Be Afraid (34 page)

“Drop your weapon!” Rick shouted.

Bishop reached for his gun just as the man in the shadows raised his gun.

With Tracker barking angry and loud, Rick pointed his weapon. “Drop your gun now!”

Bishop leveled his gun. “Drop it! Now!”

The man hesitated and then, seeing he was outgunned, lowered his gun to the ground. He raised his hands.

Bishop raced toward the man, gun drawn. “On your belly now!”

The man held up his hands over his head and dropped to his knees as Bishop kicked the gun away. Rick reached for his cuffs and secured the man’s hands behind his back. Rick rolled him to his back.

No missing the man’s identity. He matched the picture the parole officer had on file.

“Danny Briggs,” Rick said. “Thought you were out of town.”

He reeked with the stench of whiskey and cigarettes. “What the fuck do you want with me?”

“The gun alone is enough to send you back to prison, Danny.” Adrenaline surged in his veins.

“The gun’s just the start,” Bishop said.

“Fuck,” Briggs said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

Bishop grabbed the man by the collar and twisted the fabric in his fist. “Then tell me where we can find your daughter Heather.”

The sound of the girl’s name had his gaze narrowing. “I want a lawyer.”

“I bet you do.”

Twenty minutes later Briggs and his girlfriend were in the back of a squad car. As Bishop spoke to a uniformed officer, Rick leaned against the car and looked down at Tracker who now played with his rubber chew toy—his reward for his work.

“Did real good, T. Real good. We still got the moves.”

After Bishop spoke to the uniformed officer, he moved toward Rick and Tracker. He paused, rested his hands on his hips, and studied the dog. He worked his jaw as if chewing on nails. “I owe you two both.”

“Thanks goes to Tracker. He’s the one that sounded the alarm.”

“Yeah.” He met Rick’s gaze, a mixture of relief churning with humility. “And you listened to him. Thanks.”

Rick nodded. “Anytime.”

Rachel Wainwright arrived at the justice center just after seven
A.M.
She glanced over at Detective Deke Morgan who sat behind the wheel of the SUV. He stared ahead, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“No, but someone has to do it.” She’d gotten a call early this morning from the public defender’s office regarding a case. A woman, believed to be the Lost Girl’s mother, had been arrested. Her name was Loyola Briggs and police believed she’d killed the child or knew who did. Cops had yet to prove a biological connection between Briggs and the child, but mitochondrial DNA, DNA passed from mother to child, would determine if the cops had arrested the right woman. Right now, Loyola Briggs was being held on a parole violation.

“Rick believes she’s guilty.” The scents of soap and aftershave wafted around Deke.

Rachel liked the mornings best when the day was fresh and hope had been renewed. This morning had started off nice but had soured with the public defender’s office. “Test results have yet to confirm a connection to the woman. And Rick told you last night that he and Bishop arrested Danny Briggs.”

“That doesn’t mean Loyola Briggs is innocent.”

“Maybe.”

He turned toward her. “You’re an idealist.”

She shrugged. “It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.”

A smile tweaked the edges of his lips. He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you.”

She touched the side of his face, savoring the strong set of his jaw. “I love you.”

“Try not to piss off too many people today.”

She laughed, feeling stronger knowing he might not like what she did, but could accept it. “Honey, that’s what I do best. See you tonight.”

“Can’t wait to hear about your day.”

Out of the car, Rachel showed her ID and the guard glanced up at her. Defense attorneys, even one dating a homicide cop, didn’t win any popularity contests in this system. “Morning, Lee.”

He arched a brow as he sent her purse through the scanner. “So what fine citizen brings you here today, Ms. Wainwright?”

She could play coy, but there was little point. They’d all know before she left. “Loyola Briggs.”

“The baby killer.”

She cringed, knowing a moniker like that, especially if picked up by the media, would have her client convicted before they got to trial. “She’s not been charged with murder. From what I understand, she’s being held on a minor drug charge and parole violation.”

“That’s temporary.”

She walked through the scanner, and picked up her briefcase and purse. She’d learned not to argue with the guards. No point. When it came time to argue this case, she’d try it in court, not in the hallways or by the water cooler.

She made her way to the visiting room and took a seat at a metal table and bench that were bolted to the floor. This early in the morning, few families visited. This was the time of day for defense attorneys like her to call on a client before court.

She pulled a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase as the deputy opened the door and escorted in a petite, paper-thin brunette with hollow cheeks. Smudges darkened the skin under her eyes and her hands trembled.

Rachel attributed the shakes not to fear but to alcohol or drug withdrawal. She wasn’t so naïve that she thought her client was innocent, but she believed in the right to a valid defense. Everyone deserved her day in court.

The female deputy walked the woman up to the table. “Are you Ms. Briggs’s attorney?”

“I am.”

A dark brow arched. “I see you a lot down here.”

Rachel had slept little last night and her patience had thinned to breaking. “I get around.”

What she didn’t add was that the city had tossed her several tough cases since her very controversial handling of the Jeb Jones case last year. Though DNA had definitively cleared her client of a thirty-year-old murder conviction, many didn’t like the fact that she’d bucked the system and won.

The deputy was too professional to speak her mind, but the hardness in her gaze told Rachel she was in for another uphill battle. “You have thirty minutes.”

Loyola sat, but her gaze remained on her nails, which had been chewed to the quick.

“Loyola Briggs, my name is Rachel Wainwright. I’m your court-appointed attorney.”

“They said they was holding me on a parole violation and drugs. Don’t seem like I need an attorney for that.”

“You’ve been in trouble for drugs before. If you’re convicted this time then it means prison.”

She managed a small shrug. “Okay.”

“You’re willing to go to prison?”

“I can tough out a year. Won’t be much more than that for what the cops found on me.”

“You do understand the cops are trying to link you to the Jane Doe child they found in the park. They believe you’re her mother.”

“Like I told the cops, my baby daddy gave our girl away to a loving family. I didn’t hurt her. They’re gonna figure out that the bag of bones they found ain’t my kid.”

Either the woman was a practiced liar or so deep in denial she’d lost touch with reality. “Loyola, Danny Briggs was arrested an hour ago.”

“Danny?”

“Yes. Danny. He’s been arrested. And it’s a matter of time before he implicates you.”

Loyola looked at her shorn, uneven fingers. “I didn’t kill my baby. I didn’t kill my baby.”

Rachel had dealt with many accomplished liars in the few years she’d been a public defender. Most were guilty but it was the stray innocent who kept her going. As easy as it was to try to convict Loyola in her mind, she’d put her emotions aside and do what she did best—make her case in court. “All right. Let’s see if I can get you out on bond. They’re holding you right now on a minor parole violation. They can’t argue for murder until you’ve been charged and that’s going to take DNA.”

Loyola leaned forward, her dark eyes searching. “You’re going to get me out? I shouldn’t be here because someone found a bag of bones.”

“That bag of bones was someone’s child.”

She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Wasn’t mine.”

If not for her commitment to the law and the justice system, she couldn’t do this work. “For the short term, yes, I’ll get you out.”

Thursday, August 24, 10
A.M.

Jenna woke before the sun, but the fatigue had been overwhelming. She allowed herself the luxury of dozing until ten in the morning. She’d slept little last night, her conversation with Rick Morgan buzzing in her head like a swarm of bees. The constant replay of words had made little sense until it struck her that last night had been the first time she’d ever talked about her past. Her aunt had always brushed the bad events aside and, without words, taught Jenna to do the same. The only time the past had come up in Baltimore had been at her interview for the academy and she’d done what her aunt had always done . . . she’d brushed it aside.
I don’t remember.

But she was remembering now. More and more each day, a new detail slipping through another crack in the wall.

First, it had been Shadow Eyes. Then details of the closet. Her sister angry with her father. Ronnie arguing with someone up until the end. And then . . .

More details danced on the edges of her memory and if they took one small step forward into the light, she could reach out and grab them. But they hovered in the darkness, elusive and out of reach. That’s why she’d gotten up and started to draw.

She sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side and shoved her hands through her hair. Barefooted, she padded into the living room, glanced at the covered portrait she’d begun last night. This image didn’t feature a bride or a smiling face. This was the portrait of Shadow Eyes who had broken into her thoughts three weeks ago, the night she’d found the little girl in the closet. But as she stared at the face, recognition did not flicker. For all she knew, the image might have been an amalgam of suspect faces she’d drawn over the years.

Shaking off a shudder, she moved into the kitchen, needing a cup of coffee to chase away the heaviness of fatigue. Minutes later, coffee gurgled from the machine and she was leaning toward it, counting the seconds until it finished brewing. Finally, it was finished and she took coffee in hand and moved toward the back door, anxious to be in the fresh air.

The morning dew had long burned off the back deck that overlooked the small, green backyard and the ring of woods behind the house. Outside, she was more connected to the world. She could breathe. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there but when she turned, she spotted something in the corner of her eye. Setting her mug down, she moved toward the white bit of plastic resting on the back rail by her house. As she got closer, she realized what was in the bag. A head.

For an instant, she recoiled as her heart raced and her chest tightened. She inhaled deeply and steeled herself. She peered in the bag. It was a doll’s head and scrawled across the forehead was the word
BITCH
.

The eyes staring up at her were blue, bright, and lifeless. White hair stood straight up, spiking as if the electricity had raced through the doll, or what remained of her.

In a snap, her brain shifted to cop mode. Who had sent her this? Her work with the Nashville Police Department came to mind. She’d created the sketch of a child’s face. Instead of being afraid as she was of Shadow Eyes, she knew this doll’s head was tangible and she understood tangible. “I’ve struck a nerve.”

Mindful not to touch the doll, she retrieved her phone from the house, took pictures of the doll’s head, and then called Rick Morgan.

He answered on the third ring and his voice was gruff and deep. A dog barked in the background. “Jenna.”

“I’m texting you a picture. It’s of a doll’s head left on my back patio.”

“A what?”

“A doll’s head. I think my drawing has gotten someone’s attention.”

Silence crackled on the line. “The child’s grandmother saw the picture you drew on television last night and called us. We questioned a woman last night who we believe might be the child’s mother. We’re running a DNA sample of the mother and the child. We also arrested a man who we believe was the child’s father.”

“You arrested him?”

“He drew on us.”

The understated words hinted at what must have been a heart-stopping scene. She’d had a gun drawn on her once, when she’d patrolled in Baltimore. She remembered holding her gun steady and shouting for the man to put his gun down. She’d been lucky. He’d listened and laid his gun down before kneeling with his hands behind his head. She’d shaken for two days after. “So you have them both in custody?”

“We had to release Loyola Briggs, the alleged mother, early this morning. We can’t charge her until we prove the child is hers. Danny Briggs, the father, was just arrested and won’t be getting out anytime soon.”

The thrill of success hummed in her body. Another sketch. Another arrest. “You think they’re the parents?”

“Your picture looked exactly like photos the grandmother had in a scrapbook. And Danny Briggs had scratches on the side of his car. Looked like he might have sideswiped someone.”

“He ran me off the road?”

“Looks like it.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, grim satisfaction giving her little pleasure. “Good. You have a lead.”

“It’s a hell of a lead. How long do you think the doll’s head has been on your porch?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t out on the porch yesterday.”

“Danny Briggs wasn’t arrested until a couple of hours ago. He could have left it.”

She turned from the bag and the doll’s head. Moments like this made being a cop so satisfying. “You’ll tell me what the DNA reveals?”

“Of course. Without you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“Want me to bag the doll’s head?” she teased.

“No.” His voice radiated with force. “I’ll send an officer.”

Disappointment snapped. “I can do it.”

“I’ve no doubt, but we don’t want any defense attorney saying you tampered with the evidence.”

He’d all but called her an outsider. “Okay. But I’m watching when they do their thing.”