She tore the paper free from her notepad and handed it to him. “There’s a drawing for you.”
The image was of Tracker, wide-eyed and staring. “This is good.”
“I know my stuff, Detective.”
Careful not to crease the image, he nodded. “Thanks.” He and Tracker made their way to the elevator and as he pushed the button, he glanced back toward the small office. Jenna was again seated, kicked off her shoes, and bent over her sketch, her gaze totally focused on the work as if they’d never spoken. Curiosity jabbed him in the ribs. She didn’t want to talk about the past. It wasn’t a huge leap to assume it couldn’t have been great if she’d left the area at age five to live with an aunt nearly one thousand miles away.
As he glanced at the sketch, the whys buzzed around Jenna Thompson like flies. Professionally, she was one of the best. She was offering her skills for free. So he figured the rest just wasn’t any of his damn business.
The door dinged open and they stepped inside. As the elevator descended, he reminded himself that poking into someone else’s private business wasn’t so nice or politically correct. Clearly, Jenna wouldn’t want anyone digging too deep.
“Shit.”
Tracker glanced up at him, hearing the anger in his voice. He smiled, telling the canine that everything was fine.
He wasn’t so worried about being nice or PC. He cared about the truth. Whatever was buried in Jenna’s past . . . well, he just might dig it up.
Rick’s first stop after leaving Jenna was the local news station. Frankly, he’d rather eat dirt before he had to cozy up with the media, but sometimes it took a deal with the devil to get the job done.
The department had worked with several reporters on missing children cases and they’d found the local anchor, Susan Martinez, helpful. She could be a pain in the ass when it came to the hard news stories—she did whatever it took to get her story—including hounding his ass after he’d been shot. He still had memories of her camped out in front of his hospital giving her evening news report. Vultures picking off his bones even before the docs could tell him if he would walk properly again.
But like him, when it came to cases involving a child, she played nice. Both knew the gloves would come off in the next round, but for now, it would be all smiles.
He and Tracker moved through the glass doors of the news building and after a brief chat with the receptionist, waited for Susan.
She appeared minutes later with a bright smile. Dressed in a sleek red suit that accentuated ink-black hair, she moved with a grace he had to admire. In her mid fifties, she’d worked the Nashville market for almost thirty years and had broken several major cases.
She held out a manicured hand as she approached him. “It’s the junior Detective Morgan.”
He accepted her hand, shook and released it quickly. He’d heard his share of “junior” references since he was a kid and he’d heard a belly full since returning to the Force. Hard to compete with his old man, Buddy the legend, and an older brother like Deke. And so he hadn’t tried to compete. In fact, he’d stopped worrying about which Morgan had the biggest set a long time ago. He let the “junior” crack roll off his back like water down a storm drain. “Ms. Martinez, how’re you doing?”
The scent of an expensive, spicy perfume wafted around him. “I’m hungry for a great story. Tell me you have a great story. Maybe a tidbit about the fire and fatality on Monday night. The victim was identified as Diane Smith and a little bird tells me you caught her killer.”
“I might have something for you on that case later today, but I’m here about a favor.”
“What happened to you scratch my back and I scratch yours?”
As if she’d not spoken, he said, “We found the skeletonized remains of a child in Centennial Park a few days ago.”
The spark in her gaze eased and her smile faded. “I’d heard a little buzz about that. No one seems to be saying much.”
“Because we don’t have much to say at this point. Very little forensic data. No match to existing missing persons files.”
She brushed a strand of hair from her green eyes. She’d not totally dismissed him yet, but it was coming if he didn’t ante up more. “Not sure what I can do to help you.”
“We’ve a forensic artist who is willing to do a facial reconstruction. She’s working on it now.” He didn’t feel the need to get into Jenna’s past in Baltimore, feeling a little protective of her. “She should have a likeness ready to go in a day or two. We’re hoping you could air it on the news.”
Her nod was easy and natural. “Of course. I can do a whole segment. Though, without many details, it will be a quick segment. Nothing else you can tell me? Was there anything found with the body? What was the child’s approximate age? Signs of trauma?”
Instead of feeling annoyed, he grinned. “You should have been a cop. You don’t know the meaning of ‘no’ or ‘you will get more details later.’”
She folded her arms. “Hon, if I’m not pushing and prodding, I’m not doing my job. When you get your sketch, I’m going to want as many details as you can dig up. Age, sex, possible time the child went missing, manner of death. I’d also like to interview the forensic artist.”
“Why?”
“Will add flavor to the story. And, it’ll extend a sixty-second mention into a four-or five-minute piece. More air time.”
“I’ll have all details for you and I’ll ask the artist.”
Her head cocked a fraction. “I know the forensic artists in the area. Most are mighty backed up. How’d you get one so quickly?”
“Connections. And I’m persuasive.”
A laugh rumbled in her chest. “Oh, all I’ve heard about you, Detective, is that you’re one tough stubborn son of a bitch.” She glanced at Tracker. “How’s the hero dog? He’s getting along?”