When she had coaxed him back here, she had stripped and slid her hands down his pants and taken that man to places he had only dreamed about. If Bonnie could do anything well, it was screw a man silly. When he had fallen asleep, she had dug a few tranquilizers from her purse and ground them into a fine powder. She then made coffee in the motel coffee maker and waited for him to stir at the aroma. He took two sugars and two creamers. She had smiled when he’d said he had to get back to work. To buy time for the sedatives, she had taken his nearly empty cup and given him a blow job. Five minutes later, he was out.

She had done the same with her late husband. There were times when he had gotten drunk and had been ready to whale on her, Sonny, or Melina. She had protected those kids then, not only because she liked them but also because they did not need the cops on their doorstep. All in all, she had done a good job until she had fucked up with Melina and then later Sonny. Maybe she was getting sentimental in her old age, but she had a chance now to make it right for both of them.

She rummaged in his pants pocket and dug out his keys and wallet. She fished out the bills and a credit card and left the rest for him. She liked Ralph and did not want to put the old boy through a trip to the DMV for a replacement license. That was just plain cruel, even for her.

She figured he would be out for twelve hours before he woke up and reported it. Smiling, she tucked the card in her back pocket. Bonnie could do a lot of damage in twelve hours.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Thursday, August 27, 3:00 p.m.

Melina sat in her car checking emails outside of Red’s, waiting for it to open. She had barely scrolled through a couple when her phone rang. It was Ramsey.

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“The driver of the white van removed the VIN numbers from the dashboard and the door and the engine block,” he said without fanfare.

She relaxed back against the headrest. “You sound a little too happy. Something tells me this story doesn’t end here.”

“The former owner also took the initiative to etch the VIN number on the underside of the engine block.”

“That’s my kind of paranoid.”

“A trace of the vehicle shows it was purchased in Atlanta, Georgia, ten years ago from a used car dealership.”

She waited for the punch line.

“Long story short, the van was traced to a man by the name of Edward Mecum.”

“And who is Mr. Mecum? Assuming that’s his real name.”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine, but according to an FBI database search, he has no criminal record.”

“I don’t hear dejection in your voice.” She ran her fingers over the steering wheel, watching as a group of middle-aged tourists entered one of the landmark cowboy boot shops on the street.

“I contacted the car dealership in Atlanta.”

“And?”

“No record of sale for the older van, but the manager did say that he sold a similar white van this morning to a man who paid cash. The buyer’s name was Edward Mecum and he had a limp.”

She had jabbed that knife hard into his thigh and twisted it for good measure. She took some satisfaction knowing she had hurt him good.

“I don’t suppose Edward Mecum gave the dealer an address?”

“He was required to.”

She leaned forward. “And?”

“I have an address of a property that’s located thirty miles outside of Nashville.”

“You know how to make a girl’s day.” A man flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN in the Red’s window.

“How soon can you meet me?” he asked.

“Give me a half hour,” she said. “I’m on Lower Broadway. Just spoke to Jennifer Brown’s boss and want to follow up on a lead. I’ll update you when I see you.”

“I’ll pick you up at the office.”

“Bring burgers. I’m starving.”

He chuckled. “Will do.”

She grabbed her bag, slid out of the car, and strode toward the bar’s entrance. She was greeted by the faint scent of beer and cigarettes. There was a long bar covered in a thick coat of polyurethane. Behind it, rows of liquor bottles peered down from terraced shelves. Above the bottles was a collection of red cowboy hats.

“Hello?” she said.

A man pushed through swinging doors, wiping gnarled hands on a bar towel as he approached her. A sweep of his gaze seemed to be enough to tell him she was not here for a drink. “What can I do for you?”

She held up her badge and identified herself as TBI. “Came to ask you about a customer. Her name is Jennifer Brown. She dated a bartender by the name of Billy.”

He nodded. “Blond. Big boobs.”

“She’s in her late thirties.”

“Yeah, I remember her. What do you want to know?”

“Was there anyone here who hassled her or maybe paid her too much attention?”

“She was a flirt. Knew how to use those tits to get men to pay attention. But she was dating Billy and stayed close to the bar.”

“And after they broke up, did she keep coming around?”

“Yeah. Saw her in here about two weeks ago. She left with a guy, but I couldn’t tell you who he was.”

“You have surveillance cameras in here?”

“I do, but the recording only lasts two weeks.”

“She was last seen on August sixteenth. That will put us in that two-week window. I need you to pull it for me.”

“What’s the deal? Is Jennifer in some kind of trouble?”

“Someone killed her,” she said.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit is right.” She removed a business card from her wallet. “Call me when you have those recordings later today.”

“Sure.”

She stepped outside into the bright sunshine, her gaze skimming the businesses around Red’s. How many had surveillance cameras?

In her car, she started the engine and called Agent Jackson and updated him on both cases as she drove through town. He pledged to send officers to the businesses around Red’s. If there was footage, it would be recovered.

Ten minutes later, Melina pulled into the TBI parking lot, where Ramsey waited in his black SUV. She locked her car, got into the passenger seat, and placed her backpack between her feet.

He handed her a cup of coffee, which she gratefully accepted. It tasted sweet, like two-packets-of-sugar sweet. She checked the burger. No cheese. “And how did you know I don’t like cheese?”

“Because I’m not a fan,” he said.

“Lucky guess, then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Your powers of observation are a little too keen for me.” As she sipped her coffee, she updated him on Red’s and the hunt for camera footage.

“We might get lucky with the video surveillance at Red’s. Most killers like the two we are dealing with are creatures of habit,” he said.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” She bit into the hamburger. Not bad. If she had had her way, she would have adjusted the relish-to-ketchup-to-mustard ratio, but she was too hungry to complain.

“Andy did a quick search on Edward Mecum. I can tell you he comes from money. He was married twice and has two children and several grandchildren with the second wife. He lives off his investments. He has several properties north of Nashville. As tempting as it is to reach out to his family, I don’t want to spook him now. Better to learn all we can about him before we approach the family.”

“Agreed.”

“According to county utility records, the house account billing is current.”

She plucked a fresh napkin from the stack. “There are areas north of Nashville that are very isolated. If a woman were held there, no one would ever know it.”

Images of the van’s interior appeared in her mind and then quickly switched to the pictures of the dead prostitutes’ wrists. All were ringed with red marks left by too-tight handcuffs.

“What happened to the first wife?” Melina asked.

“She divorced him in 1999.”

“Divorced in 1999? The killings started in ’99, correct?” Melina asked.

Life stressors for an individual with homicidal fantasies could send them over the edge. In Mecum’s case, the stress was not money but perhaps a divorce.

“Do you know anything about the ex-wife?” she asked.

“I haven’t been able to locate her yet,” Ramsey said. “We’re working on it.”

“It’s been twenty-one years since the divorce and there’s no record of her?”

“No.”

In Melina’s experience, women living normal lives did not generally fall off the radar. “Any children in the relationship?”

“Not according to public records.”

Confirming for her that blessings came in all forms, and a childless marriage for a guy who liked to cut up prostitutes was one.

“Mecum does have a law degree, but he never practiced,” Ramsey offered. “Family money meant he didn’t have to work.”

“What about his parents or siblings?” she asked.

“No siblings. Mother died of cancer fifty years ago and father died in a car crash when the boy was fourteen.”

She shifted and drank her coffee. The caffeine was kicking in and sharpening her senses.

They drove in silence up I-24 north until the city gave way to strip malls and then finally rolling hillsides. Ramsey followed the winding roads until his GPS alerted him that the address was fast approaching. Melina had to look twice to spot the mailbox covered in thick twisting vines. He slowed and turned into the dirt driveway that wound up a hill.