Stick to the talking points. The world doesn’t need to hear your worries. “What’s important is that the DNA is tested and the Nashville Police Department release it to the public.”
Ms. Martinez edged the microphone closer to Rachel and dropped her voice a notch as if it were only the two of them. “Are you worried about Margaret Miller?”
The question didn’t pertain to Jeb, but she’d roll with the punches. “No. She’s upset. She’ll cool off. She more than anyone deserves to know who really killed her sister.”
“And you think the real killer is out there?”
She hesitated and then looked directly into the camera. “Yes, I do believe the killer remains free.”
Deke stood on the street corner watching as the uniforms hauled Margaret Miller away. He’d been curious about the vigil, had made a point to attend, but hadn’t expected much. He had to give Rachel Wainwright credit. She’d scrounged up more people than he thought would care about a thirty-year-old murder case.
When he’d arrived she’d been arranging her note cards as she’d cast disappointed looks at the crowd. She’d kicked off her dog-and-pony show right on time and he’d settled against the concrete wall behind him and watched her try to galvanize a lifeless crowd. Then he’d spotted Margaret pull away from the group. Her body twitched, tight and nervous, as she’d gripped her purse strap in a brawler’s bare-knuckled grip and fixed her gaze on Rachel. He hadn’t recognized the woman but he could spot the body language of a disturbed person. Immediately, he’d made his way through the crowd, listening, as Margaret’s voice grew louder and angrier. He’d been a few feet away when Margaret had decked Rachel.
Rachel. Rachel Wainwright. She’d been calling him several times a day for at least six weeks. He’d taken her first call and told her she’d have her results as soon as he did but that hadn’t satisfied her. She’d called back, leaving a long message arguing that the whole testing process was taking too long. She’d accused him of burying evidence to protect his father.
That comment had pissed him off to the point that he’d considered driving to her office and having it out. But he’d worked undercover too long to let his temper or feelings get the better of him. He’d zipped up his anger and put it aside.
A begrudging respect flickered for the woman who didn’t surrender. She had the tenacity of a pit bull. And tonight, she’d held on to her composure after the blow. With the media cameras rolling she could have demanded Margaret be jailed. She hadn’t.
Rachel Wainwright wasn’t his kind of woman. Her voice didn’t sooth but snapped. High cheekbones and a keen chin were made sharper by short ink-black hair and milky pale skin. A long lean body didn’t fill out her pencil skirt and white blouse but skimmed beneath the fabric like chiseled stone. What rescued her from severity were her eyes. They were the color of cut sapphires and looked upon the world as if it were filled with urchins and discarded puppies, all in need of her saving.
Deke believed Buddy had gotten it right thirty years ago when he arrested Jeb Jones. His father had often said fear had gripped Nashville after the violent attack and disappearance of the young beautiful mother. Women, Buddy had said, were afraid to go out. The police were flooded with tips or calls of suspicious-looking men. One man had been attacked by a group of young boys who’d believed they’d caught Annie’s killer. Nearly beaten to death, the man had woken up in the hospital three days later with his name cleared after the cops had established his alibi.
And then there’d been the calls regarding Annie’s body. The cops had received hundreds. Most had been ruled out but there were at least ten sites that the cops had dug up looking for her body. And then one of many anonymous tips had been followed and the fragmented bones of a woman had been found in the woods near the Cumberland River. Annie’s necklace had been found among the remains. Diamonds shaped into a heart. The search had ended. But the terror and fear had not. And then the confidential informant, or CI, had given them Jeb. He’d been arrested. And the city had returned to normal.
Deke knew his father and the man’s flawless integrity. He and his father, physical carbon copies, were also a match in temperament. Shouting matches and butting heads were more common than not. So Deke knew in his core Buddy might have been tough on Jeb during the interviews, but he’d gotten his confession fair and square. He wouldn’t have steamrolled Jeb for the sake of closing a case. Justice was Buddy’s life.
Deke had been about ten at the time of the trial and he’d remembered his dad coming home from work late, exhausted and paler than a ghost. He’d remembered his parents talking in the kitchen in hushed whispers and of his father’s conviction that Jeb was the killer.
When Rachel’s request for DNA testing had first crossed Deke’s desk, he’d laughed. He’d heard Jeb had recanted but then Jeb wouldn’t be the first killer who’d cried innocent when facing the rest of his life in prison.
Deke had wanted to dismiss Rachel’s request, but he didn’t. He’d trusted Buddy’s work enough to believe it would stand up to science, so he’d sent the DNA to the state lab, knowing the backlog ran months and sometimes years.
Rachel wasn’t so green an attorney that she didn’t realize this. Every first-year law student understood the system could be slow—that current murder cases, rapes, and robberies took precedence.
The harder she pushed for an answer, the stronger his resolve not to rush the results. Let her prod all she wanted. She’d get her answers when he was damn good and ready.
“Yes, I do believe the killer remains free.”
In the darkness, the small television framed Rachel Wainwright’s face. Pretty expressive eyes announced worry and doubt as her unwavering tone added punch to her words. Whether she believed the statement or not didn’t really matter. She’d spoken them out loud and into the lens of a camera that broadcast her face all over the Nashville metro area. Her words had planted seeds of doubt, not many, but one or two placed in the right place was all it took.
Rachel Wainwright was a do-gooder who didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. She stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and stirred up trouble for trouble’s sake.
Sitting back, Baby conceded taking care of Rachel would be easy. Ideas of hitting her with a car or striking her with a hammer elbowed their way to the front of Baby’s mind. If Rachel died, Jeb’s case died. No more problems. No more worries.
The ceiling above Baby’s head creaked with the footsteps of another. The hum of the television had reached upstairs and aroused trouble. Baby took one last look at Rachel’s face then clicked off the set.
The door at the top of the basement stairs creaked open. “Baby?”
“Down here.”
“What are you doing? It’s late.”
“Watching television.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.” Baby rubbed tired eyes. “I’ll be right up.”