Escape. As long as her wheels were functional she could deal. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. What do I owe you?”
The tow-truck driver named a price and she went to the Jeep, got her purse, and dug cash out of her wallet. The cash had come from the bride portrait. She paid him one hundred dollars.
She tossed her purse back on the passenger-side seat of her Jeep. “I’m not sure what to say now, Detective Morgan.”
“Where are you headed?” Rick asked.
“Home. I need a cold glass of wine and a hot bath.”
“Is that smart? Going home alone?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The deputy returned and gave her back her gun. She tucked it in her purse.
“I don’t like you going to that cabin alone.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. I managed to survive working on the streets of Baltimore for nine years. I think I can get myself home. Besides, this guy has got to be long gone if he has even half a brain.”
“You don’t have to be smart to be mean and determined.”
“Well, I’m smart. And I’m a good shot. And going forward, I’ll have my antenna up.”
“I could leave Tracker with you. He’s not fast but he’s got a mean bite.”
The offer touched her deeply. She understood the depth of the gesture. “Thanks. I know he’s a tough dog. But he’s better to stay with you. I’ll be fine.”
Jenna stopped at the hardware store on the way home long enough to ask a clerk where she could find nails and a hammer. Following instructions, she strode to aisle six, walked down the row until she came across a wall of nails. She selected a heavy gauge and then tracked down a hammer.
After checking out and looking twice before she crossed the parking lot, she slid behind the wheel of her Jeep, wincing only a little as her bruised shoulder reminded her that two hours ago, she’d been tumbling down a hill.
In that moment, the weight of the accident caught up to her. She sat there, key in ignition, wondering again why she’d returned to Nashville. Ronnie’s motive had been as simple as insanity. He was dead. She had justice. She should have peace and a sense of well-being.
Maybe Shadow Eyes was just a figment of her imagination, a representation of her doubts or delayed post-traumatic stress. Maybe, as a therapist had once suggested, the past might one day catch up to her. Now that she had dealt with Ronnie, maybe Shadow Eyes would go away.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
She fired up the engine and drove back to her house. Soon, her leave would end and she’d leave Nashville behind. There’d been a time when it conjured only bad memories but going forward, many of the new memories would be good. Georgia, KC, and Rick.
Jenna liked Rick. Liked his swagger, his deep, rough voice and the way he looked at her as if she were the only person on the planet. His gray eyes reflected loss and worry that she knew mirrored her own. He understood facing death. Understood having your life ripped out from under you. Understood that on a cellular level it could all go sideways in a beat.
Rick or no, it didn’t make sense for her to stay here much longer. She had a job, friends, an apartment, and a life waiting for her. Nashville wasn’t real life for her. And sooner rather than later, she’d have to get back to real life.
Rubbing her tense neck with her hand, she exercised the stiffness now creeping in after the accident. She needed a hot shower, as she’d originally planned, and a good glass of wine. But first, she’d pound a nail in each window frame on the first floor so that no one opened her window without her knowing it.
Rick and Bishop got the call an hour later: unidentified male, dead of an overdose in a downtown alley. The lights of Broadway winked against his windshield as he drove past the tourists toward the river. A right on First Street and he spotted the collection of cop cars.
He and Bishop got out of the car and made their way to the uniformed officer standing at the edge of the yellow crime-scene tape. Rick shook his hand as did Bishop.
“What do we have?” Bishop asked.
“The victim’s name, according to the driver’s license in his pocket, is Ford Wheeler. He’s thirty-six years old and works as a busboy in a chain restaurant. Lots of scrapes with the law.”
Rick scribbled down the details in a notebook. “How did he die?”
“He’s got the look of a drug addict. Old needle marks on his arms. Medical examiner will have to make the final call. But if I had to guess, he overdosed.”
“Thanks.” As the officer looked away, Rick said, “Another overdose on the heels of a murder and fire.”
“Fits the pattern.”
“I know.” Again his thoughts circled back to the Thompson murder, and the fire and death of their killer. Was that a part of this pattern or a strange coincidence?
The detectives ducked under the tape and, donning rubber gloves, moved toward the body covered with a blue tarp. Rick knelt down and lifted the edge to find the body faceup. “Have a look.”
Bishop studied the man’s face. “He’s the dude from the package-delivery-office video. The one that cut in front of Nancy Jones.”
“He sure is.” Rick studied the guy’s arm and noted the track marks.
Bishop searched the man’s pockets and pulled out a hardware store receipt. “He bought gasoline two days ago.”
“Another successful woman and another loser guy who kills her. What do you think we’ll find when we see his home?”
“Pictures of Nancy.”
“It would be my guess.” Rick searched his pockets but only found a gum wrapper and a few pennies. “What the hell is this? Some kind of murder club?”
“I don’t know what it is. But Tuttle and Wheeler are connected in some way. These two cases are just too damn much alike.”
“Wheeler could have read about the first murder in the paper.”
“He got too many details right that weren’t released.”