“No looking back.”
He switched on the radio and pulled out onto the highway, following it toward the interstate. He could have gone anywhere in the country. He had never hunted in the Southwest, and he imagined they grew more wholesome girls out there. He would not mind finding himself a big-busted beauty with full, round hips. A man needed something to hold on to.
As he was considering driving north versus south, he felt a pull west back to Nashville. His thoughts turned back to the brown-eyed girl who had taken one of his punches and come out swinging. Ms. Perky Breasts. She was unfinished business. He would start his search with the Mission.
Feeling excited, he cranked up the radio and turned northwest on I-75.
“Hang on, darling. Daddy’s gonna fix up his van just for you. And once I find you, we’re going to have the best party you ever did attend.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thursday, August 27, 10:00 a.m.
Melina made her way back across the Cumberland River into Nashville and down to Lower Broadway. Warm summer days brought tourists out in droves, and today was no exception. The streets would be filled within the hour with people dressed in shorts and newly purchased Nashville T-shirts, eating ice cream and carrying bags filled with their latest souvenirs.
She drove down the center of Lower Broadway until it fed into First Street, which skimmed along the Cumberland River.
Melina found parking across the street and jogged quickly to the Nashville Tours address. As she drew closer, she saw the red, white, and blue trailer. OPEN flags flapped by the front sales window occupied by a guy who looked too old to be summer help. Gray hair swept back in a ponytail with a matching handlebar mustache made him look like a walrus.
She waited as a couple of women dressed as tourists paid for the ten o’clock tour. When they were done, she held up her badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jennifer Brown.”
“I have a few questions myself,” the man said. “She didn’t show up for her scheduled tours and I haven’t seen her since.”
“What was the last day you saw her?”
He shoved out a sigh as he stared at a paper calendar in the booth. “Sunday, August sixteenth. She worked double shifts that day. She was supposed to work a big tour the following Monday afternoon but didn’t show. So if you see her, tell her she’s fired.”
“Your name, sir?” she asked.
“Sean Terrell.” He dropped his gaze and shuffled through the morning receipts. “I own Nashville Tours.”
“Sean, Jennifer was murdered.”
Sean’s sour face softened as he lowered the slips of paper. “Dead? Shit. I thought she just blew the job off.”
“We believe she died sometime around August seventeenth or eighteenth. And you’re sure you saw her on the sixteenth?”
“Yeah. She picked up her paycheck.” He rubbed his hand over his mustache in what she guessed was a common expression of frustration. “She could be a flake but was nice to everyone. Who would want to kill her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How many tours did Jennifer take the week leading up to the sixteenth?”
“Close to twenty. She was my busiest tour guide. She’s real popular with the guests. They liked it when she sang. She had dreams of making it big like half the other folks in this town.”
“I understand she liked to travel with bands.”
“She used to do it a lot, but in the last year not as much. Money and tips are too good giving tours and she’s getting a little old.”
“She was thirty-nine.”
He held up his hand. “I’m not saying she’s old, but on the concert circuit a lot of those girls are barely eighteen. Hard to compete. And don’t get your back up with me. Just relaying what she told me.”
“I get it. Did anyone on the tours take a particular interest in her?”
“I don’t follow our buses.”
“If a woman is going to tell you she’s washed up at thirty-nine, she’s going to say something about a customer hitting on her.”
“We have a strict no-touching policy. All our guides are instructed to call the cops if a guest gets handsy.”
“I get it. But I’m thinking this guy’s attention would have been welcomed. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his late thirties and a big guy. Strong. Maybe even charming.” One of the tour buses pulled up.
“Let me get this group unloaded and the next tour going.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Sean jogged over to the bus and exchanged glances with the tour guide as she readied to board the bus. The woman was tall, lean, and appeared to be in her midforties. She was dressed in country-western garb and reminded Melina of vintage Opryland.
Melina held up her badge. “Got a second? Ms. . . . ?”
“Jefferson. Dolly Jefferson. This must be about Jennifer.” She reached in her back pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit the tip and inhaled.
“Why do you say that?”
“I know Jennifer. What’s she done now?”
“She’s dead. Murdered.”
The woman drew in a breath but didn’t seem too torn up about the news. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You good friends with Jennifer?”
“We worked together. Got along well enough. Look, I don’t want to be a witch, but I have exactly ten minutes to have a smoke before I go out again.”
Melina felt no sense of urgency. Her questions would take as long as she wanted. “Do you know who she was dating?”
“There was a guy, Billy, who worked as a bartender, but they broke up about three months ago.”
“Where did he work?”
She hesitated, as if searching for the name. “Red’s, I think. I remember because he treated me to a round of drinks. Jennifer hung out there a lot.”
“Her sister said she was sober five years.”
“She didn’t do drugs, but she still drank. In her mind that was sober.”
Melina scribbled more notes. “Anyone recently?”
“She met a guy at Red’s a couple of weeks ago. Jennifer liked him and said he had asked her out. He knew music and some of the bands. They had a lot in common.”
“Did they hook up?”
“Yeah. She was like a schoolgirl after their first date. He said he was in the music business and could introduce her to people.”
“Did she believe him?”
Another puff of smoke crossed her lips as she shrugged. “If I had a nickel for all the faux music producers I’ve met, I’d be rich. I don’t think she really believed him, but they were having a good time.”
“Your boss said she worked her last shift on Sunday, August sixteenth. Did she have a date with her guy that night?”
“Yeah, I think she did.”
“And do you recall his name?” Melina asked.
“I’m not sure. It was a young-sounding name. The kind a little boy uses.”
“Sonny?”
Her gaze brightened. “Yeah, that’s exactly right.”
“Thanks.”
Sean trotted toward them, and the woman dropped her cigarette and ground it onto the pavement. “I’ve got to go.”
Melina stood still as the woman grabbed a water bottle and then jogged back toward the open-air bus.
“Well, good morning, Nashville!” she shouted. The bus engine roared as it pulled away onto First Street.
“I’m going to need to see your receipts, Sean,” Melina said.
“Sure. Whatever I can do. How far back?”
She would bet money this Sonny guy had not just appeared. He either frequented Red’s or had taken several tours and gotten to know the guides until he’d found the one he wanted. “Take it back a month.”
“That’s a long time. It’s going to mean at least a thousand tickets.”
“Thanks.” She handed him her card. “The sooner the better.”
Sonny knew from his surveillance operations that in the late afternoons the residents of Melina’s Nashville town house complex had not arrived home just yet. They were packing up at their downtown offices and getting ready to call it a day. For the next hour or so, the parking lot would be fairly free of traffic.
He was dressed in a maintenance uniform that mimicked the crew who serviced the building. His shirt and pants were not an exact match but close enough to convince anyone he belonged there.
He touched his ball cap and crossed the lot. As he approached her door, a cat meowed from the bushes. He did not like cats. They creeped him out, the way they were always lurking around.
He knocked on the door, and when he heard no answer, reached for the pick set and worked the instruments into the lock for several seconds before the lock and dead bolt clicked open. He quickly pocketed the set and, grabbing his toolbox, hurried inside.
“Maintenance,” he shouted.
No answer came, but he still moved cautiously, peeking into the living room and beyond it to the galley kitchen. He moved up the stairs to the second floor. There were two bedrooms on this floor. One housed two road bikes and some camping gear and served as a makeshift storage room. Steps away was the second room.
He set his toolbox down and crossed to Melina’s unmade bed. He raised her crumpled pillow to his nose and inhaled the faint scent of jasmine shampoo. It was a nice soft scent that he never would have put with a woman like her.