Cover Your Eyes (9 page)
Deke flashed his badge to the greeter. “Tawny here?”
The girl glanced wide-eyed at the badge. “She’s on stage leading the line dance now. Should be finished in a minute or two.”
Up front the young girl wore a mike and a rhinestone outfit. The dancers looked as if they were having fun though most missed steps or spun in the wrong direction. Tawny had long reddish brown hair and a full figure complete with round hips, a narrow waist, and a large bust. Her demeanor was relaxed and carefree as she joked with the guests, sang notes here and there and flirted with the oldest men.
Ten minutes later the audience was clapping and heading back to their seats as Tawny wished everyone a great day and promised to return at the seven o’clock show.
Deke and KC made their way across the restaurant. They showed their badges to a beefy man wearing a security shirt and moved down a long dark hallway toward the dressing rooms.
Deke knocked, waited. “Ms. Richards?”
The door snapped open. This close her makeup, which had looked natural from afar, appeared heavy and overdone. Large black eyelashes batted over brown eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Deke showed his badge. “We’re with the Nashville Police Department. I have questions for you about Dixie Simmons.”
Eyes narrowed. “What does she want? Is she complaining about what I said to her last week?”
“Refresh my memory. What did you say to her last week?”
She planted a hand on her hip, defiance sparking in her posture. “I told her I’d rip out that bleached blond weave of hers if she didn’t keep away from my boyfriend. Bad enough to watch her take my spot on center stage, but it’s another to see her wagging her butt in front of my boyfriend.”
Her honesty nearly made him smile. “She flirted with your boyfriend?”
“If you can call it that. She all but stripped in front of him. She does that all the time. Any time she sees a man she starts wagging her butt in front of him.”
Tawny used the present tense not past when she spoke about Dixie. “Dixie was murdered last night.”
Tawny arched a brow. “Am I supposed to be upset about that? Am I supposed to cry or wring my hands?”
Deke tapped his index finger against the worn black leather of his holster. “Someone beat her up pretty bad.”
She shoved out a breath. “Look, I get that it’s tragic that someone young died. And murder is bad. I get that. But it’s kinda hard for me to summon up tears for Dixie. She was a taker and she clearly took once too often from the wrong person.”
“Where were you last night?”
She flicked a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Doing a show in Pigeon Forge. Stage manager will tell you I got off stage about midnight. It took four hours to get back because we hit fog. We arrived home about six a.m.”
“Anyone ride with you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Two other girls. We all sing in the midweek show at Dollywood and then drive back to Nashville for day jobs.”
“Rough schedule.”
“Entertainment is a rough business. You want to get noticed you have to hustle.”
Deke took the names of the stage manager and the girls sharing the ride. “Know anyone who would want to hurt Dixie?”
She arched a brow but swallowed a smart retort when she met Deke’s gaze. “I don’t have specific names.”
“What did she do when she wasn’t working?”
Tawny twirled an auburn strand around her finger. “Sometimes she went to church. Said a sinner like her needed saving.”
“Which church?” KC asked.
“I don’t know the name. But Pastor Gary runs it. She talked about him.”
KC scribbled a note in his tattered notebook. “The big church north of town. New Community. Been there myself.”
“I guess that’s the one. Dixie had gone there and said she’d given confession. Maybe she shared information that would help.”
“Thanks.”
As they turned to leave, she asked, “So how did she die?”
Deke pulled out his phone, scrolled to the ME’s picture of Dixie and held it out to Tawny. “Like I said. Beaten to death with a blunt metal object.”
She stiffened, shook her head and closed her dressing room door.
“Doesn’t look like Dixie had a lot of friends,” KC said.
Deke replaced the phone. “No, it does not.”
A knock at the door had Rachel rising from her desk and glancing around her office one last time to make sure it was reasonably clean. Susan Martinez at Channel Five had texted ten minutes ago announcing her arrival.
Rachel smoothed hands over black pants and checked her V-neck sweater to make sure it was straight. Boots clicked across the wood floor as she moved, not too quickly, to answer the door.
Don’t look so damn nervous!
Don’t look so damn nervous!
Muttering, “Shut up,” she opened the door. “Susan.”
Red lips spread into a wide grin that deepened the feathery wrinkles around wide expressive eyes. “Ms. Wainwright. Thank you for seeing me.”
“I’m happy to help. Please come in.”
Susan glanced around the space. “I remember when this place used to be a restaurant. Some of the best barbecue in town. I could never understand why it went out of business.”
“Owner wasn’t good with finances.” It had been on the tip of her tongue to explain he’d also had a gambling problem and there’d been an issue with drugs. But that fell under the category of TMI, too much information.
“That’s a shame.”
She’d not mustered much sympathy for the guy, who’d violated health code laws to cut expenses. It was a wonder no one got sick. But again, less information was more. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.” They sat in the twin chairs angled in front of Rachel’s desk. “As you can imagine we’ve had more hits on our station’s website after your piece aired.”
Rachel swallowed a quip about taking it on the chin. “I can imagine.”
“I’ve had a chance to refresh my memory since yesterday. Jeb Jones had a troubled life before his conviction.”
“We’ve never denied that. But that doesn’t make him a killer.”
“Why Jeb?”
Rachel crossed her legs and relaxed back against the hard chair. “Innocence Project sent me his case. They saw merit in his DNA request and so do I.”
“I remember the Dawson murder case. I was in college and working as an intern at the station. It was horrendous. We did lots of stories on Annie. Tried to do a story on her husband and baby but Bill Dawson wouldn’t speak to us. Her sister Margaret was a different matter. She was hard to get away from once she got talking. Talked several times to reporters in the months before Annie’s body was found. I’d forgotten about the churches’ candlelight vigils and the hundreds and hundreds of people who searched. Annie’s death touched a lot of people.”
Rachel was amazed by the emotion in Susan’s voice. “Did you ever see Annie perform?”
“As a matter of fact I did. She was good. Had that star power. Gave you the sense she was going places.”
Annie had been beloved whereas Jeb had been despised. Hers was an uphill battle. “What questions can I answer for you?”
Susan flipped through a spiral notebook. “So far the police have not commented on the case.”
The police. Deke Morgan. Master of silence. “They are waiting on the DNA, no doubt.”
“If you are right about Jeb Jones, this would be a huge upset. Biggest manhunt in Nashville history ends up arresting and convicting the most hated man in Tennessee who also happens to be the wrong guy. This request couldn’t have won you a lot of friends in law enforcement.”
“I’m after the truth. Not friends.”
Martinez tapped her finger against her pad. “Good, because you are not a popular woman right now. Most of the emails that came into the station expressed joy that Margaret Miller hit you. I’ve not read so many insulting descriptions in years.”
Rachel’s pulse quickened. “I’m not afraid of being on the outside. That’s basically been my life.”
“Be careful. A lot of people do not like you now.”
“Understood.” Rachel didn’t want to sound desperate. “So are you going to do a follow-up?”
“I talked to Margaret earlier and she’s basically repeating what she said at the vigil.”
Rachel swallowed a quip and let the silence between them linger.
“For now, I’m holding off for more stories. If the DNA goes your way call me and I’ll cover every facet of your case. Until then, you aren’t going to win any ratings for me.” She rose.
Rachel stood. “If the DNA goes in my favor I might not need a reporter.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. DNA is the first step in a long road for you and your client.”
Disappointment tempted her to beg for another interview. “Looks like we are all in a holding pattern.”
Heels clicked as Susan walked toward the door. “Here’s hoping we both end up with a story.”
“Won’t covering me make you unpopular?”
“Evidence will be on my side and I’ll get a lot of attention. Negative attention gets ratings faster than positive and in the end it’s all about ratings.”
“Not justice?”
She arched a brow as if waiting for a punch line. When none came she said, “Sure. Justice is important, especially when it gets me noticed.”
“You are popular enough.”
“I’m fifty-two and I don’t have a fresh face to dazzle my viewers. It’s going to take a great story to get my airtime.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces.
The pictures flashed like lightning skittering and shattering across the night sky.
The pictures flashed like lightning skittering and shattering across the night sky.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
None of the sights and sounds made sense but the headache worsened and throbbed behind tired unfamiliar eyes staring back from the mirror. Frustration welled as understanding remained at arm’s length.
“I want to understand. I want to know.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces.
The pieces, tattered like fabric scraps, needed a master seamstress to take needle and thread and sew them together into a bright, big memory quilt. Perhaps this quilt would never be perfect or pretty, but it promised some kind of warmth and comfort. If the memories joined, calm was sure to follow. And perhaps the headaches would stop.
But even as she imagined a needle and thread basting fabric edges together, a slight jostle, a loud noise or a bad night’s sleep undid the stitching in a blink and the scraps unraveled.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
All that ever remained were worthless scraps.
And the headaches.
And the raw fury that burned like boiling water.
November 1Sugar,You make me feel like a princess. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana ain’t got nothing on me when I’m with you. The private dinner was so perfect. The twinkling lights. Music. Iced champagne. Fried chicken. And the kiss. The kiss so very sweet and so very . . . hot. I realize now why so many find you hard to resist. Your energy draws people. It certainly draws me.I did not give you an answer last night but . . . yes! Yes! Yes! I would love to ride down to Memphis in your new candy apple red car. And stay at the fancy hotel you talked about. I look forward to silk sheets and breakfast served on silver trays.Until next weekend . . .A.
Chapter Five
Saturday, October 15, 8
AM
AM
Deke arrived home late last night, showered, and too jazzed to sleep, had grabbed a beer and sat in the worn recliner that had been Buddy’s favorite. As ESPN played on the big screen, he’d sipped the beer and stared at football wondering how many hours Buddy sat in this chair, alone and chewing on a case? How many years would Deke sit here, doing the same before his heart gave out and he earned a big funeral filled with speeches, bagpipes, and a five-gun salute.
He’d fallen into bed at two and risen by six. He’d stopped for more coffee and an egg bagel and now found himself at his desk, the one place he belonged.
Deke sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and flipped on the desk lamp. Rolling his head from side to side he attempted to work kinks from tired muscles that needed a week’s worth of rest, not more caffeine and paltry stretches.
He powered up his computer and waited as it came online. All the interviews he and KC had conducted yesterday had done little to get them closer to a killer. They’d heard an array of comments about Dixie. Most included her obsession with men and singing. And though some flat-out didn’t like her, most liked her bubbly nature.
A check of his answering machine had him listening to Rachel Wainwright’s voice. A familiar tension twisted his gut. “Detective Morgan, this is Rachel Wainwright. I’m calling about the DNA in the Jeb Jones case. Have you heard from the state lab? Call me.”
He hit delete. She never made an effort to soften her requests. No
please
or
thank you
. She was all hard angles and edges. Not the kind of woman he pictured snuggling next to on a long winter night.
please
or
thank you
. She was all hard angles and edges. Not the kind of woman he pictured snuggling next to on a long winter night.
A knock at his door had him raising tired eyes to a uniformed officer sporting a dolly stacked high with dusty brown boxes. “Officer Morgan, you requested files on the Annie Rivers Dawson case?”
Deke rose, surveying the hefty stack of boxes. “I did. Tell me that’s all you have.”
The short, stocky officer grinned as he backed the dolly into the room. “Got one more pile as big as this one.”
“Ten boxes.”
“It was the case back in the day. Had every cop in Nashville working on it.”
“Right.” He jerked his head toward a corner. “Start piling them there.”
The officer tipped the dolly back and moved it across the room. As he started to unload, he added, “You gonna go through all these?”
He lifted the lid of a dusty, yellowed box and glanced at the files packed so tight it would take a crowbar to wedge one free. “Not unless I have to.”
“You think the DNA will go against you?”
“It pays to be prepared.”
“So you do think there could be a problem?”
“No. I don’t.” He closed the lid. Better to cut rumors off at the knees. “I’m curious, that’s all. Keep loading. I’ll be back.”
He headed to the forensics lab where he found Brad Holcombe. In his late thirties, Brad had a thick, stocky frame that built muscle as easily as it did fat. Lately, months away from the gym had softened the muscle and robbed the man of color. Red hair swept over freckled skin that burned with the slightest kiss of the sun.
“Brad,” Deke said.
Brad looked up from a pair of overalls laid out flat on a large table. In one hand he had a magnifying glass and in the other a set of tweezers. “Deke. Come to ask about the DNA?”
He wanted free of this case and Buddy’s shadow. “I have. Heard anything?”
“I called last night before I left the office. It should be here in a few days.”
The door to the lab opened and his sister, Georgia Morgan, pushed into the lab, bursting with her customary gust of energy. Unlike her brother, Georgia had a fair complexion and blond hair that she kept twisted into a bun at the base of her skull while working. She had soft cheekbones, a heart-shaped face and full lips that easily split into a wide grin. A bundle of energy, she couldn’t speak without using her hands or keeping her voice from rising or falling with emotion. “What will be here in a few days?”
Deke sipped his coffee. “Lab results.”
Georgia scrunched up her face. “The Annie Rivers Dawson case?”
She’d been born with radar. “That’s right.”
“I saw the stacks of boxes in your office.”
He’d hoped to avoid any drama with Georgia. “I must have missed you.”
She dropped her backpack on her small corner desk and shrugged off her sweater. “Thought we could invite the clan over to the Big House in a couple of weeks.”
“Why is everyone coming over?”
“It’s brother Alex’s birthday.”
“Birthday.” He’d forgotten.
She shook her head, an annoyed brow arched. “Yeah, I know. Not on your radar. That’s my job to keep this rag-tag group of Morgans together. But I live in a one bedroom apartment and you’re camped out in the Big House, so you’re gonna have to host.”
“Fine.”
Since their mother’s death, Georgia had tried to honor the birthday party tradition. The Morgan brothers had played along while Buddy was alive but now all had scurried away like rats on a sinking ship.
“I’m baking a cake like Mom always did,” she said.
Deke grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “What if I pay you to buy one from a baker?”
Blue eyes flashed the first warning sign of Georgia’s trademark temper. “Very funny. I can bake a cake.”
Each time he stomached one of her cakes it weighed heavy in his gut for days. “Why don’t you sing “Happy Birthday”? You’re the one with a voice. I’ll buy a cake.”
“No, it has to be
made
. From scratch.” Give her a murder scene and she was cool and collected. Mess with a family tradition, and then you better expect a meltdown. “It’s what we’ve always done.”
made
. From scratch.” Give her a murder scene and she was cool and collected. Mess with a family tradition, and then you better expect a meltdown. “It’s what we’ve always done.”
Deke rubbed the back of his neck. “Georgia, you damned near burned the house to the ground the last time you cooked.”
“That was six years ago. And I have improved. Buddy said so.”
“He was always a soft touch with you. You could serve him roadkill and he’d have grinned.”
She scrunched up her face. “Funny.”
“Not kidding.”
She waved away his sour, if not begrudgingly playful expression. Blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll skip baking the cake if you let me help you with the Dawson case.”
There was always an angle with Georgia. “No.”
“I don’t like that word.”
“Tough.”
She stepped closer and lowered her voice as if remembering Brad was in the room. “Why can’t I help? I can handle the extra work.”
He kept his expression neutral, knowing the more he fed this argument the hungrier she’d get. “No one’s digging into the files until the DNA comes back. Right now it’s a matter of
if
not
when
we reopen the case.”
if
not
when
we reopen the case.”
“I’d still like to read the files.”
“No.” Deke, his growing annoyance caught Brad’s attention. “Brad, let
me
know when the DNA arrives.”
me
know when the DNA arrives.”
Brad glanced quickly at Georgia before he straightened and met Deke’s gaze. “Will do.”
Georgia glared at Brad and mouthed the word “traitor” before following Deke out the door. “Why are you shutting me out?”
When he’d been fourteen and she’d been four they’d been riding in the car with their mom who’d been dropping him off at the movies to meet friends. Georgia had wanted to go to the movies with Deke. Mom had said no and Georgia had screamed during the entire drive to the theater. She’d never gotten her way but she’d taken hostages. “This is not your case, Georgia.”
“But I’d like it to be.”
A wry smile twisted the edges of his mouth. “I’d like to win the lottery but the chances are slim to none.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Georgia, I don’t have the time or patience to argue with you. Stick to your own caseload.” He rarely pulled rank but didn’t hesitate now. “Stay out of my case.”
Eyes widened with shock and offense as if she hadn’t seen this answer coming from a mile away. “You aren’t being fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“I’m baking that cake.”
“Bring it.”
A final glare and she turned and left. She didn’t scream as she’d done when they were kids, but he sensed the idea tempted. A turn of the heel and she vanished around a corner.
Deke returned to his office and stared at the stack of boxes. He sipped his coffee as he flipped off the lid of the top box, which he discovered was as crammed full of files as the first box he’d inspected. His father had never left a stone unturned and he liked to document. If Deke had been under the gun on a high-profile case he’d have saved every scrap of paper.
Deke hadn’t read any of his case files and could admit he was tempted. But there’d be no way Deke would have time to invest the one hundred and fifty man hours into a case reevaluation. He dialed his cell.
On the second ring he heard his brother Rick’s garbled, “What?”
“Don’t tell me you’re sleeping.”
“Sure why not? I was up late last night studying.”
“I always figured you’d be the one to keep a routine.”
“Not anymore.”
The second Morgan son, Rick, had changed in more ways than Deke could count since he’d been shot six months ago. He’d taken medical leave and gone back to school. “Near death experiences,” he’d said, “have a way of lining up all the stray ducks in your life.”
“Want some freelance work?”
“Depends.” He sighed into the phone.
“It’s the Annie Rivers Dawson case files.”
“DNA is back?” Interest sharpened the tone of his voice.
Deke slid his hand into his pocket and rattled the change. “Not yet. Any day now. But I’ve a gut feeling this case might go sideways. I want to be ready.”
“For what?”
“If the DNA proves Jeb Jones didn’t kill Annie Rivers Dawson. A shit storm.”
In the background Rick’s dog, Tracker, barked, his deep throaty voice still as menacing as it had been when he’d first been assigned to Rick seven years ago. Next came the sound of Rick moving through the house and opening the back door. “You think it will be that huge?”
“If Rachel Wainwright has a say. Yes.”
Rick chuckled. “The fair Ms. Rachel. I saw her on campus yesterday.”
Despite himself, his interest peaked. “Riding a broom?” He chuckled. “Visiting the math department. There’s a part-time teacher in that department who works as a private investigator from time to time. My guess is Wainwright paid her a visit.”
“Why would she need a PI?”
“She’s a defense attorney. They work with PIs all the time.” Tracker barked. A door opened again. Paws scrambled back inside. “When do you want me to get started?”
“Whenever you can get here. And the sooner, the better. Georgia came by my office and saw the files. And Georgia being Georgia won’t stay out of the boxes for long.”
“I’ll be by in an hour with my truck. Lend me a couple of uniforms and I’ll have the files out of your office in ten minutes.”
“Thanks. Oh and be warned, Georgia wants us to get together for Alex’s birthday at the Big House.”
A heavy silence crackled through the phone. “I’m not sure if I can make that one.”
His terse tone hinted at another fault in the Clan Morgan’s foundation. “You aren’t still pissed with Alex, are you?”
“Like you once said, I can carry a grudge for years.”
“Try and put this one aside. It’s important to Georgia that we all stay close. She’s baking a cake.”
He groaned. “If you are trying to convince me, that’s not doing the trick.”
“We can all eat dry cake and manage to be civil with one another for a half-hour.”
“As long as Alex keeps his comments to himself, I’ll try.”
“Great.”
More silence. “Maybe we could use the time to make some decisions about the house.”
Deke rubbed his hand over his short hair, missing the undercover days when he could hide behind long hair and grungy clothes. “The one time I suggested we sell and split the proceeds Georgia blew up.”
“This conversation won’t be fun for any of us. The house deserves to have someone living in it that wants to be there.”
Deke wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he still loved the house and would find a way to make it family central again. But he couldn’t promise that. He might sleep and eat quick meals at the house, but it wasn’t home anymore. In fact, he spent as little awake-time there as possible because it felt as if the house, a monument to the unstoppable Morgan family, stood in silent judgment of his failed marriages and unsettled life.
Rick was right. The house deserved better. A decision had to be made.
“I’ll let her sing “Happy Birthday” before I open the subject,” Deke said.
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