Silent Reckoning. Debra Webb
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Barlow ordered me to. If his crestfallen expression were any indication, he didn’t look forward to telling his superior that he had been made.
The anticipation I’d felt seconds ago morphed into fury. I reached into his jacket and felt for a wallet. He didn’t resist. What I found was a badge, just as I suspected.
Officer Waylon Jamison. Murfreesboro.
What the hell?
“Since when does Nashville’s Chief of Homicide have any jurisdiction over Murfreesboro cops?” I shoved his badge at him and put my weapon away.
Now I was really mad. If Barlow was lucky I wouldn’t be able to find him until I’d cooled off. First he sticks me with a partner who doesn’t like female cops. Then he hires some out-of-town cop to watch me.
I just transferred to Nashville, he explained. Barlow gave me this assignment because I was new. He glanced nervously at the ground. This operation was supposed to be a secret. I hope this doesn’t affect my new assignment.
How could I not feel sorry for the guy?
I planted my hands on my hips. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” I was a sucker, I admit it.
But I… He looked unsure what to say.
I held up a hand for him to listen. “I won’t mention that I know you’re following me on one condition.”
He looked like a puppy anticipating a treat. Name it.
“I realize you have to follow orders,” I said up front. “Just make sure you stay out of my way and don’t tell Barlow anything without checking with me first.”
He looked uncertain for all of two seconds then he said, Deal.
That, I decided, was the best revenge. Turning the tables. As long as Barlow didn’t know I’d made Jamison, he wouldn’t be dragging someone else into the scenario. I had Jamison by the short hairs. He didn’t want to look bad to his new boss, making him, in reality, mine to rule.
And Barlow never had to know.
Chapter 4
When you grow up in a large Southern family there is one thing that follows you from the cradle to the grave. Family dinners.
The chosen night had changed from time to time over the years, to accommodate schedules, but the tradition remained the same. My mom did all the cooking, Sarah and I set the table, and the other three daughters-in-law did whatever Mom told them. Meanwhile, the men in the family, my four brothers and my dad, watched the news or a ball game.
I often wondered if this tradition was part of the reason Southern women had, for generations, cooked with lard, a seriously concentrated form of animal fat, and lots and lots of salt. Pump up the cholesterol and blood pressure levels and a woman didn’t have to worry about living with their thoughtless men that long.
Not that my mother did that. She was a health nut to the core. Walked three miles every day with my dad in tow. Walters men would live forever. Good thing they had strong willed women who tolerated the family-dinner crap but not much else.
Truth was I loved all the men in my family, even when they were swizzling beer and yelling at the television set as if the referee could hear them via sheer determination alone. Sports were like a religion around here.
Sarah reached to settle the final glass into place, then frowned. She bracketed her protruding belly with her hands and grimaced.
“You okay?”
She nodded. I think so. Just a Braxton-Hicks contraction. They come and go.
I managed a wan smile. “Maybe you should sit down for a while. I can finish here.”
Sarah waved me off, as I knew she would. Don’t be silly. I’m fine.
A few minutes later a platter of baked chicken and rice, steaming bowls of fat-free green beans and steamed carrots graced the empty space between the place settings for eleven at the table for twelve. Even my youngest brother, Max was married. I staunchly ignored that last empty chair.
Since Sarah was on the verge of giving birth, the pressure was off me for a while. My mom had something else to obsess about besides my ongoing single status. And, thank God, the blind-date dinners had ceased, at least temporarily. Oh, yes, Southern mothers weren’t above having some single guy or gal over for dinner in an attempt to prompt a marriage. Poor Max had endured his share of those during his final year as a bachelor.
Have you noticed there’s a kind of theme going on here with the Walters kids’ names? All M’s. Martin, Michael, Marshall, Max and Merri. My mother must have been going through some sort of odd Sesame Street phase during her late twenties. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d had five children in six years. I suppose it was a miracle we’d gotten names at all.
When the water goblets were filled and a bottle of wine positioned at each end of the table, we were good to go. The herd hustled into the dining room. It didn’t take much imagination to summon the memory of the sounds that accompanied the Walters clan settling in around the long table for dinner.
I missed those pleasant sounds. A pang of wistfulness broadsided me.
Okay, shake it off, Merri.
I get emotional like that sometimes. Can’t help myself. But it passes quickly. Besides, my mother’s famous for her baked chicken and rice. The herbs and spices smelled heavenly. The food would distract me as soon as I’d had a chance to dig in.
What’s going on with the Starlet Murders?
This from my brother Martin, the cop. He was a good cop but he’d never had any interest in homicide. That he used the nomenclature from the old investigation annoyed me unreasonably. Despite the speculation in the press, no one at Metro had mentioned the connection.
“Not much to know yet,” I admitted. And it was true. We didn’t have any real leads and not the first damned clue. “I’m hoping we’ll know more after the latest victim’s autopsy is complete.” I remembered the hairs the M.E. had found on the second victim that morning. A single hair would be better than nothing. “And, just so you know,” I said matter-of-factly, “there has been no official connection between this case and the murders four years ago.”
Martin smirked. Like we don’t see that one coming.
I refused to rise to the bait, and, thankfully, the family focused on eating for a while. Whenever the conversation ventured into what I was up to at work, trouble would follow. Trouble for me. Tossing out the term autopsy at the dinner table had, I hoped, averted that course.
I hear you went undercover as a street walker the other night, Marshall said eventually.
Here it came. Talk of the autopsy had gained me a little time but not much. The horrified look on my mother’s face had me flashing a look that said “Gee, thanks” at my brother.
“It was an operation to draw out a suspected cop-killer. A witness agreed to be bait and I was her protection for the event.”
My explanation didn’t help.
That’s very dangerous, little girl.
How did I explain to my father that I’m not a little girl anymore? It was a good thing he hadn’t seen me in the hooker get-up.
Since I knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue my ability to take care of myself I didn’t bother.
Have they caught the guy yet? Martin inquired, a direct challenge in his eyes. He wanted my folks to know exactly what I’d been up to. The killer you were trying to bait, I mean?
I wanted to slug him.
I should have forced myself to think before I spoke, but my irritation overrode my few more-sensible brain cells. “Actually, they may not catch him at all. I wounded him so he could be dead already. Who knows if they’ll ever find the body.”
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