night stand with a client who got herself murdered didn’t make him guilty, but something about the case made him edgy.
My guess was he knew something he wasn’t telling.
That seemed to be the theme for the day.
Secrets.
I didn’t like secrets.
The trip back to Nashville turned interesting as I neared my neighborhood. I’d noticed the car following me a few miles back. Several unnecessary turns had confirmed that the vehicle was, indeed, on my tail.
So I did what any fired-up cop would do: I performed a little swoop and swap.
I floored the accelerator. Took two hard turns and whipped into a hidden driveway on a street I knew as well as I knew my own. I was out of the car before it stopped rocking and rushed over to watch from the overgrown shrubbery at the curb.
The sedan, four-door, gray, plain and ugly, slowed to a stop and the driver, male, thirty-five maybe, surveyed the neighborhood without getting out of his vehicle.
I eased down the shrubbery row until I reached the rear of his vehicle and then I dashed across the sidewalk and hovered near the trunk. He hadn’t turned off the engine but he had shifted into Park. I’d seen his back-up lights flash as the gear shift passed through Reverse on its way to Park and I could feel the heat coming from the tail pipe, indicating the engine was still running.
Adrenaline fired through my veins as I risked a peek over the top of the trunk. He’d taken out his cell phone to make a call.
Distracted. Perfect.
I rounded the end of the vehicle and watched him in the driver’s-side mirror as I moved toward the door in a low crouch.
Three seconds later I stood, my weapon aimed at his head through the window.
“Get out!” I roared.
He looked up at the gun then at me. Pallor slid over his face. I liked knowing I could make a man go white as a sheet.
Without a word, he closed the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat and reached for the door handle.
“Keep your right hand where I can see it,” I ordered. He’d used his right hand when tossing the phone. That was the one I needed to watch.
I backed off a step as he opened the door with his left hand, his right held up in a sign of surrender, and got out. If the bland, featureless car hadn’t been a dead giveaway the cheap suit he wore would have.
Cop.
“Why are you following me?” I had my ideas but I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.
He started to reach into his jacket but I shook my head and waved the gun for emphasis.
Chief Barlow ordered me to. If his crestfallen expression were any indication, he didn’t look forward to telling his superior that he had been made.
The anticipation I’d felt seconds ago morphed into fury. I reached into his jacket and felt for a wallet. He didn’t resist. What I found was a badge, just as I suspected.
Officer Waylon Jamison. Murfreesboro.
What the hell?
“Since when does Nashville’s Chief of Homicide have any jurisdiction over Murfreesboro cops?” I shoved his badge at him and put my weapon away.
Now I was really mad. If Barlow was lucky I wouldn’t be able to find him until I’d cooled off. First he sticks me with a partner who doesn’t like female cops. Then he hires some out-of-town cop to watch me.
I just transferred to Nashville, he explained. Barlow gave me this assignment because I was new. He glanced nervously at the ground. This operation was supposed to be a secret. I hope this doesn’t affect my new assignment.
How could I not feel sorry for the guy?
I planted my hands on my hips. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” I was a sucker, I admit it.
But I… He looked unsure what to say.
I held up a hand for him to listen. “I won’t mention that I know you’re following me on one condition.”
He looked like a puppy anticipating a treat. Name it.
“I realize you have to follow orders,” I said up front. “Just make sure you stay out of my way and don’t tell Barlow anything without checking with me first.”
He looked uncertain for all of two seconds then he said, Deal.
That, I decided, was the best revenge. Turning the tables. As long as Barlow didn’t know I’d made Jamison, he wouldn’t be dragging someone else into the scenario. I had Jamison by the short hairs. He didn’t want to look bad to his new boss, making him, in reality, mine to rule.
And Barlow never had to know.
Chapter 4
When you grow up in a large Southern family there is one thing that follows you from the cradle to the grave. Family dinners.
The chosen night had changed from time to time over the years, to accommodate schedules, but the tradition remained the same. My mom did all the cooking, Sarah and I set the table, and the other three daughters-in-law did whatever Mom told them. Meanwhile, the men in the family, my four brothers and my dad, watched the news or a ball game.
I often wondered if this tradition was part of the reason Southern women had, for generations, cooked with lard, a seriously concentrated form of animal fat, and lots and lots of salt. Pump up the cholesterol and blood pressure levels and a woman didn’t have to worry about living with their thoughtless men that long.
Not that my mother did that. She was a health nut to the core. Walked three miles every day with my dad in tow. Walters men would live forever. Good thing they had strong willed women who tolerated the family-dinner crap but not much else.
Truth was I loved all the men in my family, even when they were swizzling beer and yelling at the television set as if the referee could hear them via sheer determination alone. Sports were like a religion around here.
