than one. Had herself an affair with Chase Taylor. Apparently it was no secret, although his wife claimed she had no idea the two had been involved. Adultery is a pretty good motive for murder.
“Since the sexual assault continued after the murder, that pretty much discounts Taylor’s wife,” I argued. “And Taylor had an airtight alibi.” He’d been on stage at the Grand Ole Opry at the time. A few thousand people had been watching. The affair between him and Harrison had happened ages ago and wasn’t relevant, in my opinion.
Patterson swallowed a mouthful of ham on rye, then said, He could have paid someone to do it. Someone who took things a little farther than he’d been paid for.
“That’s a possibility. That avenue has been under investigation.” I shrugged. “But the dynamics of that murder have changed now. Unless, of course, we can find a similar connection between Mr. Chase Taylor and our latest victim.” Not to mention we had to keep in the back of our minds that we had a four-year-old unsolved serial investigation that mirrored almost exactly our two current cases.
Unless his hired killer decided to have some more fun on the side for no extra charge.
It wasn’t that his suggestion was completely impossible, it was simply highly unlikely.
“It’s our job to find out what happened,” I said, as much of an agreement as he was going to get out of me on that one. We would definitely check out every avenue. Leave no rock unturned, as the old saying goes. “It’s possible that our killer remembers the Starlet cases and hoped to disguise his killings that way, shift our focus. That’s why we can’t assume anything at this point.”
Something about the way he looked at me then riled my temper but I kept my mouth shut. No point making something of it. He was likely curious about the deaf woman. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten one of those looks. I knew exactly what it meant.
Weren’t you once engaged to Heath Woods?
Boy, I hadn’t seen that one coming, even this close. I blinked, startled. My personal life, past or present, was none of his business. That he had the brass balls to ask surprised me.
I mean, he clarified, obviously sensing my discomfort, he’s in the business. Would he be a source of inside information we could tap?
Did he really think I hadn’t thought of that? Please.
If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him, Patterson suggested, I’ll be glad to do it.
No way. If anyone talked to Heath it would be me.
“He’s away on some secret vacation,” I said pointedly. “None of his people can get in touch with him. Believe me, I’ve made life difficult enough for them. He can’t be reached. I’ll be the first person they call when he’s found.”
Patterson shrugged. Oh.
I studied my new partner a moment, decided that at least he was beginning to share his thoughts. I suddenly wondered if there was a woman in his life. He was certainly cute enough. Thick brown hair cut short for easy care, and because it looked damned good that way. Matching brown eyes. I realized then that I actually knew very little about him.
“What’s the story with you?” I found myself asking. I hadn’t actually meant to, but the question was on the table. There was no taking it back.
This time he was the one taken aback by the direction of the conversation. What do you mean?
Like he didn’t know.
“You have a girlfriend? Engaged?” I shrugged. “Any family in the area?” Might as well get the whole story while I was at it.
I don’t have a significant other, and I don’t like mixing my personal life with the job.
His closed expression along with the stern line of his jaw told me he’d made the statement quite sharply.
Before I got all ticked off again, I reminded myself that my prying into his business would likely keep him wary of digging into mine. He would be scared to death I’d ask him something else. So, my snoopy question had, in a roundabout way, served my purposes, as well. And, jeez, he was the one who’d started it.
“We should get back to the office and start that digging expedition.” I gathered my leftovers and stood. “I’ll see you there.”
After making a drop at the trash receptacle I headed for the door. As I settled into my Jetta, Patterson made his exit. He didn’t look my way, just walked straight over to his big red SUV and climbed in.
Although I couldn’t lay my finger on the problem, something about Patterson didn’t sit as it should with me. He didn’t mind saying right up front that he had a problem with a female partner, nor did he hesitate to ask me about my ex-fiancé. But when I asked a straightforward question about his marital status, he balked. Hmmm. Interesting. What was my new partner hiding? A messy divorce? A tawdry affair? A work-related situation? That could explain his reasons for not wanting to work with a woman.
It looked as if I might have a little extra digging to do. After all, one couldn’t go into a relationship of any kind without all the facts.
The victim, Mallory Wells, had changed a number of things about herself, besides her cup size, after coming to Nashville. Her real name was Margaret Anita Wellersby. In addition to changing her name, she’d had her nose done and breast augmentation at the suggestion of a music video producer with whom she’d had a brief relationship. It was still unclear what she’d done in the way of repayment for the costly surgical procedures, since her financial resources had been somewhat limited.
My best guess was that the producer and the cosmetic surgeon had a racket going on. The surgeon worked cheaper than usual, but had lots of extra business thrown his way by the producer. The producer got his kickback in the way of sexual favors from the prospective patients. Or maybe both men enjoyed the perks of their alliance.
Sick, huh?
The producer, Rex Lane, and the surgeon, Xavier Santos, were now at the top of my super-short suspect list. Especially since Reba Harrison had been an extra in a music video by Rex Lane’s company, Lucky Lane Productions. That particular aspect of Miss Harrison’s past hadn’t been significant until now.
I can track down the surgeon, Patterson offered. I know the places his type likes to hang out.
Another curiosity-arousing statement. Patterson didn’t look like the country-club type. “I’ll take the producer.” No problem. They both had to be questioned.
Patterson gave me a nod and left my cubicle.
While we’re on the subject of cubicles, I should mention that the term is probably not the right one to use. I don’t have any walls around my desk. Mostly I have my space. About a yard of beige carpet all the way around my beige metal desk. There’s a chair, also metal but embellished with a little fake leather, sitting in front of it for interviewing folks or conferencing with one’s partner.
I was somewhat protective of my space. The day the desk had been pointed out to me I’d taken steps to make it mine. Framed family photos and a mug turned pencil holder were my only personal items on top of the desk. The mug had been given to me by the kids in my last class as a teacher. In an effort to clearly delineate the boundaries of my space, I’d brought in a six-by-eight
