I admit it, I felt a shiver go down my spine, and the letter wasn’t
even addressed to me. I could only imagine how Aislynn must have
felt, reading it.
She had told Mendoza she was going home to her parents, but she hadn’t gone there. Now that made perfect sense. I wouldn’t have gone to Sweetwater either, if someone was gunning for me. I might not even have gone home to Rafe, although he’s quite capable of taking care of himself—and me—so I might have risked that. Especially as, if he’d found out I was in danger and I hadn’t come to him, he’d have killed me himself.
But I wouldn’t have involved my mother or siblings. Or anyone else I cared about.
Maybe she really was hunkered down at Sara Beth’s, waiting for Monday morning and her coworkers to come in.
Or maybe the anonymous letter-writer had her, and that was why she hadn’t shown up at her parents’, and why she hadn’t come to the hospital to see Kylie. Not because she chose not to, but because she couldn’t.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Mendoza’s number. It rang and rang until finally his voicemail picked up. “You’ve reached Jaime Mendoza with the Metro Nashville PD. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. If this is an emergency, please call 911.”
It wasn’t an emergency—or probably not what Mendoza would consider an emergency—so I waited for the beep and told him to call me when he had a minute. Then I disconnected and called Tamara Grimaldi instead.
“Good,” I said when she answered, “you’re working.”
Her voice was dry. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but yes, I am.”
“I tried to call Mendoza, but he didn’t answer.”
“Afternoon off,” Grimaldi said. “He’s probably spending it with Elias.”
Elias must be the kid. And it was hard to blame him for not answering the phone if he had an afternoon to spend with his son. Especially as he’d taken the time to visit Kylie this morning. “I have something for him. If I give it to you, can you make sure he gets it?”
“What is it?” Grimaldi wanted to know.
“Another anonymous letter.” I explained where I was, why, and how I’d checked the mailbox. “I think all the other letters are gone. At least I didn’t see them inside. Granted, the place is a bit of a mess. But they weren’t in the piles of paper I could see. I think whoever wrote them must have come back for them. Maybe he thought there was something there that we could trace to him.”
“We?” Grimaldi said.
“You. Whatever. You know what I mean.”
“I think Jaime probably got them on Friday,” Grimaldi said, “and they’re already at the lab, but if you have another—one that hasn’t been handled by so many people—that’s great.”
“I’ve handled it. And I figure Aislynn probably did.” I explained about the ripped envelope and how it wasn’t likely to have been anyone else reading the mail. “She’s gone. Nobody knows where she is. She told Mendoza she was going to go spend the night with her parents in Bowling Green, but she didn’t go there. She didn’t come to us. She hasn’t been home, and she hasn’t visited Kylie in the hospital. I’m worried.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Grimaldi said bracingly. “Just lying low until she doesn’t have to be in the house alone.”
“Kylie won’t be much help even when she gets there. She’s flat on her back with a concussion.”
Grimaldi did the sort of shrug I could hear. “I’m in the office,” she told me, “if you want to come downtown with the letter now.”
I might as well. I wasn’t doing anything else, and I was only a mile away. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Grimaldi said and disconnected.
She was as good as her word. When I walked into the lobby of the police headquarters building—quiet now on a Sunday afternoon—she was there, leaning on the counter where the duty cop was sitting, chatting. “This is her,” she told him when I came in.
He nodded. “I still need to see your ID, ma’am.”
I produced it, and signed the log he put in front of me, and then Grimaldi and I headed upstairs to her office.
Once there, she took a seat behind her desk and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. There was already an empty space cleared in the middle of the desk. “Put the letter here.”
I pulled it out of my purse and put it on the desk. Carefully, by the edges, so I wouldn’t add any more fingerprints than the ones I’d already added.
Grimaldi sprinkled the envelope with fingerprint powder and blew it off.
“Got a couple of good ones here.” She fumbled for tape.
“Probably mine. And Aislynn’s.”
She nodded. “We’ll see. Yours are on file. We’ll have to get hers.”
“That could be tricky. I told you I have no idea where she is.”
“She’ll turn up,” Grimaldi said, moving fingerprints from the envelope to little index cards on the back of pieces of tape. “OK. Let’s take a look at the letter.”
I moved to open the envelope, and she shook her head. “I’ve got it.”
She took the envelope by the edges and shook the letter out, then used a couple of pens to unfold it. “Hmmm.”
“Scary,” I said.
“Could be. Depends on what it refers to.”
“I assumed it referred to what happened to Kylie. Or maybe even to Virgil Wright.”
“And you could be right,” Grimaldi said, busy with her powder and pieces of tape again. “We’ve got a couple of prints here. Just about in the position I’d expect them to be if someone took the letter out of the envelope and held it up to read.”
“So mine and Aislynn’s.”
She nodded. “Most likely. But we could get lucky.”
“The post mark is East Nashville again,” I pointed out. “Just a few blocks from where Aislynn and Kylie live. For the letter to arrive on Saturday, it must have been mailed on Friday.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“I spent Friday talking to a bunch of people. Aislynn and Kylie themselves, Stacy Kelleher, Kenny Grimes, Tim...”
She arched her brows. “Surely you don’t suspect Mr. Briggs of sending the letters?”
“There isn’t much I would put past Tim,” I told her. “He could have been hoping for another house to sell. But no, I guess not. Aislynn and Kylie wouldn’t call him. They’d call me.” As in fact they had.
“Your point?” Her fingers stayed busy with the letter and envelope.
“I talked to people on Friday. About the letters. On Friday night, someone broke into Aislynn and Kylie’s house to take the letters back. Maybe it was because he or she realized that someone was looking into it. That it had turned into something more than just private poison pen letters sent to an individual. Or individuals.”
“Could be,” Grimaldi agreed. “That means it’d be one of the people you talked to. Or someone they talked to.”
Kenny Grimes’s dinner date came to mind. Although if that guy had hit Kylie over the head, she’d probably be dead.
Or there was Kenny himself—although why he’d send threatening, anonymous letters to the current owners of his lover’s former house was beyond me. He might have had a reason for wanting to get rid of Virgil, though, and the letters might just be a part of that. A red herring, so to speak.
And Stacy—ditto. Although if he was retaliating for Virgil leaving him, he sure had waited a long time to do it. And the letters made no sense from his perspective, either, although again, they could just be a red herring to detract from the real reason someone wanted Virgil dead.
Kylie may have explained who I was and what I was doing to Lauren during their lunch on Friday. If Lauren had been writing the letters—to scare Aislynn away so she could get Kylie back; a reason that actually made sense—she might have decided it was a good idea to get them back before someone connected them to her. She had said she’d been out on a date on Friday night, but who knew where she’d really been?
If she still loved Kylie, would she hit her, though?
Or maybe Kylie had been writing the letters to get out of her relationship with Aislynn, and Aislynn had found out, and Aislynn had hit Kylie. And now she was in the wind, afraid of being arrested for assault or attempted murder.
Or maybe Aislynn had been writing the letters to herself, to get out of her relationship with Kylie without having to admit she wanted to break up, and now she’d taken the opportunity to leave.
That made sense, except for the fact that all her clothes were still at the house.
“I have no idea who’s behind this,” I told Grimaldi. Or maybe ‘whimpered’ would be closer to the mark.
She glanced up at me. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t see how. It doesn’t make any sense. It could be any number of people writing the letters, for any number of reasons, but I don’t see what the letters have to do with Virgil’s murder.”
“Maybe nothing,” Grimaldi said.
“Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence if they aren’t connected?”
“Maybe,” Grimaldi said, “maybe not. In real life, crimes aren’t always neat.”
I guess not. “It seems like they should be, though.”
Grimaldi shrugged.
“Does Mendoza have any suspects?”
She gave me the beady eye.
“We saw Kenny this morning,” I said. “Rafe and I. In Shelby Park. He was jogging. Down the same path where Virgil was killed Wednesday night.”
This time she arched her brows.
“Does that seem a bit callous to you?”
“He might think it’ll help,” Grimaldi said. “To see the place where his boyfriend died. Just in case something of him lingers there.”
I suppressed a shiver. “If something lingers, we didn’t notice it. And if it does, I’m not sure I want to know.”
Grimaldi gave me the eye.
“Rafe said he thought someone might have strung a wire or something across the path, to trip Virgil and make him fall. He said there was bark rubbed off a couple of trees.”
“Jaime noted the same thing,” Grimaldi said.
Good for Mendoza. “So Rafe was right.”
“So it seems,” Grimaldi said. “I’m sure he explained to you how it’s easier to deliver a killing blow to someone who’s on the ground versus someone who’s upright.”
Not in those words, but— “Yes,” I said. “He did.”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
I thought about it. Aislynn, Kenny, the letter... “I don’t think so. Will you make sure those fingerprints get to the lab?”
“Yes, Ms.... Savannah,” Grimaldi said patiently, “I will.”
I grimaced. “Thank you.”
We sat in silence for a moment. “I’m not sure what to do,” I confessed.
“About?”
“All of it. Any of it. Aislynn being gone. Kylie being in the hospital. Virgil being dead.”
“It’s not yours to do anything with. We’ll take care of it.”
I must have looked mutinous, because she added, “Go home and enjoy a quiet evening with your husband. I’ve got this.”
“I can’t,” I said, getting to my feet. “He isn’t home. One of the boys called. He’s gotten himself in trouble, so Rafe went to get him out of it.”
Grimaldi got up, too, either to walk me out or to take her fingerprints to the lab. “One of the rookies? What kind of trouble?”
“Gang,” I said. “Someone invited him to be a part of some kind of retaliation against another gang, and I guess he figured it was his chance to be a hero and arrest them all.”
“Your husband will talk him out of it.”
Undoubtedly. Either that, or he’d offer to join them.
“I’m just worried about Aislynn,” I said as we got to the door and passed through and out into the hallway. “She’s out there somewhere, I don’t know where, and I’m worried. She hasn’t even visited Kylie in the hospital. If she isn’t careful, Kylie is going to think she doesn’t care and go recuperate at Lauren’s house instead.”
“Maybe that’s what Aislynn wants,” Grimaldi said.
“What if it isn’t? What if this guy snatched her and is keeping her somewhere?”
“I think what happened last month is playing with your mind,” Grimaldi told me, kindly. “I’m sure no one has kidnapped and is torturing her. She drove off on her own, didn’t she? She’s probably just lying low at a friend’s house so she doesn’t have to be alone in her own. I don’t blame her for being nervous. Her house was broken into and her girlfriend attacked. It’s understandable that she doesn’t want to be there. Especially after this last letter.”
It was. Very understandable. And maybe Grimaldi was right: Rafe’s kidnapping last month had made me jump to conclusions. Aislynn was probably just camping out with a friend. That didn’t explain why she hadn’t gone to see Kylie in the hospital—unless my other theory was right and Aislynn had hit Kylie—but either way, she was gone of her own free will and not because someone else was holding her.
I took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll put out an APB on her, OK? It’s too soon to report her as a missing person, and there are reasons to think she’s not missing, but this way, if anyone sees her they’ll let me know.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” Grimaldi said. “If these fingerprints turn up anything of interest, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, just go home and enjoy your husband. I’m sure he’ll be there soon.”
He probably would be. Maybe I’d stop at the grocery store on my way and surprise him with a home-cooked meal. We’d been going out to eat a lot lately. Maybe I’d be domestic tonight, and cook.
“I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” Grimaldi said when I mentioned it.
I squinted at her. “Do you cook?”
“When I have time. Mostly I eat out.”
If she ended up marrying Dix, that could be a problem. Sheila had practically been a professional cook. Or at least a full-time stay-at-home mom.
Of course, if Grimaldi married Dix, who was going to do the cooking was likely to be the least of the problems they’d face. If she moved to Sweetwater, she’d have to give up her job. She might have to work with Sheriff Satterfield at the Maury County sheriff’s office, and the mere idea of that was making me bug-eyed.
But on the other hand, Dix had a law practice in Sweetwater, not to mention two girls in school, and a sister, brother-in-law, mother, and best friend in town. I didn’t think it made sense for him to pack up and move to Nashville, either.
I wondered if they’d thought about it, and that’s why their relationship seemed to move forward at a snail’s pace.
None of my business. I shook it off. “I guess I’ll head out. Let me know if you hear anything.”
Grimaldi told me she would, and we went our separate ways: she to the lab, and me down in the elevator to the lobby, where I handed in my visitor’s badge and was allowed to leave the building without being detained.
It was still just as hot outside. The sidewalk was steaming, and the blacktop felt squishy under my feet. Maybe it was too hot to cook.
I stopped at the grocery store anyway. And I bought a rotisserie chicken and some salad fixings and rolls and more ice cream, since you can never have too much Mocha Double Chunk. On my way out, I tossed in a pound cake and a pint of strawberries, too, and then I had to go back for a container of whipped cream, since strawberries and pound cake isn’t complete without a dollop of whipped cream.
Rafe wasn’t home yet, so back at the house I changed into something more comfortable (and less sweat-soaked), and then got to work cutting and slicing and dicing. The air conditioning was blasting, and so was the radio, and I was singing along with Shania Twain when I heard the rumble of the Harley outside. After a few seconds the rumble stopped, then silence. The radio was loud enough that I couldn’t hear the key in the lock. I didn’t hear Rafe’s footsteps until he appeared behind me and slipped both arms around my waist; hands splayed across my stomach.
He leaned in to nuzzle my cheek. “Looks good.”
I tilted my head for better access. “Me or the food?”
He chuckled. “Both. But I was talking about the food.”
“It’ll be ready in about ten minutes. Are you hungry?”
“Always,” Rafe said.
“For food?”
“That, too.” But he dropped his hands from my stomach after one final caress, and headed for the fridge. “You mind?”
He held up a bottle of Corona.
I shook my head. “Knock yourself out.” I hadn’t been fond of beer even before I got pregnant. Beer is low class, as my mother always said. My own preferred poison—like hers—is white wine. But of course I can’t have any of that at the moment, either.
Rafe popped the top of the beer and took a seat at the table. “Everything OK?”
“Fine,” I said, shredding rotisserie chicken to put on top of the salad. “Why?”
“You’re cooking.”
“I cook sometimes. And I felt guilty because we’d been eating out so much.”
He arched a brow, and I added, “Oh, fine. Grimaldi told me to go home and spend time with my husband. I figured I might as well cook, since I don’t have anything else to do.”
His eyebrows gyrated. “I know something we can do.”
“Later. After I spent time doing this, the least you can do is eat it first.” I distributed chicken onto the two plates and topped it with slivered almonds. “And anyway, you weren’t here. I needed something to do that I could do alone.”
“You know...” Rafe said, and I held up a hand.
“Don’t go there. Please.”
He grinned, but subsided. “What were you and Tammy doing?”
I told him about the trip to the hospital and then the trip to Aislynn and Kylie’s house and the letter and trip to downtown while I put the salad and rolls on the table. I was still talking long after we’d sat down to eat. “I’m not sure what to think,” I finished the narrative. “She’s probably all right. Just spending time with a friend because she doesn’t want to go home to an empty house. But it bothers me that she didn’t come visit Kylie in the hospital. And that she’s not answering her phone.”
Rafe nodded. “Any idea where she mighta gone?”
“None. I don’t really know them outside of selling them a house. We aren’t friends. Friday was the first time I heard anything about Lauren, and I know nothing about Aislynn’s friends. Maybe I should have asked her mother whether any of them live in Nashville now.”
“If she’s like most of us,” Rafe said, “she prob’ly hangs out with people from work.”
Probably. “Sara Beth’s is closed today. I called. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to go down there and look for her.”
“By then she mighta shown up,” Rafe said, and put his fork down. “What’s for dessert?”
“Funny you should ask. I have pound cake, strawberries, and whipped cream.”
“And here I was hoping you’d say ‘me.’”
Oh, really? “That could be arranged, too.” The pound cake would wait. Not like it had to be kept warm.
“It’s all right,” Rafe said. “Pound cake sounds good.”
Not as good as certain other types of dessert, but if he was willing to settle for pound cake for now, then he could have pound cake now, and me later.
“So what happened with Jamal?” I asked when we were sitting across from one another forking up strawberries and whipped cream.
He made a face. “The kid’s wasted in the TBI. He should be a lawyer.”
“Talked you into it, did he?”
“It makes sense. If he runs with the gang for this, he can feed us information we can use to arrest them. And he’s willing to do it. Hell, he wants to do it!”
“Of course he does. He wants to be a hero. Like you.”
He shook his head. “I was never a hero. I was a stupid kid who was given a chance to straighten out his life before it went too far off the rails, and I was smart enough to take it.”
“And the fact that you almost singlehandedly took down the biggest SATG,” South American Theft Gang, “in the Southeast, that was...?”
“Not singlehandedly,” Rafe said. “I had plenty of help.”
“You had plenty of support. Or at least you had Wendell, who’d pull your butt out of the fire if you needed it. But you were the one on the inside risking your life every day. By yourself.”
He had no response for that.
“The rest of us think you’re a hero. Jamal thinks you’re a hero. Get used to it.”
“He don’t,” Rafe said. “If he did, he woulda been a bit more respectful.”
Maybe so. But... “He talked you into letting him do it.”
He shrugged. “I’m gonna have to clear it with Wendell tomorrow. But he’ll prob’ly say yes. And Jamal’s gonna do it whether he gets an official nod or not. I’d rather have his back than know he’s out there on his own.”
“I’m sure Wendell will see it the same way,” I said. “He cares about the three of them, too. They all worked around the clock to find you back in June.”
He nodded. “Wendell’s gonna do it. I might be working late nights in the next little bit.”
“Just keep Jamal safe,” I said.