“I popped him in the nose with the heel of my hand.” She drew in another lungful of smoke and released it slowly.
“And he let you go, just like that?” Bishop’s gaze shifted from the shadows rimming the parking lot to her face.
“I think the bloody nose freaked him out. I didn’t stop to ask or think, but just ran.”
“Did he mention the other woman’s name?”
She stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Deidra. No. Diane. He said her name was Diane.” She met Rick’s gaze. “Johns call me all kinds of names. As long as the money’s green I don’t care. And I don’t usually remember.”
“But he put a gun to your head,” Rick said.
“That has a way of making words stick.” Again trembling hands raised the cigarette to her lips. “Something happened to Diane, didn’t it?”
“What makes you say that?”
A seasoned gaze danced with bitter humor. “Because you’re here. You ain’t the kind of cops that care about pimps and whores. Bigger fish to fry.”
Rick released a sigh. “Any other girls talk about this guy?”
She arched a brow. “I made a point to ask around. A couple knew him. No one likes him. We all deal with crazy but he’s crazier than most.”
“He’s a user?”
“I don’t know. Last I heard, you don’t need blow to act crazy. Crazy is crazy.” She scratched the blotchy skin of her forearm. “I got to get back to work or I’m going to get beat.”
“You got a name?”
“Jane. Jane Fuller. But on the street ask for Terry.”
“If I need to talk to you again?”
She dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the pointed toe of her scuffed cowboy boot. “Terry’s here every night. Just ask. I’m easy to find.”
Hollow, eyeless sockets stared at Jenna, emanating a desperate energy that pulsed from the inky depths. She turned, covered her own eyes, but the phantom eyes glimmered back at her, reached out, and beckoned.
I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.
The words, or rather, the feeling, radiated as she started awake. Her gaze darted around her bedroom, lighted by several night-lights she always kept burning. She dragged a shaking hand through her hair. Breathe. Breathe. She’d had nightmares before and used the breathing techniques the psychologist in Baltimore had prescribed.
I see you. I see you. I dare you to find me.
Breathe. In. Out. Seconds passed, and the whispering voice faded as her vision sharpened on the blue dresser with a half-open top drawer dripping with clothes she’d not bothered to quite put away.
Jenna swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes curling as they touched the cold tile. She always kept the AC low and huddled under thick blankets . . . another trick from the psychologist when her insomnia had been at its worst.
She moved toward the window near her bed, which looked out over the thick woods that circled the cabin. The air-conditioning had left condensation dripping down the window. Through the mist, she stared at the stand of darkened trees that ringed the property.
Jenna had spent nearly an hour today cradling the tiny skull in her hands, staring, trying to picture the face. She wanted to imagine smiling lips and light brown hair that framed full pink cheeks. But as hard as she tried to conjure the face of a healthy child, she knew this child had not been healthy. The eyes would have reflected stress, the hair would have been thin and the lips flat in a grim line of worry.
She’d left the skull and gone to KC’s to draw for a few hours. She’d made a hundred bucks, grabbed food at a grocery store, and returned home.
Under the glare of the fluorescent lights at the medical examiner’s office, she could distance herself from the reality of that child’s life. But during the quiet hours of the night, alone, the emotion ruled. Faces of this dead child haunted her and she wanted to weep for the Lost Girl.
She traced her finger through the condensation on the window and knew she would not cry now. She was too much of a cop to give in before the job was done. For now, emotion wouldn’t run the show. Instead of decrying this sad loss to the world, she’d focus on bone structure and the sinew that stretched and wound around this small face. She’d think about hair and eye color.
Later, much later, once the job was done and the case closed, she would give emotion a small nod. A tear or two would make sense and certainly would be healthy but she’d not allow them. Nor would she succumb to the shallow promises of booze or sex. Sex. Sex with Rick Morgan would be a very tempting diversion but sex with him promised too many complications.
After this case was solved, she would get in her car and drive for hours; perhaps she’d volunteer at an animal hospital or stroll around an amusement park and savor that joy. And perhaps she’d finally come to terms with the lost child who had brought her to Nashville.
She glanced at the clock. Three thirty. It would be an hour later on the East Coast and she knew he would be awake. Like her, Mike didn’t sleep well. His own unsolved cases and demons would not allow him more than a few hours of sleep at night.
She reached for her cell and dialed.
He answered on the first ring, his voice clear and bright. “You said you’d sleep better if you left Baltimore.”
A wan smile tweaked the edges of her lips as she cradled the phone closer to her cheek. “I did, too.”
The low hum of his television filtered through the phone. “The ghosts have found you again.”
No sense lying to him. He’d hear the false words in her voice. “Yes.”
A silence emanated worry. “Old or new ghosts?”
She stared into the darkened line of the trees wondering what lurked in the shadows. “Both, I think. But you know me. I’m good friends with ghosts.”
Ice clinked against a glass as he sipped his favorite scotch. “You never told me about the old ghosts.”
Tension radiated up her spine. “I never thought about them much.”