turned in answer to the male voice. One of the detectives marched forward, his badge dangling from the breast pocket of his tan suit jacket.
“Would it be possible for me to get a glass of water?”
“Sure,” Tory answered as she slipped behind the bar and filled a glass with ice.
“J. D. Porter,” he said, extending his hand to the man.
“Greer,” the detective responded, wiping his hand on his slacks before engaging in the handshake. “You’re Rose’s...”
“Son,” J.D. answered without inflection.
The detective regarded him briefly before Tory appeared with the glass. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s hot as all get-out today.”
“Have they taken the body away?” Tory asked.
“What was left of him.”
“Then it was a man?” J.D. asked.
“We’re pretty sure, based on the size and shape of the pelvic bones.”
“Any idea who he was?”
“Not a clue,” Greer answered. “But the lab boys think he’s been here a while. Some medical mumbo jumbo about the condition and density of the bone.”
“How creepy,” Tory groaned. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been near that building in the five years I’ve been working here.”
“That long?” Greer asked, immediately putting down his glass and feeling for his pad and pen.
“Yes, sir,” J.D. heard her answer. “I worked for the previous owner—Mr. Brewster.”
“Didn’t your family use to own this place before Brewster?” J.D. queried.
Tory shot him a quick glance of annoyance, then turned her attention back to the detective. “My father owned this place until about fifteen years ago.”
“Do you know where I can find Brewster?” Greer asked.
“He died,” Tory answered.
“How about your father?”
“I’m afraid you won’t have any luck there, either.”
“He’s deceased?” Greer asked.
J.D. watched as she lowered her eyes.
“He left town.”
“Do you have an address?”
“I haven’t heard from him,” she answered in a small voice.
J.D. felt a small stab of compassion for the woman. He knew all too well what it was like to have a parent suddenly disappear from your life. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged away from his touch.
“My father left us when I was ten. We never heard from him.”
“Sorry,” Greer mumbled as he flipped the notebook closed. “I guess there’s—”
“Detective?”
An obviously excited man dressed in a wilted uniform rushed into the room. A plastic bag dangled from his dirt-smudged hand.
“What have you got?” Greer asked as he cupped his hand beneath the item in the evidence bag.
“We found this in the soil after they moved the remains.”
J.D. moved closer, as did Tory. The item caught and reflected the light. “A ring,” Greer mumbled.
“Has initials, too,” the officer chimed excitedly.
“R.C.,” Greer read.
J.D. watched the horror fill Tory’s wide eyes. Her mouth opened for a scream that never materialized. She simply went limp, falling right into his outstretched arms. His handsome features grew faint and fuzzy, until she could no longer hold on to his image.
Chapter Three
His eyes opened reluctantly, followed almost immediately by a telltale stab of pain in his lower back. Using his legs for leverage, J.D. hoisted his stiff frame to a sitting position. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he squinted against the harsh rays of morning light spilling over a faded set of clashing curtains. Holding his breath, he listened for sound. Nothing.
He found a clock on the kitchen wall. Well, he decided, as he began a burglar-quiet search of the cabinets, it wasn’t really much of a kitchen. Hell, he added, feeling the frown on his lips, it wasn’t really much of an apartment.
Leaning against the counter, he surveyed the single room, feeling his stomach lurch in protest to the stark surroundings. Tory Conway appeared to be living one step above poverty. For some unknown reason, that rankled.
The single-serving coffeepot gurgled behind him. In the center of the room there was a card table with two mismatched chairs, their seats little more than shredded strips of faded vinyl. The computer sitting on top of the table was antiquated, probably five years removed from the sleek electronic notebook he had so casually brought along from Miami. The first stirrings of guilt did little to improve his mood.
He found a coffee cup on the drain board and actually smiled when he realized it was from the Rose Tattoo. A quick check of the drawers indicated that the utensils and most of the other items were also from his mother’s restaurant.
Mother. His grimace returned with a vengeance. What in hell had he gotten himself into? he wondered as he poured the coffee and took a sip. The liquid scalded his mouth. Why had he listened to Wesley? This little exercise in closure had turned into an unmitigated disaster. He wasn’t a preservationist. He was an architect. And a damned good one. No matter what the sassy little blonde sleeping in the other room thought.
Stifling the groan that rose in his throat, J.D. returned to the lumpy sofa, which had served as his bed, and grabbed the telephone. Pounding the keypad, he cradled the receiver against his chin as he took another sip of the too strong coffee.
“Hello?”
“Wes, it’s me.”
“Big brother?” came the groggy reply. “Do you realize what time it is?”
He hadn’t realized, but he didn’t feel the inclination to apologize. “Early.”
“No sh—”
“I’ve got a problem.”
He could hear the rustle of bed covers, and he could easily envision his brother groping on the nightstand for his round, metal-framed glasses. Wesley was one of those people who couldn’t hear without his glasses.
“You and mother aren’t relating well?”
That I-just-got-my-degree-in-psychiatry, inflection-free voice
