“It means the request came across Buddy’s desk. Why didn’t he have the test done to vindicate his work?”
The lines of his face deepened. “I know Ms. Wainwright sees an old man who is sick and feeble. But Jeb Jones wasn’t like that thirty years ago. He was a big strong man with a bad temper and a taste for gin. He put his wife in the hospital once and I saw bruises on his boy when we finally arrested Jeb.”
“Rachel Wainwright hasn’t argued that he was a choir boy.”
“No one but the Devil himself, could argue the case on Jeb’s character.” Saunders wagged a finger as he always did when he lectured. “He might only have an eighth-grade education but he was street smart then and likely more so now. He’s a pro at twisting the facts so that he looks like the victim. Jeb Jones is no damn victim. Buddy knew it better than anyone.”
Buddy’s world was black-and-white. You were a good guy or a bad guy and once you landed in either column, you stayed there forever. Deke knew firsthand what it felt like to be judged by Buddy Morgan and to come up short. “I did a search on Jeb Jones’s wife. She’s in a home. Suffered a stroke several years ago. The son still lives in the area.”
“The boy was ten when his old man was locked up.”
“No doubt he’d not be much help. But Annie’s husband would remember a lot.”
Saunders’s frown deepened already-sagging jowls. “Don’t stir up a hornet’s nest, Deke. Leave the Dawson case alone and focus on the active murder cases on your desk.”
Deke could have pointed out to Saunders that he wasn’t a rookie. He could have said the weekly lectures grew thin. But like always, he held his cards close until a play mattered. “The Simmons case has my full attention.”
“Any leads?”
“Still digging. I talked to the bar owner where she sang. I also ran her phone records and a credit check. I can tell you she’d maxed out her credit cards and her landlord was talking about eviction.”
“If debt were a motive for murder more than half this town would be dead. Did she take drugs?”
“Clean according to Dr. Heller. She did like to date. A lot. I’ve spoken to several men in her phone address book. All said she was fun but no one had a reason to stick around. One-night stands.”
“Could any one of those men get pissed enough to kill her?”
“Very possible. KC secured her computer and has taken it to forensics. Might be data on that as well.”
“Keep on the Simmons case. I want it closed. What about the Ellen Roberts case?”
“We arrested a guy she dated. Oscar McMillian. He’s in jail now trying to scrounge bail. I’ll make that arrest stick.”
“Good.” Saunders didn’t celebrate solved murders because he was too worried about the unsolved ones. “Put your boot on the backs of the lab rats. I want this Dawson shit cleared and out the door.”
“Will do.”
As Captain Saunders left, Deke sat and leaned back in his chair. He loosened his tie. The captain was a good cop and he worked hard. When the captain married, Buddy had been his best man and when Buddy died, the captain had been a pallbearer. He was protective of Buddy.
And it was hard for any cop to take down a criminal and then see him walk. He’d been through it during his undercover days and it never failed to piss him off. Captain was no different.
And now one of Buddy’s old cases was being questioned. This wasn’t about a DNA test for the captain. It was a point of honor for a fallen comrade.
Deke and KC arrived at the music studio called Spinners Records. A small lowlying building, it could easily have been missed. But from what Deke knew about the company it had produced several successful artists in the last couple of years and was on the rise. In Nashville, simple jeans and unassuming buildings disguised fortunes.
“This was one of the last places Dixie Simmons called,” KC said. He flipped through the pages of his notebook. “According to my notes she called here about ten times in the last few days. The extension she called was two-one-one and a little asking told me that the number belongs to Dusty Rehnquist, the owner and operator of Spinners Records.”
Deke slammed his car door. “Anyone else she call other than Mr. Rehnquist?”
“Lots. But the other call that stands out is a burner phone. She called that number last, likely minutes before she died. No tracing that number.”
“A burner.” Burners and secrets went together like black and white.
“If I were a married man and a hot chick wanted to call me, I’d set up a separate number.” KC held up a hand. “That’s saying if I had a hot chick calling me. Which I don’t, if Brenda is to ask.”
A smile tweaked the edges of his mouth. “I’m sure she will be glad to hear that.”
KC shook his head. “Got to say that woman rocks my old-ass world. After Sharon died I thought I was done. And then Brenda showed up. I love that woman but I suspect she’d cut off my balls and feed them to me if she caught me running around.”
“She strikes me as well adjusted.”
“Any sane woman loses it when she’s been hurt. One hundred and thirty pounds of love turning into one hundred and thirty pounds of crazy and pissed off, just like . . .” He snapped his fingers.
Deke opened the glass front door to the studio. “Maybe that’s what happened to Dixie. She found herself a man married to one hundred and thirty pounds of crazy.”
“Could happen.”
They walked the carpeted hallway decorated with hundreds of singers’ photos. He didn’t recognize most but that wasn’t surprising. The world was full of wannabes and those dreaming of the big time, which chewed up people and spit them out by the hour. Buddy had warned Georgia over and over that Nashville was stocked with starving talent. He insisted she get an education.
“Dream all you want,” Buddy used to say. “But pay the light bill.”
Georgia had gotten a degree in forensics and now worked for the Nashville Police Department. She was one of the best in her field. Her eye for detail had solved many cases. And she liked her work. Deke could admit when she was on, a light switched on in her that added a glow no one missed. She spent all her spare time at the honky-tonks singing or writing songs. What she wouldn’t give to have an interview at this place.
A receptionist with full, curly blond hair looked up at them. Her makeup was too heavy for his tastes and her rhinestone shirt over the top. Rachel Wainwright flashed in his mind. Her simple dark hair, stiff business attire that didn’t fit her right, and little or no makeup had him wondering what she’d look like in a getup like this. No doubt the suggestion alone would irritate her.
The receptionist looked up, big blue eyes haloed with false eyelashes. “Can I help you?”