Praise for Debra Webb

“Wow! Those that crave adrenaline overflow must read this book. From page one, the characters explode off the pages with their highly intense action…. Very highly recommended.”

—Myshelf.com on Silent Weapon

“A fast-moving, sensual blend of mystery and suspense, with multiple story lines, an unusual hero and heroine, and an ending that escapes the trap of being too pat. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard on Striking Distance

“Debra Webb delivers page-turning, gripping suspense, and edgy, dark characters to keep readers hanging on.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Her Hidden Truth

“Debra Webb’s fast-paced thriller will make you shiver in passion and fear.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Personal Protector

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last—but not least—a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard on Safe by His Side

Dear Reader,

First let me thank you for all your amazing letters and e-mails about Merri in Silent Weapon. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed each and every one. This book is in large part due to your tremendous response to her story. I hope you will enjoy Merri’s newest exciting adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Please visit my Web site at www.debrawebb.com and let me hear from you as soon as you’ve finished the book! I can’t wait to see what you think of Merri’s developing relationship with one sexy cop.

Look for my next Bombshell book coming in June 2006. I promise you many more intriguing adventures with my kick-butt ladies. And who knows, maybe you’ll be seeing more of Merri as she makes her mark as Nashville’s sexy, silent weapon!

Regards!

Debra Webb

Silent Reckoning
Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBB

was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it bad enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

This book is dedicated to a very special

young man, my son-in-law, Mark Jeffrey.

Thank you for making my daughter happy.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

I read an article once that championed the legalization of prostitution. After all, the writer insisted, it is the oldest profession known to civilized man. At that juncture in the article I had paused to frown at the use of prostitution and civilized in the same paragraph. No offense to ladies of the night, but there is absolutely nothing civilized about the profession.

Case in point: I, Merrilee Walters, am standing here on a Nashville street corner way east of 2nd Avenue and Broadway, not exactly the ritziest section of town. You know the section I mean. Friday-night traffic is heavy. The weather is unseasonably warm for late March, so the convertible tops and windows of cars are down, allowing drivers to enjoy the first previews of summer.

The hot pink skirt I’m wearing barely covers my rump. The fishnets are making my legs itch and my feet are absolutely killing me in these damned thigh-high stiletto boots. As if that isn’t bad enough, the matching pink tube top keeps creeping down to give a preview of its own.

I can’t believe I agreed to this. What self-respecting redhead would wear hot pink?

If the outfit isn’t barbaric enough to make you shudder, I have to put up with all the wolf calls and lewd comments shouted at me from the passing cars. I don’t have to actually hear the words. I see the faces leaning out windows. I can fill in the blanks. And, well, lip-reading is my specialty.

Don’t let anyone kid you. Prostitution is pure hell. And I haven’t even gotten to the part with the johns yet.

My mother always told me that bad girls—translation according to the Southern Mothers’ Dictionary: any female who has sex outside marriage—went to hell. Well, I’m here to tell you, she’s right. This is surely hell.

Actually I’m not a hooker. I’m a detective in Metro’s Homicide Division and this is an undercover operation to nail a scumbag who likes to damage prostitutes, to the point that two have died. As if that isn’t bad enough, he’s suspected of having killed a cop—one of Metro’s finest. I can tell you right now, I wouldn’t want to be him when he’s finally caught.

With the creep in hiding, there is only one way to lure him out.

I shifted my weight to the other foot and watched the woman across the street. Tall, smooth dark skin. Very pretty with sleek black hair cascading around her shoulders. Shameka had survived an attack by this low-life. She’d escaped certain death by the skin of her teeth—and plain old street smarts. Once she’d gotten over the initial fear, she’d marched into Metro and demanded to be used as bait to catch him. A gutsy move from a gutsy lady. And exactly the break Metro had been looking for.

She was scared tonight though. I could tell. But she would die before she’d back down. She wanted to get this guy almost as bad as we did—we being the cops.

I haven’t always been a cop. Just over three years ago I was an elementary school teacher. Really, I was. The only four-letter words I used on a regular basis were Spot, Dick or Jane. Well, okay, truth is, that hasn’t changed. As much as I try to fit in, foul language just doesn’t work for me. Now my colleagues, well, they go into a bar and five minutes later sailors come running out. But they watch their mouths around me out of respect. I like that.

And I love being a cop.

Getting back to how I ended up on this street corner…

I grew up in a houseful of boys, all cops or firemen—except my dad, he’s a CPA, weird huh? Anyway, three years ago I lost my hearing. I don’t mean it faded so that I needed a hearing aid. I mean, I came away from a merciless infection with profound loss. I hear nothing at all. Not a single sound. Sometimes I think I do, but my doctors say I don’t really hear, I simply remember what things sound like so I think I’m hearing when I’m actually recalling.

At first I was totally devastated. I locked myself away at my parents’ home and felt sorry for myself. I lost my job, and my fiancé—who wasn’t such a loss as it turned out. My life felt as if it were over.

With my family’s support I went into counseling and intensive training for the hearing-impaired. I learned signing and, more important, how to read lips. I got myself a job in the historical archives of Metro and then I developed an interest in solving cold cases.

Since I knew no one would want to hire a deaf policewoman or detective, I did my crime-solving on my own. Bringing down a murderer who had escaped justice landed me in lots of hot water, but also garnered me lots of attention. The Chief of Detectives at Metro offered me a position with Homicide, and I brought down mob boss Luther Hammond by using my own unique weapon—reading his evil plans off his own lips.

So here I am. One year later.

After a couple of months on the job, I went off to the police academy. Eight months later I was fortunate enough to be accepted at the Tennessee Forensics Academy. I got back on the job a couple of months ago. Metro wanted to assign me to profiling or forensics and, at first, that’s what I thought I wanted. But I was wrong. I couldn’t make the difference I yearned to make behind the scenes.

This is where I wanted to be—out here in the trenches. My life is all I could hope for on a professional level.

On a personal note, my family finally accepted my new career. I have an on-again, off-again romantic interest, but don’t tell anyone—because he’s my boss now.

His name is Steven Barlow. We worked together on my first official case, bringing down a local mob boss. It’s true. Even Nashville had a mob circuit.

Barlow is the Chief of Homicide now so this thing between us has pretty much been slipped to the back burner. But I would be lying if I didn’t confess I still get tingly whenever he’s around. Except when I’m pissed off because of some decision he has made. He likes attempting to keep me away from danger. I understand his motivation on one level, but I hate it on all others because more often than not, it cramps my style.

He’s not happy that I’m working this sting, but he’ll get over it. Truth is, he’s not thrilled about my change of heart where profiling and forensics are concerned. Most of Metro’s brass would feel a lot better with me working crime scenes the way folks on the television program CSI do. But then I’d miss all the real fun.

Barlow and the rest need to get real. This is where I want to be. And it’s homicide…the work revolves around unlawful death. Can’t have unlawful death without a little danger.

Enough of the reflecting. Shameka still looks nervous. But she’s hanging in there. I didn’t feel totally comfortable about being across the street from her but the operation commander insisted it was the best strategy.

Still, my instincts were humming. My gut says I should be over there with her.

No sooner than I had taken two steps to put the thought into action than the watch on my left wrist started to vibrate. I glanced at its face, read the frantic message: What the hell r u doin???

You see, since I can’t hear, the op commander can’t communicate with me through the typical earpiece. Metro had this special watch designed just for me. It isn’t just a watch, though it does show the time. It has a display for text messages similar to that of my cell phone for the hearing-impaired, only smaller.

The watch vibrated again, the same message flashing in warning.

I ignored the question. Just kept swaying my hips, the way I’d seen the other ladies of the night doing, and moving toward my destination.

“Hey, Shameka,” I called out.

What’s up, girl? She smiled, but her lips trembled with the effort, making reading her words a little tougher.

I sidled up next to her and flashed her the widest, most encouraging smile I could summon. “I was lonely way over there all by myself.”

She looked directly at me and said, Thank you.

Her relief was palpable. She’d willingly put herself out on this limb to help capture a murderer, but she’s only human. The fear wouldn’t be denied. Has something to do with that danger Barlow likes me to avoid.

We chatted and laughed for nearly an hour while nothing happened. Understandably the rest of the team was getting antsy. The op commander would likely blame me if this whole effort turned out to be a bust. If I’d stayed on my side of the street…if I hadn’t done this or that…. At least he didn’t send me any more messages. I might not have a potty mouth, but I do have somewhat of a reputation for being obstinate. So shoot me.

Shameka is a civilian. She has feelings and I can’t ignore those, not even to catch a suspected cop-killer.

The traffic had thinned for a bit but now it picked up again as folks left clubs and headed for all-night restaurants. Others were just beginning their nights at the bars and clubs. Within another hour the op would likely be shut down. As much as we all wanted to get this guy, this many resources couldn’t be focused on one case forever.

My nerves jangled with anticipation. I surveyed each vehicle that approached our position while doing my level best to maintain a broad, inviting smile. I kept one hip cocked, showing off every inch of fish-net-clad thigh exposed between the hem of the micro-mini skirt and the top of the black leather boot.

God, the shoes were killing me.

Women who wear shoes like this have to be masochists. It just isn’t normal.

The band on my wrist vibrated. As I started to glance down at it, something in the edge of my peripheral vision snagged my attention.

Black pimped-up Caddy, moving slow.

The car swerved into the lane closest to our position.

My gaze collided with Clarence Johnson’s at the exact instant that his weapon leveled in our direction.

“Get down!” I shouted.

I slammed my full weight into Shameka, forcing her down onto the sidewalk at the same instant that fire flew from the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun the perp wielded.

I snagged the weapon I’d tucked into my right boot and fired six times at the Caddy as it spun away, smoke boiling up from the rear tires.

I didn’t have to hear the sirens or see the lights to know that Metro would be on that Caddy’s tail. Unmarked cars came out of a dozen hiding places.

“You okay?” I surveyed Shameka as I scrambled up onto my hands and knees. The burn of scraped skin registered vaguely but I was more worried about her sluggish movements.

Shameka nodded as she struggled to an upright position. I’d hit her hard, but there hadn’t been any time to do anything else. She moved disjointedly now and worry gnawed at me.

Then I saw the blood.

Darkening her red skirt from somewhere in the vicinity of her waist.

“Oh, God.”

Shameka stared down at herself then at me in surprise. He hit me.

“You’ll be all right,” I promised.

People were suddenly all around us, beat cops as well as detectives. The paramedics on standby for this op pushed me aside to clear a path to the victim.

I maintained eye contact with Shameka until whatever they’d put in her IV for pain dragged her into unconsciousness. And then I just stood there, watching as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove away.

If she died…

No. I would not think that way. That dirtbag couldn’t win. I shifted my attention in the direction where I’d last seen the Caddy. They had to catch Johnson.

Anything else was unacceptable.

The next morning I dropped into the chair behind my desk and attempted to focus on reports. It didn’t matter that it was Saturday. Cops were cops 24/7.

I’d spent most of the night at the hospital.

Shameka was in stable condition. She’d made it through surgery with no problem. The surgeon had assured me she would fully recover. Two cops were stationed outside her room for protection.

Clarence Johnson would learn that she had survived.

The scumbag had gotten away.

I couldn’t believe it.

Metro had found the Caddy. Apparently I’d hit him since there was blood in the front seat. Good. I hoped he died a slow, painful death and I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking it.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up to find Jesse Holderfield hovering over me.

Chief wants to see you. He rolled his eyes. He’s in a mood.

“Thanks, Holderfield.”

Jesse Holderfield reminded me a lot of my dad. Quiet, reserved. Nothing like you’d expect a homicide detective to be. But he was good. He had thirty years under his belt in this division.

I got up and headed toward the Chief of Homicide’s office. His domain was down a long hall, just far enough away from the bull pen to maintain some of its dignity where decor is concerned.

Not that the bull pen was that bad. The place had a decent paint job even if the off-white color lacked creativity. The carpet was commercial-grade and beige. Each detective had his or her own cubicle, also beige. Standard-issue metal desks, each topped with a computer only one generation behind the current technology.

But the chief’s office, now that was a different story. A plusher grade of carpeting. A nice cool blue color on the walls. To match his eyes, I mused.

But then I wasn’t supposed to be noticing his eyes anymore.

And I knew exactly what Holderfield meant when he said the chief was in a mood.

I tapped on the door and stuck my head inside. “You wanted to see me?”

Have a seat, Detective.

Not Merri, like he used to call me, or even Walters. Just plain old Detective. This was the game we played now. The vibes he gave off confused me—at times, it felt like he wanted to pick up where we left off after our first case, with a budding personal relationship. Other times, I was almost convinced he’d never felt anything for me at all.

I stepped into his domain and sat as ordered.

Steven Barlow had risen to the position of Chief of Homicide because he was most assuredly the best man for the job. His reputation as a detective was unparalleled, though I’m working on matching that record, and his dedication was legendary.

He looked great. Still wore his dark hair regulation short and no one, I mean no one, dressed as classy as Barlow. I had to smile. Yep, he looked amazing. Made me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. I did so love to look at him.

And then his gaze connected with mine.

Amazing morphed directly into angry. He was not a happy camper, his expression reflected the mood Holderfield had mentioned.

We’ve spoken about this before.

The warm, fuzzy feeling evaporated.

Here it comes, the talk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, in an attempt to derail his momentum. We’d been through this a dozen times in the past year. “I take too many chances. I shouldn’t have moved out of position. I had my orders and I didn’t follow them. Let’s cut to the chase here, Chief. Am I in trouble?”

God, I hoped not. I didn’t want to get suspended or worse, fired. I hadn’t come this far to throw it all away. I had done what I had to do. Any cop worth his or her salt would have done the same thing.

You understand that disobeying orders is a serious offense.

I understood, but I pretended not to notice. I’d found that feigning ignorance often got me off the hook.

Didn’t appear to be working this time.

I swallowed, tried to read his expression. I shouldn’t have bothered. Seeing more than what he wanted me to was impossible. He was too good at putting on the poker face. Just another skill that made him a good chief.

Made for figuring out this thing between us extra tough, as well.

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

His expression changed ever so slightly with my response. Not quite a flinch but almost. Did it bother him that I didn’t call him Barlow? At least I wasn’t in this alone. We were both still adjusting to the roller-coaster-like changes in our relationship. Sometimes it felt as if I was the only one frustrated and confused…it was nice to know he felt it, too.

Your instincts were on target, he admitted as he shifted his gaze away from me. The operation commander and I have discussed the issue and no formal disciplinary action will be taken considering the way things turned out.

Relief surged through me. Though I didn’t feel the least bit repentant for what I’d done, I recognized the need for a chain of command.

This time, Barlow added.

“Thank you, sir.” I would do better next time, maybe even ask permission to make an unexpected move. I chewed my lower lip. I hoped.

That intense gaze reconnected with mine and a brand-new flicker of fire shot through me. I shivered, hoped like heck he didn’t notice. Those awesome lips parted and for a few seconds I thought he would say something like, I worry about you, Merri, or I couldn’t live without you. He didn’t.

For a couple of months now, he said, we’ve been using you as a fill-in.

Oh, well. I focused my mind on his words. It was true. Since coming back on board at Homicide after attending the academy, I hadn’t been assigned a partner. Instead, I’d worked as a kind of floating detective, filling in wherever needed. It wasn’t that bad. Gave me a chance to get to know all the detectives in my division. But I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t official…in a sense. I didn’t complain, just went with the flow.

We’re going to change that today.

’Bout time, I didn’t say. However, I couldn’t help wondering if this abrupt decision had anything to do with my actions last night. Maybe they thought I needed more structure. Someone to keep me in line.

I still didn’t regret what I had done.

A new detective just transferred in from Hendersonville, Barlow explained. He spent three years as a beat cop before taking the detective’s exam. He graduated from the Forensics Academy just two weeks ago.

Finally, someone newer than me. Sure he had the beat experience I didn’t, but at least he didn’t have a dozen years of homicide experience over me like everyone else around here. Metro also liked for all detectives to go through the ten-week course at the forensics academy, so the new guy was ahead of the game on that score, something we had in common.

“That’s great. When can I meet him?”

I watched Barlow’s lips as he responded, but I didn’t miss the glimpse of something like reluctance in his eyes. We’ll get to that.

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. What was wrong with the new guy? Maybe he was physically challenged like me. You know, lame or mute or something. That would make us even. I could live with that.

Apparently he has some reservations about the assignment.

Fury whipped to a frenzied froth inside me before I could slow it down. So the new guy didn’t want to work with the deaf girl. Another wave of anger washed over me on the heels of the thought. No matter how well-adjusted I appeared or how I told myself what other people thought didn’t matter, my temper always flared whenever I encountered prejudice.

“Just because I’m deaf doesn’t mean I’m not every bit as capable as he is,” I argued. Just let me at the guy, I fumed. I’ll show him.

Barlow looked away briefly but not quickly enough for me to miss the abrupt amusement that flickered across his handsome face. Oh, yeah, I wasn’t supposed to notice that he’s handsome anymore. I tamped down the longing that had started building the moment I walked through his door. No matter that I tried to ignore it, it was always there, waiting to pounce on me whenever we shared the same airspace.

Oh, well, old habits were hard to break. I couldn’t not notice how he looked…how he smelled, for Christ’s sake. A new kind of confusion made me frown. Why would he find my feelings on the matter amusing?

He doesn’t have a problem with your being deaf, Merri.

Merri. I melted a little more inside. No, no, I wasn’t supposed to do that, either. Tough stuff. I couldn’t stop the reaction. Just watching his lips form my name was a big-time turn on.

Then the rest of his words assimilated in my brain. “Then what does he have a problem with?” Jeez, it wasn’t like I was incompetent or lazy. I worked hard. Graduated in the top five percent of my police academy class and the top three percent at the forensics academy. He was lucky to get me as a partner. Darn lucky.

He would prefer a male partner, Barlow said, his gaze reflecting the frankness no doubt in his tone.

Shock rumbled through me as realization penetrated the automatic denial. The new guy didn’t want to work with me because I didn’t have a penis? What century was this guy living in?

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I said, making my voice as flat with disbelief as possible. “That mentality went out with the seventies. Where’s this dude been living?”

I liked the amusement I saw in Barlow’s eyes but I was a little too ticked off to enjoy it as much as I should have.

Originally, Mr. Patterson is from Georgia.

Well that explained everything. Bulldogs weren’t the only things Georgia boys were known for. They could be bullheaded, too. Not that I actually had anything against guys from Georgia, but my ex-fiancé was from Atlanta. Enough said.

“So, why not shuffle one of the other detectives to work with him,” I offered. Heck, I could think of half a dozen of the detectives already in the division who would be happy to partner up with me. So far I got along with everybody except the folks in charge.

That’s not the way I do things, Barlow said, all signs of amusement gone now. Mr. Patterson will learn to fit in or he’ll be gone.

Another thought occurred to me. Barlow was big on the whole team-player motto. Maybe someone else would spend some time in the hot seat besides me. I could handle that.

I shrugged. “Bring him on. I’ll teach him some proper manners.”

Barlow let a smile peek through his stern expression and, well, let’s just say that my heart did one of those tricky maneuvers best called a triple flip.

I’m certain you will. I’m counting on you to teach him the way we do things here.

“No problem. Remember, I grew up with four brothers. Patterson should brace himself.” At this point I looked forward to the challenge.

As I watched, Barlow pressed the intercom button and asked his secretary to send in Mr. Patterson, which, of course, drew my attention to his hands. Long, strong fingers; wide, masculine hands.

Focus, Merri. You’re about to meet your first partner and he’s one of those macho types who thinks women can’t do a man’s job.

I found myself holding my breath as the door opened. I forced myself to relax, refused to be the slightest bit nervous as I shifted just enough to look back at him as he strode into Barlow’s well-appointed office.

Tall, young…really young, maybe twenty-five or -six. Good-looking. But my grandmother had a saying, pretty is as pretty does. If he insisted on being a jerk about working with women, then that attitude would greatly depreciate the value of his handsome face.

Barlow stood. I did, as well, though I thought about keeping my seat just to remind him that ladies didn’t have to stand when a man entered the room. Notice I didn’t use the term gentleman.

Barlow shook Patterson’s hand, then gestured to me. Ray Patterson, this is Merri Walters.

I thrust out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Patterson.” I plastered a smile into place.

He took my hand and shook it firmly. Call me Ray.

Okay. I don’t know exactly how they do things in Georgia, but up here in Tennessee when someone says, “Nice to meet you,” a person generally says something like, “The pleasure is mine” whether they mean it or not. That he didn’t only lowered my impression of him.

Ray turned to Barlow and I did the same, just in time to catch something about seat or seats. Barlow gestured to my chair and then I realized he’d said that we should take our seats.

Before I could settle back into mine I realized Ray had spoken to Barlow. I swung my attention back to him as he said my position clear. Man, I was a little slow on the uptake today. I’m generally much better at keeping up with a two-, even a three-way conversation.

I would prefer a male partner. Ray looked from Barlow to me. I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Walters, but in my experience women are too emotional. That natural fault makes female detectives too unreliable for my comfort.

I told myself to think before I responded, but it was already too late. My mouth was in motion before my brain jumped into gear.

“I understand completely, Ray,” I said with all the feigned patience I could muster. “But we all have our faults. If you won’t hold being a woman against me, I’ll try my best not to hold your stupidity against you.”

Chapter 2

Sunday morning I slept in.

I’d stopped by the hospital after my shift ended yesterday. Shameka was out of the woods. Looked pretty damned good for a woman who’d been shot the night before. She thanked me repeatedly for saving her life. But she was the one who deserved the respect and gratitude. It had taken mega guts to put herself out there like that. And, though Johnson hadn’t been caught yet, Shameka’s efforts were not for naught.

Having drawn Johnson out into the open again, Metro now had hard evidence against Clarence Johnson, drug dealer, on-again off-again pimp and perpetual scumbag. Not to mention we had an eyewitness regarding Johnson’s intentions on Friday night. A witness whose credibility would be impeccable with the DA as well as any judge on the circuit.

Me.

Up to now he’d been a mere suspect. All of Metro had been pretty darned sure he was their man, especially considering Shameka had insisted that Johnson was the one who’d shot the cop. She hadn’t witnessed the shooting but she’d heard him brag about it. But still, we hadn’t had the evidence we needed until now.

The man who’d killed Officer Ted Ferris had left some DNA evidence at the scene of the shooting. Apparently Ferris had injured his attacker. Blood not belonging to Ferris had been found on his uniform. The crime lab had stopped everything to run the needed tests on the blood they’d found in the abandoned Caddy.

I smiled. Clarence Johnson was a match. The blood wasn’t proof positive that he’d killed Ferris, but it was solid evidence that he’d been there when Harris died. The scumbag was going down. All Metro had to do was find his sorry hide. Then again, maybe he’d crawled into some hole and bled to death. That would save the taxpayers having to foot the bill for his trial.

I still felt furious at my new partner. But I would have died before I’d have let him see how he annoyed me as we’d muddled through the day yesterday.

Introducing him around and showing him all the important destinations, such as evidence lock-up, the Chief of Detectives’ office and the archives, my old stomping grounds, had been standard procedure. Ray Patterson smiled and shook hands with everyone he met. He played the good-old-boy charm to the hilt.

Mostly I wanted to puke.

The guy was a fake. He pretended to be cool with his new assignment, specifically with me as his partner, and yet I had been in the room when he’d made his position more than clear to Barlow. He was the quintessential male chauvinist. A pig, no pun intended.

As I’d tossed and turned last night I’d considered why Barlow had decided to partner me up with a dinosaur mentality like Patterson. He could have easily shuffled someone else around. It wasn’t unheard of. There might have been rumbles of complaints but it would have passed.

I knew Barlow. He was a smart man. His first loyalty was to the job. He had his reasons for doing this the way he did. I just wasn’t privy to them yet. As much as I disliked the idea of working with a guy who considered himself a better cop than me simply because he was a man, I trusted Barlow’s judgment. We might not be able to work out our personal feelings but the guy had it on the ball where his work was concerned.

I felt totally confident that his reasons would be revealed eventually. And all would have been for the best for all concerned. The question was, would Patterson live to see it?

My lips quirked.

I padded into the kitchen for more coffee. As I surveyed the room I considered whether or not I really wanted to jump into a kitchen renovation. I’d been thinking about it since I returned from the academy. My whole house could use an update. Though I liked the cottage-style, it was getting a little worn. New cabinets and countertop, definitely new appliances would be good. The hardwood floors throughout I would keep, but a fresh coat of paint and maybe some new slipcovers for the living room furniture. Maybe.

I thought about calling my mom to see if she’d heard from Sarah or Michael this weekend.

Michael is one of my brothers. He’s also a fireman in Brentwood. His wife, Sarah, was my best friend all through high school. We’ve always been like sisters, which is great, since I never had one for real. She’s also the Chief of Detectives, Barlow’s boss’, secretary. But more important, she’s pregnant, due any second. This was actually her second pregnancy—she’d lost the first baby at six weeks. That was a tough time but she and my brother had been determined and they’d gotten through it. Her maternity leave from work had started a week ago. I missed her smiling face around Metro but I sure was happy for her.

The arrival of the first grandchild in any family is a monumental occasion. But in my family it ranked right up there with the second coming of Christ. We could hardly wait for this baby to come.

I would be turning thirty-one in a couple of months with no prospects of marriage, much less childbearing. I don’t have a problem with that. I love kids. I definitely love men and sex. But I’m still enjoying my second career and my newfound independence. Besides, staying unattached was so simple. Love was too complicated…still, the sex part would be nice. Truth is, like most women, I told myself what I wanted to hear. I didn’t have any offers, so I focused on my career and, for now, that was for the best.

Besides, whenever I thought of sex…I thought of Steven Barlow and what it might be like to have hot, frantic sex with him. We’d kissed, but nothing else. And every time I let myself dwell on how much I wanted him…well, it wasn’t good. I got all frustrated and then I started thinking about another man, one as equally forbidden, or maybe more so, as Barlow. Mason Conrad. He was totally off limits. I’d been undercover to take down that mob boss I told you about and he’d been one of the bad guys. But that didn’t stop us from connecting in a big way. What we’d shared, which wasn’t actually sex, but had the same result, had rattled me, still did, when I obsessed on the memories. Hanging on to my feelings for Barlow was probably all that had saved me from a monumental mistake.

The smell of overheated coffee made my nose twitch and dragged me away from thoughts of my lack-luster sex life. I should make a fresh pot. Feeling lazy, I tightened the sash of my robe and opted for taking my chances with the already brewed stuff. If I could drink the junk at the office I could handle anything.

Getting back to my personal life—I’ve always been an independent woman…to an extent. I guess I didn’t realize how cautious I’d actually been or how far I’d gone out of the way to avoid risk in my professional life until the hearing loss happened. In the process of relearning to live my life, I’d come to understand there was more I wanted to do.

Much more.

This was right where I wanted to be.

Ray Patterson had better watch out. I had every intention of showing him what a woman could do. Including leaving him in the dust on our first assignment.

The light above the door leading from the living room into the kitchen flashed, alerting me to another phone call.

I missed the little things, I considered as I made my way into the living room. A ringing phone, a dripping faucet. All those irritating noises you wished would go away forever. Guess what? You missed them.

This time the caller ID showed Metro dispatch. Not a good start to a Sunday morning. I should have gone to IHOP. Now I would end up going to work hungry.

“Walters.”

I watched the display as the words spilled across. A possible homicide victim had been discovered. The location came next. I recognized the Green Hills neighborhood. Patterson and I had our first case.

Now we’d see what the guy had to back up all that macho bluster.

I headed to my bedroom to change. Thank God my usual uniform didn’t include fishnets or stilettos.

To my surprise Chief Barlow waited at the crime scene.

The lessons I’d learned at the forensics academy immediately kicked in, drawing my attention to the grisly details of the scene that had been cordoned off by yellow tape.

According to the uniform who filled me in, the body had been discovered by a young woman walking her dog. A walking trail between a swanky residential area and a shopping mall provided the background.

The techs were already in place, marking potential evidence and snapping photographs. The medical examiner’s van arrived as I walked over to speak with Barlow.

I wanted to see the body but since he stood between me and it, I took that as my cue.

“What’ve we got?” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard detectives in movies ask that same question. God, I’m turning into a cliché.

Just like the Harrison murder, Barlow told me.

It wasn’t necessary to analyze the grim expression on his face or the statement to understand what he meant. I had worked the Harrison murder, which was still unsolved.

Reba Harrison had been found scarcely a block from her upscale home. The primary detail that stood out in my mind about the case was the brutal way in which she had been raped.

Most of the sexual activity had taken place while she was still alive, but not all. The foreplay leading up to murder had lasted several hours. The bruising around the wrists and the ankles indicated she had been restrained most of that time. She’d been strangled with the same type of cord used to restrain her.

Finally, her body, adorned with nothing more than exaggerated makeup and a tiara, had been dumped in the meticulously landscaped bushes along her street.

“Has the victim been identified?” As I asked this question my new partner strolled up next to me. I didn’t bother saying good morning. Clearly it wasn’t going to be one.

Barlow acknowledged Patterson’s presence with a nod then said to me, Mallory Wells. Twenty-four. Single. Moved to Nashville three years ago to break into the country music business.

Just like Reba Harrison, only Reba had been a lifetime resident. She’d had the same professional aspirations.

Looks like we’ve got ourselves a serial killer.

This from Patterson.

I resisted the urge to say duh. What he didn’t know was that we had already made that connection when Reba Harrison died. Almost every step of her murder matched those of a suspected serial killer from four years ago, before my time. The killer had murdered six women in the Nashville area, all involved with the country-music business on one level or the other, then he’d apparently disappeared. The case was still unsolved.

Perhaps, Barlow allowed. The evidence will confirm or refute that conclusion.

I knew Barlow was thinking the very same thing I was, this guy is back, but I couldn’t help reveling in his noncommittal response to my cocky partner. Before I had time to fully enjoy the moment, Barlow shifted his full attention back to me.

I’ll need you and Patterson to focus solely on this case, in the event the two murders are connected to each other or to any past cases. I’ll be passing the Johnson case to Holderfield.

I opened my mouth to argue and Barlow motioned for me to follow him away from the fray of ongoing activity.

Patterson had the good sense to make himself scarce.

“You know that’s my case, too,” I said the instant Barlow stopped and shifted his attention back to me. “Shameka is my witness and Johnson is my perp. It’s my job to help find him.” It was the least I could do after what Shameka had gone through.

Those analyzing blue eyes studied me a moment before he spoke. Barlow did that a lot. He liked to mull over what he wanted to say before he opened his mouth. Saved him the taste of shoe leather quite frequently, I reasoned. I should take a page from that book. But then, I had pretty much acquired a taste for the stuff. Why change now?

We’re going to get Johnson. He’s made. Every cop in the city wants him. This one— he glanced toward the victim and the crime-scene techs circling around her—is going to be different. If it’s connected to those old murders, I don’t want the killer to get away this time. I want your keen eye on this one, Merri. I need my best and freshest on it.

Okay. He’d earned himself some major points with that monologue. Still, I couldn’t help thinking he was only doing this to get me off the Johnson case. It seemed like every time I got close to nabbing a perp he hustled me out of harm’s way. This turn of events sounded suspiciously like that. Johnson had seen me just as clearly as I’d seen him. He would likely want revenge for those who set him up, and it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out I’d been part of a sting. I knew how guys like him thought. He was going down, he had nothing to lose. That put me in the line of fire right along with Shameka.

Irritation niggled at me. I’ll bet if I checked the roster I would find that a unit had been stationed outside my house since the op to take down Johnson went sour. Part of me understood that was a reasonable move, but another part, the side that worried my hearing impairment would be considered first and foremost even before my skill level, didn’t like the idea that he thought I couldn’t take care of myself.

“I guess I should be flattered,” I said, allowing him to hear the skepticism I felt. “I’m assuming I’m lead.” I had seniority over Patterson so that should have been a given, but I wanted the point clarified.

You’re lead. Patterson will fall in line.

Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t, but either way this investigation would be conducted my way.

“I’ll let you bring him up to speed,” I offered charitably. He was here, might as well make himself useful. I had a crime scene to analyze. “You know more about the old cases than I do.”

Barlow held my gaze for a few pulse-pounding seconds and I was certain he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. That’s when I walked away. If he could let it go, so could I.

After slipping on shoe covers and latex gloves, I moved beyond the yellow tape that visually declared the boundaries of the scene.

The shrubbery appeared undisturbed. The path was decorative gravel, which basically ensured there wouldn’t be any usable pedestrian or vehicle tracks.

Like the first victim, Miss Wells was nude. The bruising around the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she had been forcibly restrained. The additional bruising apparent on her thighs suggested rape or some seriously rough sexual activity but the M.E. would confirm that conclusion once the body was in his territory at the lab.

Her eyes were open, a frozen mask of terror on her face, also like the previous victim. Makeup had been applied to the point of appearing grotesque and clownish. The tiara sat atop her head as if it had been carefully placed there after her body was dumped. Probably had been.

Any jewelry she had worn had been removed, either for the purpose of financial gain or as mementoes of the deed. Dropping into a crouch I leaned closer and peered at her fingers. She’d worn something on her right ring finger. Maybe a high-school ring, judging by the width of the tan line. Any other personal items, including clothing, she’d had in her possession at the time of death wouldn’t be found if this murder followed the same MO—modus operandi—as the Harrison murder.

There was no way to know just yet whether the guy collected the items or disposed of them, either to prevent the possibility of leaving evidence behind or for cold hard cash since nothing had been recovered. I had to operate under the assumption that this case wasn’t related to any other…until something proved otherwise. The similarities to the old cases were becoming glaringly more obvious.

For example, the last victim, Reba Harrison. Though she had been repeatedly and savagely raped, not a single speck of semen, not one body hair, not even a trace of saliva that didn’t belong to the victim had been recovered from her body. It was as if a phantom had carried out the horrific crime.

Considering the hours the perp took to do the job, it was outright amazing he didn’t leave behind so much as a molecule of evidence, physical or biological.

The tech working on the other side of the body looked up abruptly. I did the same. Patterson stood behind me and had apparently spoken.

Time for him to understand the situation.

“I should explain something to you,” I said as I pushed to my feet. I moved a few feet away from the body and the nosy tech still doing his job. Patterson followed somewhat reluctantly.

Yeah?

“I’m deaf, Detective Patterson.” I didn’t call him Ray as he’d insisted I should do when we first met. “There’s no magic hearing aid. I can’t hear anything you say. The only way I know what you want to tell me is if I’m looking at your face. I read lips. When you have something to tell me you need to make me aware that you intend to speak. Especially if my back is turned to you.”

He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was put off by the nuisance.

Gotcha. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. I’ll get the hang of it.

It was going to be a long day.

I glanced at Barlow and caught him watching us. I shivered in spite of myself. He shouldn’t even be here. But then, this case had just taken a turn for the worse. A single, random act of violence was one thing, but an encore performance down to the last detail made everyone in law enforcement nervous. Especially when it smacked of a past investigation, one still unsolved and marring Metro’s record.

There was work to do. What-ifs weren’t my concern right now, this latest victim was. I turned to my new partner. His attention was riveted to the victim. I wished I could read his mind.

Whatever Barlow’s motivation for teaming me up with this guy, I was reasonably sure I had gotten the short end of the stick.

Dr. Ammon, the M.E., agreed to push Miss Wells to the front of the autopsy line considering it was possible that we had a serial killer, one who may have lain dormant for four years, at work.

Patterson and I left the crime scene shortly after the body and headed to the lab to view the preliminary procedure. Since we had arrived at the scene in different vehicles, we left it that way.

We suited up, gloves, shoe covers and gown, before entering the exam room.

Dr. Ammon, a man of Middle-Eastern decent, stood about three inches shorter than me. Not a large man by any stretch of the imagination. Fifty or fifty-five. Wore a shiny gold band on his left ring finger. Pictures of half a dozen kids graced his desk.

The thick glasses he wore indicated he was likely blind as a bat without them. He was known for his close attention to detail. Ammon didn’t miss anything. I was glad he was the one on call today.

Extensive sexual assault, he noted aloud for the purposes of the audio tape. I didn’t hear him, of course, but I read the words on his lips. I call it assault because the activity was so savage, he clarified with a glance over his glasses at me.

Dr. Ammon shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he studied the victim’s ankles. The ligature marks appear the same size and depth as on the previous victim, indicating a similar material was used for restraint. Perhaps a nylon cord. I appreciated that he always looked at me when he spoke. Not everyone thought to do that, forcing me to remind them.

“No semen this time?” I asked. I was hoping the perp had made a mistake this go-round. If this victim turned out as clean as Reba Harrison, this case would only get more frustrating.

Ammon glanced at his assistant who was peering into a microscope at specimens. The assistant said something, but I could only see his profile so I missed it entirely. My gaze shifted back to Ammon who shook his head. No semen as of yet.

Damn.

I noticed Patterson looking away as Ammon thoroughly examined the victim’s pubic area. Maybe the guy had a conscience after all, or at least limits on his comfort zone. Even I felt like an interloper as that part of the examination proceeded. I felt sorry for the victim. No matter that she was dead, this business was humiliating.

The M.E. lifted a number of hairs and placed them on a slide. Anticipation surged past my softer emotions. All we needed was one break. One piece of evidence we could use to nail the bastard, assuming we figured out who he was. That sounds dumb, but there’s nothing worse than catching a perp, knowing in your gut he’s the one and not being able to prove it in a court of law.

Ammon moved to the table where his assistant worked and slipped the slide into another microscope.

I surveyed the victim’s body once more. She looked different under the harsh lights of the lab. The marbling of her cold skin gave her a blue-gray hue. She’d definitely taken good care of herself. Worked out daily, I’d bet. The breasts were store-bought. An incision beneath each one gave away her secret. She had probably taken out all the stops to make her dream of fame and fortune happen.

My gaze shifted up to my partner, who stood on the other side of the examining table. He shook his head and looked at me. Another starlet bites the dust.

God, I hated those kinds of labels. The case from four years ago had been called the Starlet Murders. I hoped like hell that if we discovered these two recent murders were committed by the same perp, we would change that.

Patterson’s head turned toward the M.E., alerting me that the doc was saying something.

…got lucky. I have a couple of hairs that don’t belong with this body.

But they could be someone else’s. Not necessarily the perp’s. That possibility hampered the enthusiasm I wanted so much to feel.

“She could have picked them up at the scene or during an encounter of some sort prior to her final one with the perp,” I proposed.

Ammon shrugged. Possibly, but there’s always a chance one or both could belong to the killer or killers, considering they don’t match. I have hair samples from three different individuals here.

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?

“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.

Sarah reached to settle the final glass into place, then frowned. She bracketed her protruding belly with her hands and grimaced.

“You okay?”

She nodded. I think so. Just a Braxton-Hicks contraction. They come and go.

I managed a wan smile. “Maybe you should sit down for a while. I can finish here.”

Sarah waved me off, as I knew she would. Don’t be silly. I’m fine.

A few minutes later a platter of baked chicken and rice, steaming bowls of fat-free green beans and steamed carrots graced the empty space between the place settings for eleven at the table for twelve. Even my youngest brother, Max was married. I staunchly ignored that last empty chair.

Since Sarah was on the verge of giving birth, the pressure was off me for a while. My mom had something else to obsess about besides my ongoing single status. And, thank God, the blind-date dinners had ceased, at least temporarily. Oh, yes, Southern mothers weren’t above having some single guy or gal over for dinner in an attempt to prompt a marriage. Poor Max had endured his share of those during his final year as a bachelor.

Have you noticed there’s a kind of theme going on here with the Walters kids’ names? All M’s. Martin, Michael, Marshall, Max and Merri. My mother must have been going through some sort of odd Sesame Street phase during her late twenties. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d had five children in six years. I suppose it was a miracle we’d gotten names at all.

When the water goblets were filled and a bottle of wine positioned at each end of the table, we were good to go. The herd hustled into the dining room. It didn’t take much imagination to summon the memory of the sounds that accompanied the Walters clan settling in around the long table for dinner.

I missed those pleasant sounds. A pang of wistfulness broadsided me.

Okay, shake it off, Merri.

I get emotional like that sometimes. Can’t help myself. But it passes quickly. Besides, my mother’s famous for her baked chicken and rice. The herbs and spices smelled heavenly. The food would distract me as soon as I’d had a chance to dig in.

What’s going on with the Starlet Murders?

This from my brother Martin, the cop. He was a good cop but he’d never had any interest in homicide. That he used the nomenclature from the old investigation annoyed me unreasonably. Despite the speculation in the press, no one at Metro had mentioned the connection.

“Not much to know yet,” I admitted. And it was true. We didn’t have any real leads and not the first damned clue. “I’m hoping we’ll know more after the latest victim’s autopsy is complete.” I remembered the hairs the M.E. had found on the second victim that morning. A single hair would be better than nothing. “And, just so you know,” I said matter-of-factly, “there has been no official connection between this case and the murders four years ago.”

Martin smirked. Like we don’t see that one coming.

I refused to rise to the bait, and, thankfully, the family focused on eating for a while. Whenever the conversation ventured into what I was up to at work, trouble would follow. Trouble for me. Tossing out the term autopsy at the dinner table had, I hoped, averted that course.

I hear you went undercover as a street walker the other night, Marshall said eventually.

Here it came. Talk of the autopsy had gained me a little time but not much. The horrified look on my mother’s face had me flashing a look that said “Gee, thanks” at my brother.

“It was an operation to draw out a suspected cop-killer. A witness agreed to be bait and I was her protection for the event.”

My explanation didn’t help.

That’s very dangerous, little girl.

How did I explain to my father that I’m not a little girl anymore? It was a good thing he hadn’t seen me in the hooker get-up.

Since I knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue my ability to take care of myself I didn’t bother.

Have they caught the guy yet? Martin inquired, a direct challenge in his eyes. He wanted my folks to know exactly what I’d been up to. The killer you were trying to bait, I mean?

I wanted to slug him.

I should have forced myself to think before I spoke, but my irritation overrode my few more-sensible brain cells. “Actually, they may not catch him at all. I wounded him so he could be dead already. Who knows if they’ll ever find the body.”

You shot a man? The disbelief widening my mother’s eyes was no doubt reflected in her voice.

Might as well get it over with—this was where the conversation had been heading since my knuckle-headed brother asked the first question about my work. “Only because he shot at me first.”

Half the people at the table started talking at once. I tried to keep up, but let’s face it, I could only read lips so fast. And it was impossible to read the words of two or more talking at once. I didn’t even try. Let them hash it out. I was hungry. I intended to eat.

As I lifted a forkful of rice to my mouth Sarah covertly winked at me and lifted a forkful of rice to her own mouth. At least I had one person on my side. I could always count on Sarah. She’d been my best friend long before she’d become my sister-in-law.

We ate while the others argued about what was best for me. Eventually their bellies lured their attention back to their plates and the conversation died an overdue death.

I glanced at Sarah to flash her a conspirator grin but my grin slipped when I saw her grimace again. Another Braxton-Hicks? Maybe that baby couldn’t wait to join this rowdy group. I wondered if he or she would be on my side. I could use a little more support.

The dinner topic stayed clear of me and my work for the rest of the meal. Thank God.

As usual when the feasting was done, the men retired to the den to watch the news and talk about how they’d eaten far too much. And the women cleared the table. For all my complaining I really didn’t mind. I loved our family dinners—all but the part where everyone got into my business, anyway. Otherwise I wouldn’t trade my family for anything.

They were the best, if overprotective and misguided.

Just like my boss. Barlow was far too much like my family where protecting me was concerned. I appreciated that he cared about my safety, but I needed to do my job. I loved it. It’s who I am now.

Still, somehow I just couldn’t quench that burning need to be with him, the shimmer of heat I felt when I thought of him. It happened every darned time. But that relationship couldn’t be. Not now, with him the chief. How could I jeopardize my new career? I knew the rules. I couldn’t see any way to get around that.

Sarah rinsed the dishes, handing the plates to me one by one and I loaded them into the dishwasher. Kathy, Carla and Nancy took care of the other cleaning while my mom choreographed the routine as if none of us had ever done this before. She loved having daughters to boss around.

A plate shattered in the sink. My gaze swung from the broken pieces to Sarah, who now clutched her belly. Her eyes met mine and she said, I think this is the real thing.

Things got a little crazy from there. Michael rushed Sarah to the hospital. My mom and I drove over to their Brentwood home and picked up Sarah’s already-packed bag. The rest of the family headed to the hospital to wait out the arrival of the first Walters grandchild.

I drove to the hospital as quickly as I dared considering a drizzling rain had started to fall. Just enough to require windshield wipers but not quite a sufficient amount to keep them from squeaking across the glass. Really annoying. Hearing the sound wasn’t necessary. I could see the way the wipers dragged against the glass.

Mom knew how difficult it was for me to see her face at night with only the dash lights for illumination so neither of us spoke, yet the anticipation was palpable.

We both loved Sarah dearly and wanted only the best for her. A safe delivery and a healthy baby.

I dropped my mom off at the front of the hospital so she could get on in there. I knew she was dying to join the others. The parking garage wasn’t that crowded, so finding a spot didn’t take long.

Snagging the bag from the back seat, I slung the strap over my right shoulder and locked my Jetta. I considered the level on which I’d parked, two, and decided the quickest route to my destination would be to take the stairs to level four and use the pedestrian cross ramp. Sarah would be on the third floor. A new wave of anticipation washed over me.

I was going to be an aunt!

Being an aunt was a big responsibility. I needed to think about that and make sure I didn’t forget anything important. There would be birthday parties, special Christmas traditions like going to visit Santa at the mall, oh, and shopping. Lots and lots of shopping.

And then there was school. I would personally interview all the kid’s teachers to ensure he or she got the best. I gnawed my lower lip at that thought. Maybe I’d better not do that. I remember how badly I’d hated those kinds of parents. The ones who made teachers feel like they were lesser forms of life or incompetent at the very least.

I struck that task off my list.

Goosebumps abruptly rushed over my skin, issuing a silent warning.

I stalled. Slowly turned around.

A couple of dozen or so cars were scattered around the semidark garage. There was room for at least a hundred more. I studied the shadows, watched for the slightest variation in shading. Allowed my senses to soak up the vibes. The unpleasant but familiar smell of gasoline and oil filtered through my nostrils.