Rick handed over the pictures. Whatever turf war these two were having, well, they’d called a truce during this case.
They moved down the hallway, down to the first floor and out to the parking lot. The sun had set and a gentle breeze blew cooler air. She fished her keys from her purse and opened the back door. She grabbed her art box.
Rick took the box from her. “Her office is three blocks that way.”
“Handy location.”
“She’ll tell you she picked the place because it’s cheap. Her place used to be a restaurant. She works on the first floor and lives on the second.”
As they walked down Union, she inhaled a deep breath, savoring the open space. “Where’s Tracker?”
“Home. We had to swing by the house for a few minutes and this late in the day he’s better off resting.”
“I bet he wasn’t happy.”
“No. Not thrilled. But I gave him a chew stick and that seemed to buy some forgiveness.”
A smile played on the edges of her lips. “I took leave from the Force willingly and I realized today how much I miss it. I can’t imagine having it snatched away.”
“It’s not fun.”
The walk to Rachel’s office took ten minutes and just as they reached it, Rick’s cell buzzed.
“Deke,” he said as he raised the phone to his ear. He listened and nodded. “Great. I’ll let her know.”
As he hung up, Jenna said, “Ms. Wainwright has agreed to the sketch.”
“She did. She’s getting her client ready now.”
“She doesn’t waste time.”
“She’s a dynamo. Not the kind of attorney I’d want to deal with in court.”
Deke, who’d driven, had beaten them to the office, a brick building with a large plate-glass window that read WAINWRIGHT AND ASSOCIATES.
Deke and a slender woman with short, black hair greeted them. Intensity radiated from the woman who wore a black sleeveless dress that showed off fit arms and the lean legs of a runner.
“Jenna Thompson,” Rick said. “Meet Rachel Wainwright. Attorney-at-law and champion of the downtrodden.”
Rachel arched a brow. She was tall, lean, and possessed a severity that might have made her unapproachable if not for her eyes. They radiated a softness that weakened some of Jenna’s defenses.
The attorney extended her hand to Jenna. “I hear you’re a forensic artist.”
Jenna accepted her hand, noting Rachel’s firm handshake. “I am.”
“She’s very talented,” Rick said.
Jenna shrugged. “I am.”
Rachel’s gaze sharpened. “I like a woman who knows her worth.”
“Where’s your client?” Jenna asked.
“And you don’t like to waste time. We might become friends,” Rachel said. “My client is inside. She’s taking a quick shower but will be downstairs in a minute.”
They entered the building to find a large, open floor plan. There were two desks, one piled high with papers and the other stripped clean as if it had been vacated. Looked like “and Associates” was for show.
“Is there a private place she and I can meet?” Witnesses often relaxed in more private conditions.
“No formal conference room but there is the kitchen. It’s become an impromptu conference room at times. My client will join us there soon.”
She glanced toward double swinging doors that looked as if they led to the kitchen. “Great.”
“I’ll be sitting in, of course.”
“No,” Jenna said.
“Excuse me?” Rachel’s tone took a hard right from easygoing to challenging.
“I always meet with my ‘clients’ alone. In the early years, I’d allow friends and, once, an attorney, to stay. But having the other person in the process affected the outcome. The witness will always relax more if it’s just the two of us.”
Rachel looked as if she’d bitten into something sour. “I’m looking out for Belinda’s best interests. I wouldn’t hamper her description.”
Rick, to his credit, did not offer a comment. Points for him, she thought. She fought her own battles.
“You wouldn’t mean to, but you would. We always alter what we say based on our audience, even if we don’t realize we’re doing it.” She knew her job, but these folks didn’t fully believe that. One sketch had earned her some points but cops, and clearly Rachel Wainwright, were a hard sell. “I promise it will be best. You’ll end up with a better image.”
Hands planted on narrow hips, Rachel considered Jenna. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Rick shook his head. “On that note, I’ll leave you two.”
Rachel looked at Rick as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Thanks.”
Smiling as if accustomed to Rachel’s tunnel vision, Rick saluted and with a nod to Jenna said, “Good luck.”
The Morgans didn’t smile much as a general rule but when they did, it was hard to be indifferent. “It’s getting late and this is going to take a few hours.”
“Sure.”
As Rachel led the way, Jenna followed. The two entered the industrial kitchen equipped with well-used stainless-steel appliances and a large counter surrounded by a half-dozen stools.
Rachel reached in a bulky briefcase and pulled out a thin file. “I was just assigned her case this morning. Her name is Belinda Horton. She’s twenty years old and she’s a waitress at a local pub in East Nashville.”
“What happened?”
“She was attacked. Raped. The man held a knife to her throat and told her if she moved, he’d cut her throat. She was terrified and complied.”
Jenna had felt helpless and terrified when she’d been five, but as an adult, she’d learned self-defense as well as how to handle a gun. She’d never, ever wanted to feel that kind of fear again.
As if reading her thoughts, Rachel added, “She’s a small woman and her attacker was well over six feet. She’d never encountered any violence before.”