“Always, Counselor.”
He studied the image that featured dark, glaring eyes, a thick jaw covered in a blanket of stubble, and the receding hairline. The beat and patrol officers knew their neighborhoods and often knew the characters they dealt with on a regular basis. The cops might not have given the sketch much of a look when Rachel had passed it around, but they’d listen to him. This guy was just distinctive enough to get himself noticed and, if he were stalking Pamela, there was a chance someone had pointed him out to a cop along the way.
Rick’s cell buzzed. “Morgan.”
“This is Officer Brandt. I got your BOLO. I know this guy.”
“Really?” Rick stood up and snapped his fingers to get Bishop’s attention.
“Cyrus Mitchell. I’ve arrested him for indecent exposure. The guy flashed himself to a group of women about a year ago. Stalking would be his style.”
“What about rape?”
“It would fit.”
Rachel’s client had said there’d been a second man in the room. Jenna had not drawn that face yet and he was thinking now more than ever it was important.
Rick typed Mitchell’s name into his computer and a mug shot appeared. It was a perfect match to Jenna’s drawing. “Well, I’ll be damned. I think we’ve a match.”
The officer chuckled. Everyone enjoyed the rush when they fingered a bad guy. “Glad to help.”
Rick hung up and mentally gave a point to Jenna. Another of her sketches had a hit.
Bishop strode into the room, a cup of hot coffee in hand. “What do you have?” Bishop asked.
“The guy that might have been stalking Pamela. Jenna did a sketch and a uniform just identified him. And remember when Jenna did the favor for Rachel and drew a sketch of the rapist?”
“The one we all thought was make-believe?”
“The sketches she did with Pamela and the rape victim match.”
Bishop studied the computer screen picture, his gaze narrowing. “He’s like Tuttle and Wheeler, not the type to plan.”
“No, but he looks like he could be easily manipulated. And remember our alleged rape victim. She said there was a second guy in the room.”
“I think we should pay Cyrus Mitchell a visit.”
“Agreed.”
Twenty minutes later, blue lights flashing from the marked backup cars, Rick and Bishop stood on either side of Cyrus’s East Nashville front door. The house was one level, made of cinder block and covered in a gray peeling paint. Rick pounded on the door, his hand on his weapon, his body clear of the door and the potential line of fire.
Memories of last year’s I-40 traffic stop flashed in his mind. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire ricocheted in his head.
Shit.
Shaking off the memory, he banged on the door again with his fist.
Finally, footsteps sounded in the house and the door snapped open. Standing before them was a midsize man wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “What do you want?”
Again, Rick was struck by how much the man looked like the sketch. “Cyrus Mitchell.”
Seasoned eyes narrowed. “Yeah, who wants to know?”
Rick and Bishop held up their badges and identified themselves. “Ever met a woman named Pamela Grayson?”
Even as he shrugged, his eyes widened just a fraction. “Am I supposed to?”
“She thinks you two have met.”
Narrowing eyes reflected pleasure. “What’s she saying about me?”
Rick shook his head, declaring he ran this Q and A. “Do you know her?”
He shrugged. “Does she run a fancy dress shop in Franklin?”
“She does. Have you ever been to her shop?”
He scratched his chest. “Yeah, sure, I made deliveries. But I never went into the shop.”
“That so?”
He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “Do I look like the kind of guy who visits dress shops?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Mitchell shifted his stance as tension rippled over his features. “Did she say something about me?”
“She did. She says you’ve been following her.”
He flexed the fingers on his left hand. “Why the hell would I follow her?”
Rick slid his hand to the handle of his gun. “You tell me. She says you’ve been following her around for weeks.”
“She’s wrong. I might have made a delivery to her store, but I don’t know the woman. And I sure as shit wouldn’t care enough to follow her.” He shook his head. “A store like that means she’s got money and money means time to stir trouble. Rich women are a pain in the ass.”
Bishop adjusted his pinky ring. “Why would a woman like her stir trouble?”
“Bored. Or maybe she’s a vindictive cunt who likes to put the screws to a guy.”
Anger leaked through the words. “Why’re you mad?”
“I ain’t mad. I just hate it when a woman thinks she’s all that and goes out of her way to ruin a man.”
It didn’t take much to stir this guy’s temper. Another push or two and he’d say something he hadn’t intended to say. “Is that what she’s doing, ruining you?”
“You’re here, ain’t you?”
Rick held up pictures of Tuttle and Wheeler. “Ever met these guys?”
His gaze barely skimmed the pictures. “What, do they think I’m stalking them, too?”
“No, but they did their share of following women around. A lot like you.”
“Hey, just because they do that kind of stuff don’t mean I do.” He rubbed a calloused, beefy hand over an unshaven jaw. “I got my hands full looking for a job.”
“Your job.” Bishop wagged his finger as if he’d just remembered something. “You get fired from your last job?”
The play was all bravado. They’d not tracked down his former employer yet.
Mitchell’s scowl deepened. “Got downsized. That wasn’t my fault.”
Bishop rubbed his square chin as if he were a poker player assessing a winning hand. “According to your ex-boss you were hassling a female employee.”
“Well, he’s a damn liar. And my ex-boss is worried about being PC and not getting sued so he took her side over mine.”