nodded.
Within minutes, they reached the address they’d been given when they were dispatched from downtown. Two white police cars, trimmed in red and blue, a black Chevy Trailblazer, an ambulance and a small group of curious neighbors blocked their path. Chad parked behind one of the two police vehicles. The minute they emerged from the sedan, they made their way up the sidewalk to the two-story brick traditional shaded by large oak trees. Curious stares and a hum of murmurs followed them. Jim scanned the area, left and right, forward and backward. He noted a sleek, silver Porsche convertible parked in the driveway.
A young uniformed officer stood outside the front door, nervous sweat dampening his face on this cool spring night. Chad approached, identified himself and Jim, and then turned to the crowd.
“Folks, I’m going to have to ask that y’all leave the yard. Your presence here could very well compromise our crime scene.”
A loud grumble rose from several in the group, but to-a-person they moved hurriedly out into the street.
Jim noted the embarrassed look on the young policeman’s face. His name tag read Jarnigan. “The medical examiner already here?” Jim thought he recognized Udell White’s SUV parked behind the police cars.
“Yes, sir. He arrived just a few minutes ago,” Officer Jarnigan replied, then swallowed hard.
Chad zeroed in on Jarnigan, who Jim figured was fresh out of John D. Holt police academy. If he was a rookie that would explain his nervousness. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that he had graduated from the Academy. He’d been young and stupid enough to think he could conquer the world. He should have known better. After all, his dream of turning pro had been dashed when an injury his senior year at the University of Tennessee had ended his football career. After his body had been refurbished through a series of operations, he had been able to function normally, at least enough to meet the force’s physical requirements. After losing out on a pro career and making a ton of personal and professional mistakes, Jim didn’t have big plans anymore. He just took each day one at a time.
“What other officer responded to the call?” Chad asked.
“Del Treacy. He’s inside with the ME.” Jarnigan’s voice trembled.
Jim gave Chad a back-off glance, then stepped up on the porch where Jarnigan stood, guarding the open front door, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take it easy, son. We’re all on the same team here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This your first murder case?”
“Yes, sir.” Jarnigan sighed deeply.
Jim turned to Chad. “Why don’t you go out there and get the names of the curious and find out if they know anything about what happened. I’ll take over here.”
Chad bristled. Too bad. Jim still outranked him. He probably should have sent Jarnigan to interview the bystanders instead of ordering his partner to do the job. But it was liable to be a long night and a little bit of Chad went a long way. He figured he’d better separate himself from the cocky kid as much as possible so he didn’t lose his cool with the department’s darling boy.
“Yeah, sure.” Chad grunted, then headed down the sidewalk.
Jim pulled out a notepad and pen from his inside coat pocket, then asked Jarnigan, “What time did y’all arrive on the scene?”
“Ten forty-seven.”
Jim made a note of the time, then jotted down the address, the approximate temperature and weather conditions. Sixty-three degrees. Cool, clear, stars in the sky. “Tell me what y’all found when you arrived.”
“Uh…er…the guy who’d called 911 met us at the door.” Jarnigan glanced over his shoulder. “Del’s got him inside. In the living room.”
“Go on.”
“He said he found the victim when he arrived. They…er…they had a late date. He said she was already dead when he got here.”
Jim nodded as he glanced around, taking note of the specifics of the old brick house. One door—a double door at the front. Four long, narrow windows. All four shut tight.
“I’m going inside,” Jim said. “You stay out here and help Sergeant George. And don’t let him intimidate you.”
“No sir. I mean, yes sir, I won’t.”
Jim entered the large marble-floored foyer and eyed the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor. A crystal chandelier glistened brightly overhead. A set of double pocket doors to the left were closed, but the matching set to the right were open, revealing the twenty-by-twenty living room. Hardwood floors. Fireplace. No fire. Intricately carved wooden mantel. Traditional decorating, probably created by an outrageously expensive interior designer.
A stocky, black-uniformed officer stood talking to a man wearing an expensive dark suit, a white shirt and a red tie. When Jim approached the entrance to the living room, both men glanced at him.
“Officer Treacy, I’m Lieutenant Norton. Homicide.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s this you’ve got with you?”
The tall, broad-shouldered man turned all the way around and faced Jim. Wavy black hair and dark eyes, bronze skin and handsome Hispanic features. Good-looking devil, Jim thought. Not a pretty boy like Chad. Just damn impressive.
“I’m Quinn Cortez.” The man’s black eyes narrowed as his gaze met Jim’s. “I’m the one who found Ms. Vanderley’s body.”
The muscles in Quinn’s belly tightened as he studied the homicide detective. The guy looked vaguely familiar. Rugged features. Short brown hair. Somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Quinn never forgot a face. He’d said his name was Norton. His identity didn’t come to Quinn immediately, but it would. Lieutenant Norton was a couple inches taller than Quinn, well-muscled and lean, with a world-weary look in his pensive blue eyes that hinted of pain, both physical and emotional.
“The Quinn Cortez?” Norton asked, his hard face emotionless.
Quinn grunted. “Yeah, I’m the Quinn Cortez.”
“You just won that McBryar case over in Nashville,” Norton said. “What brought you to Memphis tonight?”
“Lulu—Ms. Vanderley called earlier and invited me. Our get-together was supposed to be a celebration.”
“Want to take me, step-by-step, through what happened from the minute you drove up in the driveway until the officers showed up?”
“Sure.” Quinn knew the routine. Being a criminal lawyer, he had cultivated friendships with as well as made enemies of numerous lawmen in a number of states, where pro hac vice rules allowed him to practice outside his home state of Texas.
“That your Porsche parked in the drive?” Norton asked.
Quinn nodded. Was Norton one of those men who would automatically dislike Quinn because he was rich and famous? He’d run into his share of green-with-envy yo-yos who
