“Did she seem familiar?”

“Yes. But this isn’t the first time I’ve looked at a woman and wondered if we were related or if she were the one who abandoned me. It’s common for adopted kids to wonder about their birth parents.”

“I don’t think she’s your birth mother,” he said.

He sensed her interest had sharpened to a fine point. “A DNA test would answer that question. I’m game to provide a cheek swab.”

“Have you ever had your DNA tested?”

“Yeah. About a year ago, I sent it off to one of those sites that promised to tell you about your ancestry.”

“Did you ever follow up and look for family matches?”

“No. I can tell you that I’m sixty-seven percent European, and the remaining thirty-three percent is Native Mexican.”

“I would think you would want to know. Investigating people is what you do.”

“Easier to peel back the layers of a suspect’s life than my own. I decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Does meeting Bonnie make you curious? A lot of cases are getting solved via DNA these days.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” she said.

“And?”

Shepard laughed, but it sounded joyless and hollow. “Honestly? Meeting Bonnie makes me want to bury my test results. I’m not sure if I want a personal connection to her or her little pal Sonny.” She shoved out a sigh. “But you’re right. I need to think like a cop.”

“If it helps, Bonnie isn’t in town for you. She’s here for Sonny because he has something she wants. Safe bet it’s money.”

“I hope it is just about money for her. I don’t want to be connected to Bonnie or Sonny.”

His phone rang. Irritated by the interruption, he glanced at the number and recognized it as his contact with the Nashville Police Department. “I better take this.”

She looked relieved. “Certainly.”

“Jeff, what do you have for me?” Detective Jeff Granger was with Nashville Homicide and had worked with Ramsey a couple of years ago on a case.

Ramsey watched as Shepard pulled her phone from her back pocket and dropped her gaze to it.

“We did a search on the credit cards that were found with Bonnie Guthrie. We contacted one of the victims and found something you’re going to want to see.”

“That was fast,” he said.

“There was one card that was not reported missing. We started with that one.”

“And?”

“Like I said, you better come and have a look for yourself. I’m texting you an address.”

“I’ll leave now.” When he hung up, he noted the slight shift in Shepard’s posture. She’d been listening. She was inquisitive by nature. That made her avoidance of her own past even more curious. “Nashville police have located the owner of one of the stolen credit cards. They want us to come and have a look.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“Care to join me?”

“You couldn’t keep me away.”

Shepard stayed close on his bumper as the two made their way north up I-24 toward the west side of Nashville. GPS guided him off the interstate and then down a collection of roads until he found himself in a small neighborhood filled with clapboard houses that looked as if they had been built in the twenties and thirties.

When Ramsey rounded the final neighborhood corner, he spotted a half dozen cop cars parked in front of a small one-level blue house. Yellow crime scene tape marked off the front and side yards.

Cops did not trick out a crime scene like this for a stolen credit card.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wednesday, August 26, 3:00 p.m.

So far, there was no sign of a forensic van, but it was just a matter of time before half the Nashville police force was on scene. Ramsey parked a half block beyond the house and then strode back to meet Shepard at the edge of the tape.

“Things are heating up.” She removed her sunglasses and swapped them for a set of latex gloves in her jacket pocket. She handed him a pair and threaded her fingers through her own set.

They introduced themselves to the uniformed officer, who directed them inside, where Detective Jeff Granger was waiting.

“You worked with Granger before?” she asked.

“On a task force,” Ramsey said. “He’s solid. Professional.”

“I agree.”

Ramsey’s and Shepard’s paths had come close to crossing several times in recent years, and he was sorry they had not met sooner.

They ducked under the tape and, at the edge of the front porch, slipped on paper booties. As soon as they reached the front door, he stopped.

“Jesus,” Shepard muttered.

No one ever got used to the smell of decaying flesh. Some cops developed tricks to beat the stench, but he found rubbing Vicks on his upper lip just coated the rot with a menthol flavor. Eventually, the odor receptors in the nose stopped sending messages to the brain.

He stepped over the threshold and paused in the living room. The thermostat was set to sixty degrees, and the house felt like a meat locker.

“Killer turned down the AC so no one would smell the body,” Shepard said. “The heat’s been brutal the last few days.” She searched the premises. “Jeff!”

“In the back bathroom,” Jeff called back. “I’m down the hall. Last door on your right.”

Ramsey noted the framed wall posters of various country-western and rock bands. Given that Nashville was the hub for country music, the town had more than its share of touring bands pass through.

Detective Granger stuck his head out of the bathroom door. In his late fifties, he had gray hair and a full mustache that made him look a little like the actor Sam Elliott. “She’s in here. We believe her name is Jennifer Brown.”

Ramsey moved past Detective Granger and looked into the bathroom. The woman was lying in a tub filled with water. Her blond hair was tied up in a neat topknot with tendrils flowing down over her shoulders. Large breasts bobbed on the water.

She stared sightlessly up toward the tin-panel ceiling, her mouth agape. Purple bruises shaped like fingers ringed her pale neck. Her eyes bulged and her lips were bloated.

Most of the crime scenes Ramsey had seen in the last five years had been via photographs. He had always considered himself an active participant but now realized he had become far more removed.

As repulsed as he was by this aftermath of violence, a surge of energy shot through his body. It had been too long since he had felt the rush of adrenaline that came with an active crime scene. He missed it.

Shepard stood behind him and asked, “Ramsey, when’s the last time you worked a scene like this?”

“It’s not been that long, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

“It’s been a while for me, too. I find people. And if they turn up dead, I turn the case over to homicide investigators,” she said.

His gaze dropped to the victim’s left hand. The ring finger had been clipped away with a sharp instrument. He guessed shears. “This finger didn’t make it into our jar.”

Ramsey motioned her forward. “The medical examiner will confirm time of death, but I estimate she has been dead at least a few days.”

“Jeff,” she said. “Do we know anything about Jennifer Brown?”

“We’ve only just begun to piece together her story. DMV tells me she’s thirty-nine, five foot eight, one hundred and thirty pounds, green eyes, blond.”

“Another blonde,” Shepard said. “We know the first two victims were blondes. Coincidence is turning into a pattern.”

“Ages are all about the same,” Ramsey added. “So are the heights and weights. Our guy has a definite type.”

“Don’t they look a little like Bonnie?” she asked.

“The forensic team is pulling up,” Jeff said.

“I’m not sure Bonnie was even in town when this woman died,” Shepard said.

“Maybe she was in contact with the killer, and her text or call set him off,” Ramsey said. “Sonny is not going to want to be found.”

“Believe me, there are plenty of missing persons praying not to be found. It’s certainly harder to locate them, but they usually leave a trail.”

The sound of voices and technicians carrying equipment into the house signaled the arrival of the forensic team. Ramsey and Shepard both headed outside.

The air was hot and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Shepard closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun, and he noted the long, graceful line of her neck. She was a beautiful woman.

She straightened and opened her eyes, scanning the street. “I can start knocking on the doors of the neighbors and see if anyone has seen anything.” Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the display. She let the call go to voicemail. “A call from the correctional facility.”

“Who?”

She played back the recording and held it out so he could hear. The message was from the sheriff, informing Shepard that Bonnie Guthrie wanted to see her again. “Interesting.”

“Wonder what game she’s playing?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” She closed her phone and tucked it in her back pocket. “She’s messing with me again. She’s a grifter. They manipulate people.”

“Why you?”