The receptionist looked up, big blue eyes haloed with false eyelashes. “Can I help you?”
Deke removed his badge from his jacket pocket, tossing in a smile he hoped would soften his hard features. “Deke Morgan, Nashville Police Department. I’m here to see Dusty Rehnquist.”
The request amused her. “Mr. Rehnquist is in meetings all day. If you want me to check with his secretary I’m sure she can find an appointment before Christmas.”
Deke carefully tucked his badge back in the breast pocket of his jacket and adjusted his tie. “What’s your name?”
“Nancy.”
He restrained his voice’s natural biting edge. “Nancy, I’m investigating a murder and I’m not waiting until Christmas to ask my questions. Murders aren’t convenient.”
“The schedule is the schedule.”
Moments like this he missed his undercover days, simpler in many ways. Find a perp. Kick in door. Arrest bad guys. “Do me a favor and call the person you have to call and get me in to see Rehnquist. In case you forgot, the name is Deke Morgan.”
“I didn’t forget.”
He leaned forward a fraction and in a lower voice said, “Good. Now call or I’m going to have ten squad cars parked out front in five minutes. Then I’m gonna have my officers search each and every person that comes in this building.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t do that.”
Deke’s gaze remained fixed and hard as he smiled. “Oh, I sure can.”
KC shook his head, smiling. “Never dare Deke Morgan.”
Under the makeup her face paled. “You can’t do that,” she said.
He glanced at KC. “Do you doubt my word?”
“No, sir.” KC’s grin was about as friendly as a rattler. “I would not question you one bit.”
The receptionist picked up her phone, dialed and then turned away from them to speak. She sounded calm at first but then grew more agitated as if she’d hit a roadblock. “I’m telling you, Delores, you need to let Mr. Rehnquist know the cops are here.” Another hesitation. “Fine, I’ll send them to your desk and you can tell them.”
She hung up the phone. “Go on back through the double doors. I’ll buzz you in. Last office on your right you’ll see Delores. Dark brown hair, sour look on her face. Can’t miss her. She’s Mr. Rehnquist’s secretary. Talk to her.”
“Appreciate the help.”
She rose and smoothed manicured hands down her skirt. “No one is going to jail?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
“If you have to arrest someone, start with Delores. She’s a real bitch.”
“Right.”
She pressed a button, a satisfied smile on her lips. A buzzer buzzed and a lock clicked open. Deke and KC walked through the door and followed the carpeted hallway lined with gold and platinum records. At the end a tall brunette with a deep, annoyed frown rose from her desk.
“Officers,” she said, stopping in their path. “Mr. Rehnquist cannot see you right now. He is busy. And I’ve half a mind to fire Nancy for sending you back here.”
Deke grinned again but this time his patience had thinned. “Get your boss.”
Her brows drew closer and she took a step back. “I’ll see if he’s here.”
Deke watched as she moved briskly back to the corner office. A quick knock on the door and she vanished behind it.
“You’re one scary son of a bitch,” KC said. “Like Buddy in his prime.”
Deke had not feared Buddy’s long shadow when he’d joined homicide knowing it would fade in the light of his own work. But thanks to Rachel Wainwright’s challenge, Buddy was back on center stage.
Deke and KC moved forward, knowing now that Mr. Rehnquist was indeed in his office or the gatekeeper would have said so.
Seconds later the woman reappeared, her angled face harder and more defined in a frown. “Mr. Rehnquist said that he’d see you.”
Deke didn’t thank her but moved toward the door with purpose and direction until he came face-to-face with a tall, reed-thin man dressed in head-to-toe designer denim gear that spoke of money. Rehnquist wore his blond hair long enough to brush the edges of a crisp collar. Buffed nails caught the light. Disregarding a Botox-smoothed forehead, Deke estimated his age to be early forties.
The light carpet was thick and plush, a contrast to the record producer’s glass and metal desk. The walls sported pictures of Rehnquist with the top stars in country music.
Rehnquist grinned and extended his hand. “My secretary tells me you are investigating a murder. Sounds mighty exciting.”
Deke’s annoyance spiked but he kept it buried. Instead he shrugged off his cop demeanor and slipped into the role of a fan. He’d learned working undercover that attitude and body language created as good a disguise as a costume. “Never a dull moment for us. Never a dull moment.” He gawked at the gold and platinum records framed and hanging on the walls and whistled. “Looks like you’ve had some success.”
Rehnquist’s chest puffed. “We’ve done well. Hit the charts.”
“I’ve got a tin ear but I appreciate a good song. You sign any singers I’d recognize?”
Rehnquist listed several singers. “Most don’t realize how well we do.”
“My goodness. That’s impressive.” He pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. “Wish I could talk to you more about the music. I know my baby sister would have a million questions. She’s a singer.” He shook his head, smiling as if he were more fan than cop. “But I got to take care of business. No rest for the weary.”
A hint of annoyance flickered across Rehnquist’s face. “I hear ya.”
“We responded to a mighty bad scene last night. A young woman was brutally beaten to death.”
The spark in Rehnquist’s gaze dimmed. “That so?”
“Her name was Dixie Simmons.”
What remained of the sparkle fizzled. “That name supposed to be important?”
“She called you several times in the last ten days.”
“A lot of people call me.” He reached for
a pen and clicked the end several times.
Deke had played this cat-and-mouse game hundreds of times. What amazed him was that the mice always made the same moves. “Do they call your private line and talk?”
Tension rippled up Rehnquist’s arm as he gripped the pen tighter. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand? Dixie called your private line ten times in the last ten days and spoke to you at length one time.”
Rehnquist clicked the button on the pen in and out. “There’s no proof that I was on the other end of the line.”
Deke stripped away his smile like a mask. “That won’t be hard for me to prove. Won’t be hard at all. So don’t play games with me. What did you and Dixie talk about?”
“I’ve never heard that name.” Rehnquist’s lie bounced wild like a free throw hitting the rim.
Deke pulled his phone from his back pocket and scrolled to Dixie’s driver’s license picture. He held it up and watched as Rehnquist studied the picture, frowned and raised an eyebrow as if seeing the face for the first time. With the authority of a practiced liar said, “I do not know her.”
“That so?” Deke didn’t like games, but if Rehnquist wanted to play, he’d oblige. He casually scrolled to the brutally disfigured image taken in the medical examiner’s office and held it close to his vest like a gambler with a winning card. “How did you know her?”
“I just said I didn’t.”
“Did you know this gal?” Deke turned his phone around.
Rehnquist looked at the picture, paled, and turned away. “Jesus.”
“Not nice, is it? Someone wanted to erase Dixie’s identity.”
Rehnquist slid his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t do that to her.”
“Did you know her? And please do not lie to me again. I’m working on no sleep and as my partner will tell you, I’m difficult when I’m sleep-deprived.”
He swallowed as if bile rose up his throat. “Okay, I did know her. We met at a party.”
Reaching the truth one baby step at a time. “What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much. Other than she was pretty. I remember she wore red.”
Another lie. Another giant step back. “Why was she calling you?”