came into KC’s you snapped like a live electrical cord.”
“I’m a cop. We can leave the job but it doesn’t quite leave us. KC’s no different, nor were the half-dozen off-duty cops sitting in the bar on any given night.”
“Yeah. We’re not good at turning it off.” She held out her arms. “I’m a prime example of not being able to leave it at the office. But you’re different.”
“I’m not sure what you’re digging for, Georgia. But you aren’t going to find anything interesting.” That wasn’t true. If Georgia did some digging she’d find a long, sordid story about Jenna in the archives of the Nashville Police Department.
“My instincts are never wrong.”
“That so?” Jenna lifted a box and dumped it into Georgia’s outstretched arms.
“Yeah.”
Jenna hefted the second box containing an easel and a few other necessities, closed the back tailgate, and locked the Jeep. “Most of us have a personal gripe they’re working through. Cops don’t like not being in the know. Part of what brings us to the job.”
“All true.”
They walked back to the building and took the elevator down to a small, windowless room. The boxed skull remained in the center of the table, waiting for the identity that Jenna had promised.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Georgia asked as she set down the box.
Jenna placed her box next to the other. “No. It’s all me now. If your brother ends up with a missing persons report that fits let me know. Otherwise, I’ll catch up with you when I finish.”
Georgia slid her hands in her back pockets and had the look of someone who didn’t want to leave. Almost seemed to dread it.
As much as Jenna wanted to include Georgia this process was a personal, solitary job. “I don’t work with an audience.”
“Even one that’s quiet and sits in the corner.”
“Even one of those.” She smiled to soften the rejection. “I promise to keep you posted.”
Georgia moved toward the door. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Georgia.” She hesitated, reaching for a word she rarely used. “Thanks for bringing up my name. This is a good deed I can do and I’m glad for the opportunity.”
She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I really want to catch this killer.”
Jenna nodded as she slowly pulled out a sketchpad. “I know. So do I.”
Rick dropped Bishop off at headquarters and after a quick walk with Tracker the two were back in his vehicle. “Ready to catch a bad guy, boy?”
The dog barked.
Soon the two were headed to the home of a woman named Lorrie Trent, Diane Smith’s sister, who had filed a missing persons report just hours before the fire. Lorrie Trent owned a small bakery in East Nashville.
With evening traffic building, the drive over the Cumberland River to the bakery took him about thirty minutes. When he arrived, he left Tracker in the backseat, the car still running and the air-conditioning blowing out cool air.
He crossed the parking lot and pushed through the front door of the bakery. Jangling bells above his head and the scents of cookies and cakes greeted him.
Two females stood behind the counter—one a teen and the other a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. The duo waited on several customers. Rick opted to stride toward the older one. She had dark hair, skimmed back into a tight ponytail, and wore a white shirt, faded jeans, and an apron that crisscrossed around her full waist and tied in the front.
As Rick reached for his badge, the woman’s gaze rose as if she’d been expecting him. She reached for a white towel, wiped her hands, and after speaking to the teen moved around the counter toward him.
He noticed a resemblance to Diane Smith. Though their coloring was different, their eyes shared the same watery blue and each had full lips that tilted at the corners.
He showed her his badge. “Ms. Lorrie Trent?”
She nodded. “Yes. You’re here about Diane?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in
“I’m a cop. We can leave the job but it doesn’t quite leave us. KC’s no different, nor were the half-dozen off-duty cops sitting in the bar on any given night.”
“Yeah. We’re not good at turning it off.” She held out her arms. “I’m a prime example of not being able to leave it at the office. But you’re different.”
“I’m not sure what you’re digging for, Georgia. But you aren’t going to find anything interesting.” That wasn’t true. If Georgia did some digging she’d find a long, sordid story about Jenna in the archives of the Nashville Police Department.
“My instincts are never wrong.”
“That so?” Jenna lifted a box and dumped it into Georgia’s outstretched arms.
“Yeah.”
Jenna hefted the second box containing an easel and a few other necessities, closed the back tailgate, and locked the Jeep. “Most of us have a personal gripe they’re working through. Cops don’t like not being in the know. Part of what brings us to the job.”
“All true.”
They walked back to the building and took the elevator down to a small, windowless room. The boxed skull remained in the center of the table, waiting for the identity that Jenna had promised.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Georgia asked as she set down the box.
Jenna placed her box next to the other. “No. It’s all me now. If your brother ends up with a missing persons report that fits let me know. Otherwise, I’ll catch up with you when I finish.”
Georgia slid her hands in her back pockets and had the look of someone who didn’t want to leave. Almost seemed to dread it.
As much as Jenna wanted to include Georgia this process was a personal, solitary job. “I don’t work with an audience.”
“Even one that’s quiet and sits in the corner.”
“Even one of those.” She smiled to soften the rejection. “I promise to keep you posted.”
Georgia moved toward the door. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Georgia.” She hesitated, reaching for a word she rarely used. “Thanks for bringing up my name. This is a good deed I can do and I’m glad for the opportunity.”
She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I really want to catch this killer.”
Jenna nodded as she slowly pulled out a sketchpad. “I know. So do I.”
Rick dropped Bishop off at headquarters and after a quick walk with Tracker the two were back in his vehicle. “Ready to catch a bad guy, boy?”
The dog barked.
Soon the two were headed to the home of a woman named Lorrie Trent, Diane Smith’s sister, who had filed a missing persons report just hours before the fire. Lorrie Trent owned a small bakery in East Nashville.
With evening traffic building, the drive over the Cumberland River to the bakery took him about thirty minutes. When he arrived, he left Tracker in the backseat, the car still running and the air-conditioning blowing out cool air.
He crossed the parking lot and pushed through the front door of the bakery. Jangling bells above his head and the scents of cookies and cakes greeted him.
Two females stood behind the counter—one a teen and the other a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. The duo waited on several customers. Rick opted to stride toward the older one. She had dark hair, skimmed back into a tight ponytail, and wore a white shirt, faded jeans, and an apron that crisscrossed around her full waist and tied in the front.
As Rick reached for his badge, the woman’s gaze rose as if she’d been expecting him. She reached for a white towel, wiped her hands, and after speaking to the teen moved around the counter toward him.
He noticed a resemblance to Diane Smith. Though their coloring was different, their eyes shared the same watery blue and each had full lips that tilted at the corners.
He showed her his badge. “Ms. Lorrie Trent?”
She nodded. “Yes. You’re here about Diane?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in
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