Silent Reckoning

Did he really think I hadn’t thought of that? Please.

If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him, Patterson suggested, I’ll be glad to do it.

No way. If anyone talked to Heath it would be me.

“He’s away on some secret vacation,” I said pointedly. “None of his people can get in touch with him. Believe me, I’ve made life difficult enough for them. He can’t be reached. I’ll be the first person they call when he’s found.”

Patterson shrugged. Oh.

I studied my new partner a moment, decided that at least he was beginning to share his thoughts. I suddenly wondered if there was a woman in his life. He was certainly cute enough. Thick brown hair cut short for easy care, and because it looked damned good that way. Matching brown eyes. I realized then that I actually knew very little about him.

“What’s the story with you?” I found myself asking. I hadn’t actually meant to, but the question was on the table. There was no taking it back.

This time he was the one taken aback by the direction of the conversation. What do you mean?

Like he didn’t know.

“You have a girlfriend? Engaged?” I shrugged. “Any family in the area?” Might as well get the whole story while I was at it.

I don’t have a significant other, and I don’t like mixing my personal life with the job.

His closed expression along with the stern line of his jaw told me he’d made the statement quite sharply.

Before I got all ticked off again, I reminded myself that my prying into his business would likely keep him wary of digging into mine. He would be scared to death I’d ask him something else. So, my snoopy question had, in a roundabout way, served my purposes, as well. And, jeez, he was the one who’d started it.

“We should get back to the office and start that digging expedition.” I gathered my leftovers and stood. “I’ll see you there.”

After making a drop at the trash receptacle I headed for the door. As I settled into my Jetta, Patterson made his exit. He didn’t look my way, just walked straight over to his big red SUV and climbed in.

Although I couldn’t lay my finger on the problem, something about Patterson didn’t sit as it should with me. He didn’t mind saying right up front that he had a problem with a female partner, nor did he hesitate to ask me about my ex-fiancé. But when I asked a straightforward question about his marital status, he balked. Hmmm. Interesting. What was my new partner hiding? A messy divorce? A tawdry affair? A work-related situation? That could explain his reasons for not wanting to work with a woman.

It looked as if I might have a little extra digging to do. After all, one couldn’t go into a relationship of any kind without all the facts.

The victim, Mallory Wells, had changed a number of things about herself, besides her cup size, after coming to Nashville. Her real name was Margaret Anita Wellersby. In addition to changing her name, she’d had her nose done and breast augmentation at the suggestion of a music video producer with whom she’d had a brief relationship. It was still unclear what she’d done in the way of repayment for the costly surgical procedures, since her financial resources had been somewhat limited.

My best guess was that the producer and the cosmetic surgeon had a racket going on. The surgeon worked cheaper than usual, but had lots of extra business thrown his way by the producer. The producer got his kickback in the way of sexual favors from the prospective patients. Or maybe both men enjoyed the perks of their alliance.

Sick, huh?

The producer, Rex Lane, and the surgeon, Xavier Santos, were now at the top of my super-short suspect list. Especially since Reba Harrison had been an extra in a music video by Rex Lane’s company, Lucky Lane Productions. That particular aspect of Miss Harrison’s past hadn’t been significant until now.

I can track down the surgeon, Patterson offered. I know the places his type likes to hang out.

Another curiosity-arousing statement. Patterson didn’t look like the country-club type. “I’ll take the producer.” No problem. They both had to be questioned.

Patterson gave me a nod and left my cubicle.

While we’re on the subject of cubicles, I should mention that the term is probably not the right one to use. I don’t have any walls around my desk. Mostly I have my space. About a yard of beige carpet all the way around my beige metal desk. There’s a chair, also metal but embellished with a little fake leather, sitting in front of it for interviewing folks or conferencing with one’s partner.

I was somewhat protective of my space. The day the desk had been pointed out to me I’d taken steps to make it mine. Framed family photos and a mug turned pencil holder were my only personal items on top of the desk. The mug had been given to me by the kids in my last class as a teacher. In an effort to clearly delineate the boundaries of my space, I’d brought in a six-by-eight burgundy rug to go beneath my desk. Needless to say, no one else had marked their territory in such a way. Coffee stains and the like were about all that surrounded the other detectives’ desks, even the other two that belonged to females.

Oh, well, I’d always been different. Why change now?

I downed the last of my coffee, grimaced, and grabbed my purse. Sometimes I carried my gun in my purse, but only when I couldn’t wear my shoulder holster. I preferred the latter. The .9-millimeter made my purse weigh a ton.

However, wearing the shoulder holster sort of dictated my wardrobe. It usually meant I would need to wear a jacket to hide it. Not a problem, because jackets were okay with me. Today I wore navy slacks—my favorite color—and a soft baby-blue blouse with a navy jacket, short cropped with no pockets and a cool zipper instead of buttons. The shoes were sensible pumps with two-inch heels. No one would vote me the best-dressed woman in Nashville, but I looked reasonably snazzy for a cop.

The drive to Franklin didn’t take that long. Mr. Rex Lane lived in one of the more glamorous residential neighborhoods of Franklin. So did a lot of stars. Franklin and Brentwood were the two most popular areas outside Nashville. The commute was short and the houses were huge with masterfully landscaped lots. Though Patterson and I were supposed to be a team, time was of the essence here. Splitting up was the most efficient way to do the job.

I stopped at the gate and pressed the intercom button. I felt sure Mr. Lane wouldn’t like having unannounced company on a Sunday afternoon, but I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to be away when I showed up at his door.

I laid my hand on the speaker to feel the vibration when and if someone answered. Worked like a charm.

After moving my hand, I said, “Detective Merrilee Walters, Metro Homicide, to see Mr. Rex Lane.” I quickly placed my hand back on the front of the speaker and waited. I didn’t get an audible response but the gates began a slow swing inward. I took that as a “come on in” sign.

When the gates yawned open fully, I let off the brake, allowing the Jetta to roll forward. The driveway sprawled out before me, a good half mile long. As gorgeous as the landscape was, it didn’t hold a candle to the circular parking patio in front of the house. A large fountain amid the seeming acres of cobblestone lent an old-world flair.

“Big bucks,” I muttered. This guy was making some major money in the video business. My ex had always said that these guys made almost as much money as the performers themselves. Definitely beat out the song-writers, he’d complained. Though Heath appeared to be doing pretty well these days. I’d noticed that one of his new songs, performed by a seasoned veteran, had topped all the charts.

Good for him, I mused. Maybe he’d choke on all the money he was probably making. No hard feelings.

As I got out of my car, the front door opened and the man himself, Rex Lane that is, stepped out onto the granite landing that stood at the top of about a dozen matching steps. Wide, luxurious steps. No expense had been spared in making this Italianate-style home an awe-inspiring mansion.

Detective Walters, what brings you to my home on a Sunday afternoon? he asked with a polite smile.

Well-washed jeans, a comfortable striped button-down shirt and leather Birkenstocks dressed the man who looked around thirty when the background I’d pulled up indicated he would turn forty this year. Maybe the good doctor had done his partner in crime a few favors.

Back up, Merri, I told myself. I hadn’t proven the two were partners in anything just yet.

“I have a few questions for you regarding one of your clients,” I said as I climbed the elegant steps.

This client has a name, I presume, he said as I took the final step, bringing me up alongside him on the wide landing gracing the front of the mansion.

“Had,” I corrected. “She’s dead.”

That got his attention, just as I’d intended.

The expression on his face shifted from annoyed to startled. Come in, Detective.

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter before him. As I did I couldn’t help but notice his—or the decorator’s—exquisite taste followed through to the interior. Marble-floored entry. Soaring ceilings. Beautiful artwork and tapestries. Marvelous antique pieces made up the furnishings.

I could almost smell the money.

Lots and lots of the stuff.

He said something I missed as he turned to lead the way to wherever he wanted to do this. I followed, kept an eye on his profile in case he said something else, despite my desire to admire the decorating.

When he led me into a parlor, he asked, Would you like something to drink, Detective?