Dead Shot (9 page)
“You want to see my bedroom?” She threw him a provocative smile, eager to bury those memories.
He deadpanned his response. “Yeah, short stack, I believe I do.”
She took him up the winding staircase and down the carpeted hallway to her room. She remembered the first time she’d made that trip without her mother’s comforting hand to guide her. The walls were mountainous, the furniture monstrous, the carpet swallowed the sound of her feet and made her feel like a ghost.
She’d felt that way for a long time. Unreal. A phantom. And then she found a way to make herself as real as anyone. Instinctively, she hugged herself, rubbing hands up and down her covered arms. That’s when she noticed Ray at her shoulder, crowding her back. She stopped short, and he nearly ran into her.
“What is it?” He was immediately on his guard.
“Do you have to stand so close?”
He relaxed, but only just. “Arm’s reach is SOP.” And as if she were completely stupid, “Standard—”
“Operating procedure. Yeah, yeah. Okay.”
When they got to her room, he pushed her aside, opened the door, and wouldn’t let her in until he’d checked it out.
He gave her the okay, and she sidled past him, irritated anew with the level of vigilance. How was she supposed to reach the heart of darkness with Ray Pearce skulking around every corner?
“Can I go to sleep now?”
“First, a couple of rules,” Ray said.
She threw her evening bag on the bed. It lay there glittering on the cream satin. “Do I seem like the kind of girl who follows rules?”
He leaned against a gilt-edged dresser. “I think you talk much bigger than you are.”
“Not always.” But she admired his refusal to take her bullshit. “Okay, lay them on me. What are these rules?”
“You do what I tell you, no questions. You don’t leave the house or go anywhere without me.”
She laughed. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. His face was dead sober. “Not even a little bit.”
“No questions? Me?”
“Yeah, I can see where following orders will be hard. But if anything happens, it could save your life.”
“Maybe. But I have other plans.”
Immediately, he straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She threw Genevra’s embroidered pillows in a corner, backtracking quickly. Never reveal too much too fast. “Look . . . let’s not get all dramatic here.”
“No drama. Just the truth.” He gave her a pointed look. “And I hear you’re big on that.”
Ouch. “It’s only for a few days, right?”
“That’s right. I’ll be back in the morning. Early. So no running out to Starbucks without me.”
“I won’t be up early, so sleep in if you want to.”
He nodded. “I don’t keep diva hours. I’ll be here when you get up. That’s all you need to worry about. And one more thing. Tell your grandparents to start setting the alarm. I’ll need the code. And a key to the front door.”
She shuffled in her purse, found hers, and tossed it to him. “You can get a copy made tomorrow. Just pull it shut. It locks from the inside.”
He started to go, turned back. Looked down as though debating with himself, then up at her. “And thanks for your help. At the house. With Burke.”
She nodded. “No problem.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look, then swung around and left.
She turned off the overhead light and switched on the lamp by the bed. The soft light was easier on the eyes. Reaching back, she unzipped the dress and peeled it off. Threw it in the same corner as the pillows. God, she never wanted to see that dress again.
She opened a dresser drawer, took out a ratty olive tank, and pulled it over her head. She kept a closetful of clothes here, most from high school, most shredded or frayed or washed to death, but that still fit. Gaining weight had never been her problem, and using the clothes here kept the luggage at a minimum. Little or no luggage meant she could pretend the trip home would be over almost before it had begun.
She slithered into bed, mindful of the soft pull of the six-hundred-thread count cotton Genevra always insisted on. She reached over to turn off the lamp, and in the yellow glow, her scars seemed angrier than usual. She snapped off the light and lay in bed, rubbing the raised edges of the weird shapes that danced up and down her arms.
Jimmy Burke was on his way home when the police band radio barked a 10-64. Dead Body. His shift was over, and a beer called from the fridge, but that and the
Today Show
were all he had waiting for him.
So he detoured left, thinking about it. A few more minutes with the guys wouldn’t kill him, and besides, he was curious. The crazy at the museum was down for the count, and nothing much else of interest had happened that night. Except maybe seeing Ray again.
Which wasn’t exactly on his Top Forty Things of Interest anyway. He could do without another sighting of Saint Ray. Ray of the Sacrificing Husbands.
He shook off the mood. He should go home. Grab a few hours sleep.
But he wasn’t tired.
He’d stopped for dinner at Krispy Kreme, chomped down two hot ones and gulped three cups of coffee. Between the sugar and the caffeine, he was pretty wired.
And truth was, he didn’t like going home much. Too quiet. The weekends when Scott was there were better, because a six-year-old can really tear the place up. But Scott was with his mother now, and Jimmy’s apartment was empty.
So he headed south, passing used car lot after used car lot. Seventy-seven in a single seven-mile stretch, a good portion with Spanish names and Spanish signs.
He’d lived in Nashville all his life, and he still remembered when Nolensville Road was staunchly redneck, covered in used furniture stores like Oldhams, with its hanging cribs and naked mattresses outside the door. Now you’d think the Rio Grande was south of the city and the whole of Mexico had waded over. Oldhams was now Garcia’s, though the mattresses still hung there. A place shouting
POLLO ASADO
had replaced the Dairy Queen. Strange grocery stores advertised
PAN DULCE
and Mexican beer. Taquerias dotted both sides of the street. It made him uncomfortable.
“The trouble with you, Jimmy, is you don’t like change.” His ex-wife’s voice screeched in his head, a little dose of whatever she’d heard lately from Dr. Phil. “Well, get used to it, because nothing and no one stays the same forever.”
The woman wasn’t the smartest, but she was right about that. Even the sign for the H&R Block office had
SE HABLA ESPAÑNOL
spelled out in black letters.
Jimmy pulled into the strip of blacktop that served as a parking area in front of the store. It was already filled with patrol cars, their lights flashing in the morning. The area around the office had been blocked off, and a couple of uniforms were standing around making sure no unauthorized people got too close.
Jimmy ducked beneath the yellow police line tape and nodded to the uniform outside the office door. “Hey, Shelby, who’s the DRT?” DRT meant Dead Right There, and whoever it was, they had died inside. Through the plate-glass window he saw a group of men milling around, jotting down notes, glancing at the walls, jotting more stuff down. Triangulating the body position, looked like.
“Female, midforties. Two stab wounds.”
That was interesting. “Who caught it?”
“Mills.”
The uniform nodded and let Jimmy pass. He stopped to slip a pair of paper covers over his shoes.
Inside, several desks had been pushed aside to clear room. In the middle of the empty space lay the body of a woman wearing a plaid skirt and a white blouse. Three bloody wounds danced down the front of it. The woman lay peacefully, her eyes closed. A knife lay just out of reach of her open hand.
“Hey, Burke!” Mills waved him over. “What are you doing here?”
“Caught the code on my way home. Thought I’d stop by, check it out.” He looked down at the dead woman. “Robbery?”
“Not unless they took tax forms.”
He gave the body a full 360. Her skirt was unzipped. “Rape?”
“Don’t know yet. ME still has to do the kit. Maybe.”
Burke looked around, taking in the scene. A man hudd led in the far corner, head in his hands. Suited up for the day, prim and proper. Only the curve of his back and the droop of his head belied his true state. Burke nodded in his direction. “Who’s that?”
“Neeley. Victim’s boss. Found the body.”
Burke knew most murders were carried out by those who knew the victim. He eyed the man closely. “He tell you a story?”
“Not much of a one.” Mills flipped through pages of a pocket notebook. “Deceased was still here when he left around seven. Stopped at Bar-b-Cutie for a pound of pork and coleslaw. Home around eight. Dinner with the wife and kids. There all night.”
“You got a time of death?”
“Approximate. Maybe ten, eleven last night.”
Burke looked at the body again. Something tugged at him. “I’ve seen this before.”
Mills laughed. “What? A dead body?”
“No, this dead body.”
“Go home, Burke. You’re tired.”
“No, there’s something . . .” Burke wagged his finger at the air, thinking about it. He glanced around the room. A figurine on one of the desks caught his eye. He pointed to it. “What’s that?”
“Cookie jar. Killer placed it on a plant stand above the body. Winnie the Pooh.” Mills shook his head. “We got us a strange one.”
Burke headed over. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to.
Benton James smoothed the front page of the morning’s
Tennessean
across his desk and admired the point size of his headline: DEATH DIVA DAMAGED. Better than the lead, the story was spread over the coveted strip, the section just below the paper’s name.
Around him, the features department was a ghost town and would be until later this afternoon. If he had any sense, he’d be home in bed, too. But he couldn’t resist coming in and crowing just the teensiest little bit. After all, he’d stayed up half the night writing the story. Larson, the night managing editor, had wanted to bring in a crime reporter, but Benton was already there. An eyewitness.
Benton enjoyed being the town arbiter of good taste, but the sad truth was, there wasn’t much art to critique in Nashville. One opera, once a year. The symphony. A few galleries scattered around. The occasional piece of nonprofessional theater. And the road shows.
That gave him enough to do, but it wasn’t as if he was somewhere where art mattered. “Now, Benton,” the angel voice in his head said, “where else could it matter more than in a place where there’s so little of it?”
Not to be outdone, the devil voice countered, “Yes, but wouldn’t it be delicious to spread a wider net?”
Benton smoothed his mustache and almost cackled as he reread what he’d written the night before. World-class artist, attacked at home. Protesters. Violence. God, could it get any better? Maybe if he was lucky, the wire services would pick it up. Maybe the
New York Times
would call.
He did cackle then, and the sound echoed in the all-but-silent space of empty cubicles. He was good. God, he was good.
He turned on his monitor and logged on. Thought about the headline as the machine warmed up. The night editor wanted to go with something simple, like ARTIST ATTACKED. Benton had talked him into something a tad more inflammatory.
While he was remembering their argument, he checked his e-mail. He ran down the list: nothing, nothing, later, nothing . . . he paused. The last entry was titled “Something to Interest You” and was from
MAPulley@hrblock .com.
Who the hell was MAPulley? He started to hit the delete button, but his curiosity got the better of him. He moved his mouse and clicked on the entry.
The message was a picture. He watched as it downloaded. Saw immediately what it was. The Gillian Gray photograph that had been spattered with blood last night. Well, phooey. What the hell good was that going to do him?
He closed the picture, and just as it disappeared, something caught his eye. Quickly, he reopened it. Gasped.
The dead girl in the picture was no girl. And it was definitely not Gillian Gray.
The morning after the museum fiasco, Gillian thought she’d sleep until noon. But when she opened her eyes, the sun outside her window was low in a blue sky, and her Nikon called to her. She threw on some clothes, grabbed her camera bag, and slung the camera around her neck.
She’d had the 35 mm since she was seventeen. It was her first camera, an aging relic that was already twenty years old when her art teacher had placed it in her hands. She remembered the first time she looked through the viewfinder. The way it sliced the world into a fraction that was both closer than the eye and more distant because the lens created a barrier between them. A barrier behind which she was safe. Behind which she could carve the world into as many segments as she wanted. Create her own borders, her own universe. A place where she, and she alone, was in control.
Outside, the air had a newly washed feel, and she tramped over the grass to the north side of the grounds where a group of flowering trees formed a small meadow. The redbuds were fading, their pink fuzz wilting like the tattered gown of an impoverished Southern belle, but the dogwoods were out in force. Oyster white and salmon pink blooms cupped upward as though welcoming strangers. From a distance they appeared benign, even friendly. But when she took a closer look, she saw that each flower consisted of four distinct petals. And each petal culminated in a clear, spiked point.
