“Yeah. Mom will love it.”
This guy had to be in his early forties so she didn’t picture him as the type worried about Mom but if life had taught her anything, sometimes a book didn’t match its cover. “Forty dollars for twenty minutes.”
He dug two rumpled twenties from his jeans pocket. “Sure, why not?”
She sat back down and he took his place across from her. She loaded a clean piece of paper on the easel, fastening it with binder clips. She reached for the charcoal and started to sketch the outline of his long, lean face. “So what brings you to Nashville?”
“I lived here all my life. I normally don’t get down to Broadway. Too many tourists but figured what the hell tonight. What about you?”
“New to the area.”
“From where?”
She didn’t mind asking the questions but didn’t like answering them. “Back East.”
He nodded. “You sound like an Easterner.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. Where?
“D.C. area.” Give or take thirty miles.
“So what’re you doing tonight after you finish up here?”
She sat a little straighter. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“Too bad.”
She didn’t comment as she rose and began to pack up her supplies. “Thanks for the business.”
He hesitated and then with a quick nod, turned and left. She watched him move down the sidewalk crowded with laughing tourists and then vanish around the corner. Her fingers trembled. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
She thought about the Lost Girl’s picture in her case and suddenly had a real need to give it to Rick and be done with the case.
Jenna packed up her supplies, loaded them in her car, and drove to the Nashville Police Department. She parked in the nearby lot and shut off the engine. Large humming lamps cast an eerie glow on her pale skin as she grabbed her sketchpad and headed across the lot to the front doors. She moved to the main desk where a uniformed officer sat.
“I need to leave a sketch for Detective Rick Morgan.”
The female officer had red hair twisted into a tight bun at the base of her head. The sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose did little to soften her demeanor. “And you are?”
“Jenna Thompson.” Explaining herself had not been as easy as she’d hoped. Carrying a sketchpad and saying she knew Rick Morgan didn’t mean squat to the officer on duty, who would not let her inside without a badge.
“I need identification.”
She’d left her badge in Baltimore. “Best I can do is a driver’s license.”
“That’ll do.”
She dug it out of her purse and handed it over.
A glance at the license prompted a frown before she handed it back to Jenna. “Detective Morgan should be back in the next fifteen minutes. You can wait or give whatever it is you need to give him to me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
Instinctively, she hugged the sketchpad closer to her chest. “Thanks. I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself.”
She moved to an empty bank of chairs and sat. Seconds later, two uniformed officers moved past the front desk, flashing badges and exchanging smiles with the redhead before vanishing behind the locked double doors.
How many times had she breezed through the lobby of the Baltimore Police Department, barely tossing a glance toward the people in the waiting room? She’d never given a thought or questioned her total access.
And now here she sat. She was on the other side of the desk. An outsider. She’d chosen to take leave from the Force. She’d needed the break. But until this moment she had never felt like an outsider looking over the thin blue line. She missed belonging to a fraternity that was more family than job.
Ten minutes passed. She drummed her fingers on her thigh as she sat and watched people come and go. Whether they were laughing, frowning, or stoic, they moved beyond the double doors with ease.
Rick Morgan pushed through the front door. His jaw was set, his gaze hard and focused. Not a happy camper by her estimation.
Good. Join the club. She stood. “Morgan.”
At the sound of her voice, he turned, assessing her with a quick sweep of his gaze. “Jenna.”
With her sketchpad tucked under her arm, she moved toward him. “I have your sketch.”
Surprise widened his eyes a fraction as he met her halfway. “It’s finished?”
“Yes.” She nearly explained that, as always, she’d struggled with the eyes but caught herself and remained silent.
“Come on upstairs. I’d like to have a look at it.”
She could have handed it off to him and been done with it. In fact, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. But she couldn’t do that to the Lost Girl. Somewhere along the way she’d become invested in this case. She might have crossed the blue line, but this case was as much hers as it was his. “Sure.”
They took the elevator and wound through a series of cubicles and desks until they reached a windowless conference room. He flipped on a light and reached for his cell. “I’ll text Bishop. He’ll want to see this.”
“Okay.” On a credenza, a coffeepot filled with stale coffee that resembled sludge reminded her of the Baltimore Police Department. The furniture looked overused and tired. The walls had faded from white to a dullish gray. Some things were universal. She set her sketchpad on the table.
Rick’s phone vibrated and he checked the text. “He’ll be here in twenty.”
More waiting. She’d not have done it for anyone other than the little girl whom she’d captured in her sketch. “Sure.”
“Can I get you coffee?”
She laid her sketchpad on the table. “Was it made in the last decade?”
A smile quirked the edge of his lips. “Within the last few weeks. I’ll make a fresh pot.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I could use one.”
“Then, sure.” The coffee would mean she wouldn’t sleep but her racing mind had already signaled this was going to be a long night.