In the next instant, he vanished through the window, leaving her alone and dying. Stunned by pain, she lay still, feeling the warm blood pool around her body.
A scream caught in her throat as her hands went to her belly, now crimson and wet. The front door finally yielded. The silhouette of the cop appeared in the door frame. “Leah Carson?”
The cop’s gaze froze momentarily on the mass of blood pooling around Leah and then swept the room for threats. When he determined the room was clear, he holstered his gun and pushed a button attached to the mic on his vest. “I need an ambulance . . .”
His deep voice drifted away as her insides burned and she fought to stay awake. She lay as still as possible, fearing Philip had severed an artery.
Her mind drifted to a sandy beach where the breeze was gentle, the sky a bright blue, and the sun warm.
“Ms. Carson, can you hear me?” Desperation edged the words. “Open your eyes.”
She looked up, the blurred face of an officer with dark graying hair. Kind, worried eyes.
“Stay with me. Help is coming. Can you tell me who did this?”
Air hissed from a slice in her chest as she struggled for a breath. “My husband. Philip Latimer.”
The room chilled quickly and she could hear only faint noises. A shiver passed through her body, and she imagined her spirit leaving, drifting above, looking down at a pale, lifeless body.
Her eyes closing, her mind traveled to the warm beach, where the sky winked crystal clear and the waves lapped against fine sand. A seagull squawked. A gentle breeze. So far away from the pain, Philip, and death.
Chapter One
Four Years Later
Saturday, January 14, 7 P.M.
Nashville, Tennessee
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation Agent Alex Morgan arrived at an abandoned warehouse located on the frigid banks of the Cumberland River. Weeds and yellow crime scene tape circled the warehouse, which was scarred with black scorch marks from a recent fire. Each window was smashed.
On cold nights, the homeless broke into abandoned structures like this one, and set paper and sticks on fire for warmth. He guessed flames had jumped, spread too quickly, and licked up the wooden rafters.
An unseen door banged open and closed in the bitter wind that cut across the mile-wide river, flapping the tape and chilling him to the bone. He turned up his charcoal-gray overcoat collar and burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets fingering a pocketknife he always carried. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d been on his way to Rudy’s, a honky-tonk on Broadway. Not a normal haunt for him, but tonight was a rare night off. And surprisingly, a date. Both rarities.
Blue lights from three cop cars flashed as three officers huddled near the ring of yellow tape.
Frozen dirt crunched and crackled under his neatly polished wingtips. Brittle grass brushed the sides of his freshly dry-cleaned suit pants as his long legs ate up the ground separating him and the abandoned metal building.
This part of the river, in East Nashville, didn’t enjoy the vibrant beat of the city’s West End, where the famed Broadway strip sported the neon lights of honky-tonks and restaurants. Even on a night as cold as this, Broadway had its charm, and though the streets weren’t as packed as they would be on a summer night, the honky-tonks remained filled with laughter and the music of aspiring artists.
On the East Side of the river, no lights or live music beckoned. The architecture was neither charming nor historic. Instead, not-so-sexy garages, scrap metal companies, and storage facilities housed in boxy one-story metal and industrial brick buildings lined the streets.
A uniformed officer stood at the edge of the crime scene tape. The officer’s thin frame, thick blond hair, and ruddy cheeks gave away his youth. He rubbed two gloved hands together and stomped his feet to stay warm.
Alex pulled his badge from his breast pocket. “Alex Morgan, TBI.”
The officer frowned. He knew Alex. All the cops knew Alex. The traitor. The turncoat. The agent, who for the last three years, investigated cops. “Yes, sir. Your brother is waiting.”
Mindful that the other officers were also staring at him, Alex moved toward the yellow tape. The uniformed officer didn’t bother to raise the tape for Alex. Uncaring and accustomed to this kind of chill, Alex ducked under the tape and crossed the cracked and potted asphalt. If he really cared about their opinion, which he didn’t, he’d have asked them to explain their resentment. Like them, he had joined the force to catch bad guys. The only difference was that he tracked bad guys who hid behind a uniform. If he cared . . .
By the building’s entrance stood a tall, broad-shouldered man powerfully built, and wearing a perpetual frown. He wore a knit cap and a thick, black, well-worn overcoat that covered dark pants and heavy muddied boots. He was Alex’s older brother, Deke Morgan, and he headed up the Nashville Police Department’s Homicide Squad.
“Deke,” he said.
His brother turned, the scowl on his face easing a fraction. “Thanks for coming.”
“This is a first. A murder scene?” As an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, it had been a couple of years since he’d shifted away from murder investigations to internal affairs. “What do you have?”
Deke handed Alex a set of black rubber gloves. “A burned torso. No hands, no feet. No head.” Each word puffed out in cold clouds as he spoke.
Alex’s tall, rawboned frame topped six three. Deke had been gifted with strength and bulk, whereas Alex enjoyed speed and agility. Despite physical differences, each matched the other in raw determination.
Alex yanked on the gloves. “There’s a homeless problem down here. And normally, the death of a vagrant doesn’t rate this kind of attention.”
They’d both been in police work long enough to understand that politics followed, even in death.
“Not so sure this guy is homeless.”
Deke clicked on a heavy-duty flashlight, and the two moved into the building. The scent of gasoline and charred flesh hung heavy in the room. In the far right corner, portable lights glared over the blackened remains of something that didn’t resemble anything human. Fire could do that. Melt away all traces of humanity.
One forensic technician dressed in a jumpsuit and a jacket shot pictures of the body while another sketched the scene.
Alex stared closely at the body. In an intense fire, flames ate away the hands and feet first. “Extremities burned by fire?”
“Dismembered. Bone cuts are clean and precise.”
Interesting. “Cause of death?”
“Gunshot wound to the chest. No large bloodstains, which makes me think murder and dismemberment happened at another location.”
“Male or female?” Alex asked, his interest growing.
“Appears to be male,” he said. “Someone tossed gasoline or diesel on him and then set him on fire. The flames burned quickly and hot, ate up his skin before it fizzled out.”
“Clothes?”
“Body was stripped.”
“Any sign of the extremities or head?”
“No. I’ve got an officer coming with a dog in the morning to search the area.”
“Who found the body?”
“A couple of homeless guys called. They didn’t give names but said where the body could be found. Officer O’Connor responded and reported it.”
“No identification on or near the body?”
“No.”
“Time of death estimates?”
“Don’t know yet. Cold is making that a tough call. Could be a couple of days if not more.”
“I’m surprised the fire wasn’t reported.”
“We had that snowstorm last week. Could have been missed, and judging by the looks, the building contained the fire. I expect the medical examiner will be able to tell us quite a bit more.”