“No accounting for taste,” she murmured.
Carefully, she flipped through the stack of pictures that had never warranted a place in a real album. There were pictures of Susan and her brother at the football game. It had been a high school game and she’d gone not for the sports or the job but to see a man.
Susan had gone through this stack enough to know which picture followed the next and knew in three more images she’d see a picture of him. However, she didn’t quicken her pace as she studied one picture and moved it carefully to the bottom of the stack. What was the rush?
Another picture of her brother, sullen and unsmiling. Never smiling. Still to this day, he didn’t smile unless it suited him or promised profit.
Another picture of her. Slightly out of focus because her brother had taken the image. She’d had to coax and prod him to take it. “Jerk.”
Another picture . . . this one was just of the man she’d loved. This image was crystal clear because she’d planned to frame it and keep it at her bedside. She’d had such plans for them. And then, it had all gone sideways. He’d been shot and killed and she’d been unable to look at his picture for nearly a year. And when she’d been able to look at his face without crying, she couldn’t bring herself to frame the picture.
Susan traced the outline of her lover’s smiling face. The pain of his death no longer stabbed. It had softened to regrets and a few whispered what ifs . . .
The next image coaxed a smile and more regrets than she’d anticipated. This image was of a young girl, just days after her fifth birthday. She had a wide grin that showed a full mouth of even, white baby teeth.
She’d loved that little girl. Loved seeing her, loved hearing about her days at kindergarten, loved buying her ice cream.
If there were any regret in her life, it was that she had not been able to love this child or shower her with the mothering she deserved. Even after all this time, tears filled her eyes, stinging as she struggled not to let them spill.
She retraced the pictures in their original order and carefully tucked them back in the box. As she replaced the box, she locked away her memories and regrets.
Shifting focus from what she couldn’t control, she focused on what she could control. Her job. Her work. She clicked on a light, moved directly toward her desk, and flipped on her computer.
If Susan was good at anything, it was unearthing the hardest-to-find facts. She opened a file and studied the sketch of the child Rick Morgan had given her today.
She stared at the initials, JT. Jenna Thompson. Detective Morgan had made mention that she’d come from Baltimore. Thompson. She searched Officer Jenna Thompson and found a few references to some of her forensic art.
Susan sat back in her home-office desk chair, her reflection catching in the computer screen. She touched feathers of deepening crow’s-feet around her eyes. Some would call her distinguished. Some might value her experience. But in the age-obsessed world of television she was in the process of doing the unthinkable. She was aging.
She took another sip of wine and scrolled through any reference containing Jenna Thompson. Other than scattered images of her work and a few passing mentions there was little on the officer.
Thompson.
Who did she know in Baltimore, Maryland? Almost all of her contacts were in Tennessee. And then she remembered the new reporter from the Washington, D.C., area. Carolyn March. The reporter was young and looking to move up the chain at the station. She’d hopped around a couple of television markets and, no doubt Nashville would be just one stop of many. Blond, ambitious, there was much to admire about the young reporter who, for some reason, irritated the hell out of Susan.
She dialed Carolyn’s number.
“Hello?”
“Carolyn, this is Susan Martinez in Nashville. We met last year at the conference in Las Vegas.” She smiled, hoping it reverberated in her voice.
“Hey, Susan. How are you?”
Susan picked up a pen and began to draw boxes on a scratch pad. “I have an East Coast question for you.”
“Sure.” Carolyn didn’t sound as bubbly and helpful as she was when the station brass lurked around at the conference, but she also wasn’t rude. Susan might not have many years left in front of the camera but she still had enough pull to do damage to an ambitious reporter.
“I’m looking for a contact in the Baltimore Police Department. I have questions about an officer. Know anyone?”
The rustle of papers sounded through the phone. “Try Derrick Preston. He works robbery. I doubt he remembers me but I interviewed him last year for a story.”
Susan scribbled down the number as Carolyn read it off. “Thanks.”
“So what’s the allure of Baltimore?”
Always looking for an angle on a story. Smart. Irritating. “Just a hunch. Thanks.”
Susan rang off and called Baltimore. A few more calls and she had located Derrick. Susan relied on the truth as much as possible. It was the best cover she’d ever found when she needed information. Susan gave Derrick the run-down on Jenna Thompson’s volunteer efforts to catch a child killer. That softened him enough and soon she knew what she needed to know about Jenna Thompson.
Back in the day, she’d been careful to hide her personal connection to the story, but now, she was considering playing it.
Rick Morgan approached the records department of the Nashville Police Department, knowing the guy working the night shift had been a friend of Buddy’s. The air was dank and thick in the basement offices, but the fluorescent light humming above was bright, leaving no shadow in any corner.
Rick knocked on the half-open door to Records and poked his head in. Sitting behind the desk was a tall, lean kid who looked fresh out of the academy. He wore blond hair short and his uniform was well starched and fit his trim body well.