3

Avery paused at the corner of the tree-lined street that faced the crime scene, feeling a heightened sense of urgency. Both experience and instinct told her the murderer would strike again, but after canvassing dozens of homes and businesses located near the scene, they’d ended up with only a handful of vague possibilities to follow up on, none of which seemed promising. Which meant, for the moment, they were no closer to finding out the identity of their Jane Doe . . . or her killer.

Avery reached up to wipe away the sweat that had beaded on the back of her neck. The curious crowd had long since scattered after losing interest in the yellow police tape that fluttered in the early-afternoon breeze. To Avery, though, nothing could make her forget the young girl who now lay in the morgue. This couldn’t end up as another unsolved case.

Stepping over an upturned piece of concrete in the sidewalk, she hurried to catch up with her partner, Mitch Robertson. At six foot four, Mitch hovered over most of the officers in their department. Avery, at five foot eight, felt almost petite next to him. She’d learned to trust Mitch with her life—something she’d had to rely on more times than she cared to remember. Risk came with the job, and Mitch had proven to be one of several men in her life who would do anything for her. Like her father, who still tried to treat her like a princess.

And now there was Jackson.

A smile tugged at her lips as she followed Mitch up the driveway of the next house on the block. Jackson’s entrance into her life had been as unexpected as the white potted orchids thriving on the veranda despite the hot Atlanta summer.

Her mother and sister had convinced her to finally try dating again, but in the three years since becoming a widow she’d gone on fewer dates than she could count on one hand. Agreeing to go out with Jackson hadn’t been easy. Dinner and a movie had simply been a way to prove to her mother that her heart was mending. Which in a way was true. While she still missed Ethan fiercely, time had begun to heal the immense hole his death had left. What she hadn’t expected was agreeing to a second and then third date with Jackson. Or that her heart would actually flutter at the thought of seeing him again.

“Avery?”

She stopped in the middle of the driveway and looked up at Mitch, his expression clear that it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention. “I’m sorry. My mind is—”

“A thousand miles away? I can tell.”

Talking to Mitch about Jackson was out of the question. Which left room for only one thing. “This case has me rattled.”

Jackson aside, it was the truth. Maybe he’d simply become the distraction she needed at the moment. They started walking again toward the porch, giving her time to shove aside any lingering romantic daydreams and start acting like the leader of her team again.

Mitch stepped onto the porch. “Hits a little too close to home?”

There might not be an excuse for her lack of focus, but at least she knew Mitch understood. Keeping the streets safe for her daughter was part of the motivation behind what she did.

“I can’t help thinking, what if we were searching for Tess’s killer? What if I didn’t know where she was? What if I found out she was lying on a cold morgue slab, tagged as Jane Doe?”

“This isn’t Tess, Avery.”

She tried to shake off the chill that slid up her spine despite the afternoon heat. He was right. They weren’t after Tess’s killer. Tess was safe at school. She forced herself back to the present. On duty in the middle of an investigation wasn’t the time to be worrying about her daughter . . . or fantasizing about Jackson, for that matter. She shifted her gaze back to the porch, the scent from a fresh coat of paint still hanging in the air. It was time to pull herself together.

She blew out a sharp breath and rang the front doorbell.

The door opened an inch a moment later, its metal security chain still in place.

Mitch held up his badge and identified them. “Afternoon, ma’am. We need to ask you a few questions about an incident that happened this morning in your neighborhood.”

The woman peered over the rim of her glasses at the badge. “You say you’re detectives?”

She had to be at least eighty. Avery groaned inwardly. The woman probably couldn’t see across the room, let alone across the street on a dark night.

Mitch nodded. “Can we speak with you for a moment, Mrs. . . .”

“Waters. Evelyn Waters.” She shut the door, unlatched the chain, then opened it again. “A woman my age living alone can’t be too careful, you know. And I’d invite you in, but my grandson’s been doing some repairs on the house, including having the carpets cleaned, and they’re still a bit damp.”

“No need to worry about that, ma’am.” Avery caught the hint of loneliness in the woman’s voice. She breathed in the smell of a roast as it overpowered the acrid scent of the paint and cleaning supplies. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d missed lunch. “We need to ask you about a young woman who was murdered next to the bar last night. We’re talking to your neighbors to find out if anyone saw something.”

“Murdered?” Fear flickered in her eyes.

“Yes ma’am.”

“I saw the commotion and the police cars this morning and wondered what had happened.” Mrs. Waters tugged on the waist of her flowered dress, her brow furrowed. “When that bar went in five years ago on the corner, I told Harry it would come to no good. I couldn’t begin to count how many times the police have shown up at that address. Not a lick of good, I tell you. The neighborhood’s gone down ever since.”

“Did you see anything last night?” Avery tried to redirect the woman’s train of thought. “A strange car? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“I didn’t see anything, but I know of someone who might have.”

Avery glanced at Mitch. “Who would that be?”

“There’s a homeless man who walks these streets at night.”

“You saw him last night?”

“Last night and most every night. I have arthritis, you know, and have trouble sleeping. Which is why I see him most nights. He comes up the street this way, rummages in the trash cans if it’s trash day, always carrying a backpack. After that, I can’t see where he goes.”

Avery flipped open her notebook and jotted down the woman’s information. “What time?”

“I usually see him around four or so. Never later than four thirty.”

“And last night?”

“The clock by my bed read four ten when I got up, so a few minutes after that, I’d say.”

“And you have no idea where he might go?”

“I used to tell Harry—”

“Who’s Harry?” Mitch cut in.

“My late husband, bless his soul. He died from cancer of the bone earlier this year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” The sooner they gathered the information, the sooner they could follow up on this lead, but the woman’s words curbed Avery’s impatience. The look of loneliness had resurfaced.

“Harry used to say that you could almost set the clock by Mr. Nomad. That’s what we call him. I think he’s been walking that same route for—I don’t know—ten, eleven months. I figure he heads south to the park.”

Which would put him at the crime scene around four fifteen. Their victim would have already been dead, but there was a chance he saw something. “Can you describe the man?”

“Describe him?”

“Any information you can tell us will help, ma’am.”

“I suppose he’s several inches taller than me, but thin.” She patted her thick midsection. “Dark hair and a beard, I think.”

“What about his clothes?”

“He wears this long, brown trench coat. Like Columbo. Even in the summer. My husband, bless his soul, loved that show and used to watch every rerun before he died. That and Bonanza. You young people probably don’t remember back that far, but he loved Michael Landon. I used to tell him that too much television would turn his brain to mush, but it helped him pass the time.”

“Anything else you can remember that might help us be able to track him down?” Keeping the woman’s thoughts focused was almost as difficult as finding witnesses in today’s murder.

“I’ve only seen him at night, you understand, and except for that streetlight, he wasn’t much more than a shadow. But I’m sure about the beard.”

A moment later, Avery handed the woman a card and asked her to call if she saw the man again, then headed back to the car with Mitch.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“That we just received the best lead we’ve had all morning.”

Which meant they needed to compare notes with the rest of the team, strategize, and find Mr. Nomad.

Her phone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket. It was Jackson.

Avery turned away from her partner and pressed the phone against her ear. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon.”

“Do you have a second?”

“Yes. Go ahead. We’re just about finished canvassing the neighborhood.”

“And we’ve finished the autopsy.”

“Any information like estimated time of death?”

They’d have to wait on forensic testing before Jackson filed his final autopsy report, but there was still information that could be gleaned from the external and internal exams. And she’d take anything she could get at this point.

“I’m putting the time of death between two and four.”

“Good. What else?”

“If you have time to come by, I have something I need to show you in person.”

“I’m on my way.” Avery flipped her phone shut and shoved it back into her pocket. “I need to drop you off at the station, then head over to the ME’s office.”

“And the rest of the team?”

“Compare notes with Carlos and Tory to see if there are any other leads from their canvassing to follow up on, then start tracking down this homeless guy. Another stakeout . . . another canvassing of the neighborhood . . . do whatever it takes to find him. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a witness. Did they find out who owns the car that was left in the alley?”

“Tory just sent me a text.” Mitch glanced at his phone. “Car belongs to a Paul Adams. She’s tracking him down now.”

“Good.” Avery climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.

Mitch snapped on his seatbelt. “So how is he?”

She pressed her foot against the brake. “How is who?”

“Jackson Bryant. You can stop pretending. I’ve caught that daydreamy look in your eyes whenever the two of you are in the same room. Or on the phone together.”

Avery frowned. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

After a quick glance in the rearview mirror, she started for the station. She could always opt for leaving him on the street to find his own way back. “We’ve gone out. Twice. It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

“Sounds to me like you’re dating.”

Avery felt her face flush. So much for professionalism and hiding her emotions. On the other hand, if Mitch had any downfall, it was his lack of commitment with women.

“I could always bring up your dating habits.”

“Don’t flip this conversation back on me.”

“When’s the last time you had a second date? You carry around that little black book of yours like it’s some—”

“I’d be careful before you start profiling me like one of your murder suspects, because I actually might surprise you. I asked Kayleigh to marry me this weekend.”

Avery braked too hard at a stop sign, then caught her partner’s grin. “You’re serious? You asked her to marry you?”

“We even settled on a Valentine’s Day wedding.”

“Wow. Congratulations! Though I have to admit, I expected her to be just another name added to your little black book.” Avery glanced at him before crossing the intersection. “You did burn your little black book, didn’t you?”

“Apparently some of your unsolicited advice got through to me, though I believe it was your mother who told me—”

“My mother.” Avery read the digital clock on the dash. Two thirty-five. She’d never called her mother. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet her for lunch.”

“Why do I have a feeling she doesn’t deal well with being stood up?”

“You clearly know my mother.”

Trying to explain to her mother why she hadn’t been there to help make the final decision between jumbo shrimp or bacon and tomato tartlets for her father’s retirement party would be useless.

Avery pulled into the parking lot of the police station. The dull headache that started earlier this morning in her temples had spread to the base of her neck. Between mothering, her career, family, church, and dating . . . something was going to have to give.