Authors: Mary Burton
“Another sketch.” He explained what was happening.
Jenna rested her head against the headrest. Just the idea of a job calmed her racing nerves. “Give me the address.”
It took Jenna thirty minutes and a few wrong turns before she found the dress shop in Franklin. It was a cute place, though she decided that wasn’t her style. It had the look of money, and she’d be willing to bet the dresses cost more than she’d ever be able to afford. She grabbed her sketchpad and slid out of the car. Rick Morgan emerged from the front door, looking much like a fish out of water. She had to smile.
“I thought your tastes weren’t pastel.”
He laughed. “Don’t underestimate me.”
The smile again transformed his face from stern and severe to almost handsome. She cleared her throat. “You need a sketch?”
“I do. I’d like you to meet Pamela Grayson.” He shifted his gaze to the woman who emerged from behind the counter.
Pamela extended a manicured hand as if this was some kind of new business presentation. “You’re Jenna Thompson. I saw your sketch on the news. I remember your story when you were little. It was all over the news.”
She accepted Pamela’s hand. “I seem to be the news of the day.”
The woman’s hand was soft but her handshake strong. “You were brave to go on television. It must be hard having the past dug up?”
“All for a good cause.”
“Have you gotten any leads yet on that poor missing girl?”
Jenna glanced toward Rick, unwilling to blow any leads he might have in the Lost Girl case. “You’ll have to ask the detective. I was simply the artist.”
Rick cleared his throat. “Let’s say we’ve made substantial progress since the picture aired. You’d be surprised how accurate Ms. Thompson can be.”
Pamela shook her head. “I don’t see how you can help me. I barely saw the guy.”
“I’m a regular magician when it comes to pulling memories to the surface. I’m assuming now is a good time to work?”
Pamela nodded. “I’ll close the shop for the afternoon. We can take as long as you need. I want to figure out if this guy is for real or if I’m just being foolish.”
Jenna set her sketchpad on the table. “Never ignore your instincts. They pick up more than you realize.”
Pamela’s face relaxed a fraction as if she needed to hear the validation. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”
Jenna turned to Detective Morgan. “I always work alone. I don’t allow anyone else in the room while I work, even other cops.”
Rick arched a brow as if he couldn’t quite believe she was kicking him out of this party.
“Why?”
“Just like I told Rachel, you’ll skew the results or shut down memories. You wouldn’t mean to, but you would. It’s just Pamela and me for this job. Ask Rachel. I kicked her out when I did her sketch.”
Hands on hips, Detective Morgan looked as if he’d argue.
When he didn’t move, she arched a brow. “My way or the highway, Detective.”
“So, I’m supposed to sit in my car and wait?”
“I suggest you get back to work. This could take a couple of hours.”
“Hours.”
“At least.”
“Rachel said you were bossy.”
Jenna winked. “It’s a gift.”
“Fine. But lock the door behind you. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“We’ll lock the door. And I know how to take care of myself.”
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Shaking his head, he finally nodded. “I’ll check with you in a few hours.”
“How about I call you when we’re done? I don’t like to be rushed or think there’s a clock ticking over my head.”
“I want to see that sketch sooner rather than later.”
“Sooner will come when you leave.”
His annoyance palatable, he glanced toward Pamela. “She’s bossy, but she’s good.”
Pamela folded her arms and nodded. “I got that sense.”
Rick left and waited by his car as Pamela crossed the store and locked the front door. When the dead bolt clicked, he slid behind the wheel and left.
“You’ve annoyed him,” Pamela said.
“I’m fairly good at annoying cops.” She nearly described herself as a cop and then stopped. She was a cop and she wasn’t. “I know how to get under their skin.”
Pamela smiled as she looked out the front window and watched as he drove off. “I don’t think Detective Morgan is used to not getting his way.”
“He’ll survive.” Jenna smiled. “Ready to get started?”
Pamela nodded. “We can sit in my office. Can I make you a coffee?”
“I’m fine. But make yourself a cup if you think it will relax you.”
They moved behind the counter into a midsize office. Unlike the front of the store, this space struck her as chaotic. Dress samples hung from a hook on one wall, the chairs in front of the desk where piled high with catalogues, and magazines cluttered a chunky desk with carved, round legs. On the walls hung images of models though Jenna, judging by the fashions, guessed the pictures had been up for a few years.
Pamela cleared a chair in front of the desk. “I’m sorry this place is a wreck. I spend all my time up front with the customers and it seems there’s never time to clean the office.”
“No worries.” Jenna settled in the chair and as she unfolded her sketchpad, Pamela cleared and settled into the chair opposite her.
“I still feel kind of silly. There’s been no crime.”
“That doesn’t mean there won’t be one if we don’t catch this guy. You were smart to call the police.”
And so they began, Jenna asking Pamela questions about face shapes, hairlines, eyes, mouths, and ears. She would listen as Pamela described and then sketch the image. Pamela, as it turned out, had a great eye for detail and once she saw a bit of the sketch would make changes. This process went on for nearly two hours and by the time they’d finished, Jenna had a sketch that could easily be matched to a suspect or even a mug shot. As she stared at the picture, she hesitated. She’d seen this guy before.
She turned the picture around so that Pamela could get a full view of the work. “Look familiar?”
Pamela looked at the picture and nodded as recognition flared in her eyes. “That’s him. I don’t know how you did it, but that’s him.”
“It’s what I do.” She stared at the image. There were slight differences but then two different women had described him. She’d drawn this face before. She reached for her cell, snapped a picture of the sketch, and texted it to Rick.
Within fifteen seconds her phone rang. “That’s the guy?”
“Pamela confirmed it. Would you like me to drop the sketch off at your office on my way home?”
“That would be great. I’m going to send this out now.”
“Rick, I’ve drawn this guy before.”
“What do you mean?”
“For Rachel. This is the guy who attacked her client a couple of months ago.”
Silence crackled over the line. “Are you sure?”
“Compare this sketch to the one I did the other night. It’s the same guy.”
By the time Rick had collected Jenna’s sketch from reception, he’d used her digital image to issue a BOLO, Be On the LookOut, for the man believed to be a stalker and a rapist. He called Rachel and informed her of the connection Jenna had made.
“So what do you know, I was right,” Rachel said.
Rick liked Rachel and respected the hell out of her after the help she’d given Georgia last year, but that didn’t soften his annoyance over her defending Loyola Briggs. “You get one right from time to time. But you’re wrong about Loyola Briggs.”
Silence snapped. “I protect the integrity of the law, Rick.”
“Did I mention Jenna found a doll’s head by her front door this morning? The word
bitch
was scrawled on its face. Smacks of Loyola.”
She lowered her voice as if she sensed she was losing him. “Rick, I don’t think Loyola has the wherewithal to pull a stunt like that. She could barely walk this morning.”
“That’s assuming she’s not faking.”
Rachel sighed. “We’ll sort this out as soon at we get DNA.”
He moved his head from side to side to release the tension. “Right.”
“Keep me posted.”
“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.”
Rick picked up the threads of Bishop’s bluff. “Lots of liars in the world. And they’re all ganging up on you.”
“All I know is that I ain’t been bothering nobody.”
The man’s nerves oozed tension and worry. Rick kept his expression relaxed. “Mind if we take a look around your house?”