Bishop glanced at the files with a deflated, almost sad look in his eyes. “Fuckin’ eh.”
Rick grabbed his jacket dangling from the back of his chair. Tracker looked up. “I’m going to see Martinez. Her broadcast will get us some exposure and maybe a hit.”
“Want me to come along?”
“Is that an offer to help?”
“No. I just want away from these cases.”
“Naw, this devil dance is all mine. But I did put out a BOLO last night. See if we’ve got any hits.”
“What’s the case?”
He explained the story behind the sketch Jenna had done last night and his theory about two perps working together.
“That’s one hell of a tall tale, Boy Scout.” Bishop shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Tall tale.”
“Fine, I’ll check on it later.”
Bishop held up his hands. “I’ll ask about your BOLO. Do my heart good to bust a rapist.”
“Cop therapy.”
Bishop flexed his fingers. “The only kind I subscribe to.”
The drive to the television station took less than fifteen minutes and he’d intentionally timed his visit so it didn’t conflict with the noonday broadcast. One word to the receptionist and she made a quick call that summoned Martinez from the back of the studio. The doors whisked open and she appeared, dressed in a formfitting royal-blue dress. As always, she looked perfect. Each piece of her jewelry coordinated and he imagined she was the type to plan out every detail of her week in advance, including her clothes.
After a few pleasantries, she escorted Rick and Tracker to a back conference room. As she closed the door with a soft click, she turned and asked, “So what do you have for me?”
Rick laid a manila folder on the table and opened it. Inside lay copies of the two sketches Jenna had drawn of the Lost Girl. “This is the likeness of the child I mentioned.”
Martinez picked up the smiling face and stared at it with an assessing gaze. “Your artist works fast and is very talented.”
“We were lucky to find her.”
Martinez studied the image without a smile and then she placed the two side by side. “Very talented. Someone will recognize this image. It’s a matter of getting it on the air.”
“I agree. I think we’re going to find that a grandmother or a neighbor remembers that she was there one day and gone the next.”
Martinez laid her palm on her chest as if easing the beat of her heart. “Such a pretty girl. And the eyes. The artist really brought her to life with the eyes.”
Jenna had said she’d struggled with the eyes as if she knew nailing them was the key.
Martinez tapped a manicured finger on a set of small initials scrawled on the bottom-right corner of the picture. JT. “I still want to meet the artist and profile her.”
Rick tamped down a rush of protective energy. Jenna hadn’t asked for his protection nor did he imagine she needed it but, like it or not, she had it. “Is that necessary?”
“As I said the last time, the artist will add a living dimension to the story. Some people will look at the face of the child and we might get a hit but if I can profile the artist, then suddenly I have two stories rolled into one. I have a living, breathing person who took time and energy to bring this child to life, so to speak. There aren’t more than thirty artists in the country and I know the few in Tennessee. JT doesn’t match their names.”
“She’s not with any Tennessee agency. She’s from out of state.”
Dark eyes sparked with interest. “Is she still in the area?”
His jaw tensed. “Yes.”
She sat back and looked at him, relaxed and at ease. He suspected she’d ask the Devil for iced water if she found herself in hell. “Interviewing JT will turn a quick flash of an image into a human interest story. I would like to meet the person behind the face.”
“I told her you might want an interview. She’s agreed.”
“When?”
Rick reached for his cell, not sure why all this bothered him. “I’ll call.” He found her number in his phone and hit CALL. The phone rang once. Twice. A part of him hoped she didn’t answer. Press exposure never led to good things.
Jenna answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“This is Rick Morgan. I’m here at the news station.” He tightened his jaw, released it. “The reporter I mentioned does want to interview you.”
A beat of silence and in the background he heard the whisper of wind. She was no doubt sitting on the back deck. Open spaces. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Where?” He imagined an easel positioned in front of her. Was she working on that bride picture?
“Let me ask?” He cradled the phone against his chest. “Where do you want to meet?”
Susan’s eyes sparkled with victory. “How about her studio? Far more interesting than here or the police station.”
Nodding, Rick raised the phone to his ear. “Your place.”
More silence, as if she weighed and measured more pros and cons. She had chosen a cabin in the woods that had been the scene of a murder. These were the choices of someone who didn’t want to be noticed or visited. More whys swirled around Jenna.
“Fine,” Jenna said. “Nine o’clock?”
“I’m sure she’ll make that work.”
“No exterior shots of my house. Just the studio.”
Still thinking like a cop. “Understood. Her name is Susan Martinez.”
“Right.” She hung up without a good-bye.
Martinez’s shining eyes had the look of a woman who liked to win. “So we’re set?”
He relayed Jenna’s request, her address, and the time. “I want to be there. This is a Nashville homicide case.”
“Sure. We might even be able to use you in the story.” She sat back. “You said her name is?”
“Jenna Thompson”
She hesitated. “She’s from . . . ?”
“Baltimore.”
“Why’d she leave Baltimore?”
“She didn’t. She’s on sabbatical.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Anything else you can tell me about her?”