She drove to the Mission and parked. It did not take long to find some of the regular girls roaming the streets looking for a john. She crossed the street to where two women stood. They were older, late twenties, and both wore very short skirts and halter tops that barely contained their breasts. Both wore wigs and high heels that made her own feet hurt just looking at them.
“Morning, ladies,” she said. “I’m Melina.”
The taller of the two women eyed her carefully. “You’re that cop.”
“That’s right. I’m friends with Sarah.”
“Just about got your ass dragged in a van, I hear,” the woman said.
“Correct. Speaking of the van, anyone seen any odd men lurking around?”
Both laughed. The shorter of the two lit a cigarette. “They’re all weird, honey.”
“Point taken,” Melina said. “Anyone hear from Delia or Joy? They turn up?”
The women looked at each other and then shook their heads. “We haven’t seen them,” the tall woman said.
Melina handed each her card. “If they turn up, call me, okay?”
“Should we be looking for the van?” the short woman asked.
“No. The cops have impounded it. But the driver is still on the loose. So be careful, okay?”
Melina spoke to several other women, but the story was consistent. No one had seen Delia, Joy, or the Key Killer.
“Where the hell are you?” she muttered. She started her car and drove toward the hospital, grabbing a couple of Happy Meals on the way. Her phone rang as she pulled into the parking lot.
“Agent Shepard.”
“This is Agent Ramsey. Nashville police arrested Bonnie Guthrie in an eastside motel. The credit card she was using was reported stolen last week.”
Her heart kicked into high gear. “Have you interviewed her yet?” Melina asked.
“No. Thought we could both share that pleasure.”
“She’s at the Metro-Davidson detention center?”
“That’s right.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She quickly pulled onto the road toward the detention center. It was a quarter after twelve, which put her ahead of any afternoon commuter tangle of cars filling the roads. She merged onto Interstate 24 and headed south. She ate both meals as she drove and saved the toys for Elena.
Melina pulled into the fenced parking lot of the brick facility and parked. She grabbed her bag and was out of the car, looping her identification around her neck. She found Ramsey standing in the lobby, phone in hand and reading.
“Agent Melina Shepard,” she said to the guard on duty.
The sound of her voice had Ramsey raising his gaze as the guard waved her through.
Without a word, the two passed through another set of doors, checked their weapons in lockers, and then made their way to an interview room.
“You said she was picked up in a motel?” Melina asked.
“A dive next to a bar called Max’s. The clerk said she stumbled in about midnight and wanted a room. He asked for a credit card and she produced an American Express Gold Card.”
“How did she pay for the drinks at the bar?”
“Officers spoke to the bartender at Max’s. Her card worked there.”
“Was it the Gold Card?”
“No.”
“She was too buzzed when she showed up at the motel to use the card that worked,” Melina said.
“When Bonnie’s card was declined, she handed the clerk another. It was declined. When the third came back stolen, she got an attitude. That’s when he called the cops.”
“So, three’s the charm with this clerk,” she said.
He smiled. “She put up quite a fuss. Took two officers to get her cuffed. When they searched her purse, they found a stack of credit cards an inch thick and bound together. Nashville PD is checking the cards right now to see when they were stolen.”
“With her record, she’s looking at more prison time.”
He opened a door. “That’s the least of her worries. If she can’t prove she has legal custody of Elena, she’s facing transporting a minor over state lines, which is a felony.”
“She’s been around the block enough to know what that means.” Bonnie would not see daylight for two decades if both those convictions held. “That kind of time might get her to open up about the pickle jar and Elena’s family.”
“That’s the plan,” Ramsey said.
“Do you want to take point in the interview?”
“You’re being polite. You want it,” he said.
“FBI trumps TBI, and my boss told me to play nice. But yes, I want first crack at Bonnie Guthrie.”
“She’s all yours then.”
They were met by a deputy who escorted them to an interview room furnished with two chairs in front of a glass partition. They each took a seat. When Melina heard the rattle of cuffs and keys on the other side of the door, she sat straighter, feeling an odd sense of nerves.
The door opened to a guard escorting a female inmate dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Her hands were cuffed in front of her while her head was high, with no signs of contrition in her direct gaze. Blond shoulder-length hair draped over narrow shoulders, the edges reaching the top of full breasts.
Bonnie approached the chair and looked first at Ramsey. She did not appear impressed and slowly shifted her gaze to Melina. A flicker of interest darkened the woman’s green eyes, and a crooked smile tugged the edge of her lips. She sat down, leaned back in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap.
“You two don’t look like local cops. TBI?” she asked Melina.
Ramsey answered. “FBI special agent Jerrod Ramsey.”
“And you, doll? You FBI, too?”
A grating sense of familiarity scratched the underside of Melina’s skin. “Agent Melina Shepard. Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
Bonnie’s head cocked as she studied Melina’s face. “Melina. That’s an unusual name.”
“Really?” Melina asked. “I never gave any thought to it.” But of course, she had thought about her name a great deal. The night she met her father, he had asked her name. Melina. It was the one link she had to her past.
Bonnie’s smile widened as she settled back in the chair. “I used to know a kid named Melina. But that was a long time ago.”
Most would not consider Bonnie beautiful, but she was striking. Square jaw, sharp nose, and full lips that curled into a wide smile.
Tension coiled in Melina’s belly as she stared at Bonnie’s face. It was unsettlingly familiar. She suddenly had no patience for nice words or rapport building. “You were driving a 2007 gray Ford sedan.”
“Was I?” Bonnie asked.
“We pulled your prints from the underside of a child’s car seat,” Melina said.
“Did you?” Bonnie had played this game so many times she could keep this going for hours.
Melina was not known for her patience. “Can you tell me how you came by the pickle jar?”
“What pickle jar, honey?” Bonnie asked.
Melina sighed. “The pickle jar in the trunk of the car you wrecked on Cox Road on Monday afternoon. We found it and the little girl strapped in her car seat.”
Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The prints found on the underside of the car seat match those belonging to Bonnie Lynn Guthrie. The officers here identified you by your prints. You’re one and the same Bonnie Lynn Guthrie.”
Bonnie glanced at her long nails, painted a dark red. The ring finger and thumbnails were chipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think I’m entitled to a lawyer, if I’m not mistaken?”
“The county has contacted a lawyer,” Ramsey said. “He should be here soon.”
“Well, doll, I tell you what. Why don’t you come back and see me when I have my lawyer? Not smart to talk to the cops without one.” She wagged an index finger at them. “You folks can be so sneaky. Can take my words and twist them all around.”
“We’ve already identified the prints on two of the fingers of the murderer’s victims,” Melina said. “It’s a matter of time before we identify the others, but two will convict just fine.”
Some of the humor dimmed in Bonnie’s gaze. Absently, she clicked nail against nail and stared back.
“Your prints are also on the jar,” Melina lied.
Bonnie smiled as she rose. “I think it’s time we ended our little chat.”
“Where did you get the credit cards?” Melina asked.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The card you gave the bartender was stolen, but it’s not been reported yet. The name on the card is Jennifer Brown.”
“You can keep talking all you want,” Bonnie said, “but I don’t have anything to say.”
“You haven’t asked about Elena,” Melina said. “She’s been asking for you, BB.”
This time her smile looked more pained than amused. “I don’t know an Elena.”
“Elena is small for her age. And when you see her lying in her hospital bed holding that stuffed dog, it’s kind of heartbreaking,” Melina said.