“Don’t get too comfortable, Boy Scout.” The brusque request wrapped in a Boston accent came from his partner, Jake Bishop. In his late thirties, Bishop wore his jet-black hair slicked back and a dark beard trimmed close to his angled features. He favored dark shirts, ties that popped, and suits cut especially to his lean frame. He could have just been plucked out of South Boston if not for the polished black cowboy boots, his only concession to Middle Tennessee.
In the month they’d been partnered, Bishop had barely spoken to Rick, who by virtue of his birth had the inside track Bishop had worked a decade to reach.
Rick reached for his jacket and coffee and he and Tracker moved toward the elevators. Bishop punched the button and when the doors slid open the trio rode the elevator down. They generally used Rick’s car, a dark SUV, which was Bishop’s unvoiced concession to Tracker.
Bishop buckled his seat belt without comment and glanced toward the backseat at the alert dog. “Dog looks good. You’re moving kind of slow though, aren’t you, Boy Scout?” His tone was light, friendly almost. “Feeling okay?”
“Feel great.”
Rick could hear the wheels turning in his partner’s head. The transplant had worked hard to fit in, earned every bit of ground he’d made in homicide, and his reward had been a crippled legacy and his dog. Bishop had not said he was waiting for Rick, the favored son, to screw up, but that was exactly what he was doing.
“Where’re we going?”
“Centennial Park. Skeletonized remains have been found,” Bishop said. “The maintenance crews were tearing out an old fountain and found a bag. Inside the bag was a pink blanket and bones. It appears to be a child. Not more than three or four.”
Rick rubbed the back of his neck and started the car. Hell of a way to start the week. “How long has the body been in the ground?”
A gold signet ring winked from Bishop’s left pinky as he placed hands on his thighs. “Forensics just arrived on scene. They seem to think it’s been in the ground at least a decade.” Ten years in Nashville and Bishop still dragged out his As and dropped his Rs; still got called Yank and Carpetbagger.
Rick pulled out onto Union Street and drove toward Broadway. No one liked these cases, but everyone would work overtime until it was solved. “Has Missing Persons been called?”
An index finger tapped against a black belt next to his Beretta. “Ten minutes ago. They’re going to start digging back into old files. I asked for all similar cases reported in the last twenty years.”
Rick shifted his weight, swallowing a wince when the nerves in his hip burned suddenly. Nerves were a funny thing. You could pound on them and not feel any pain. Brush of a jacket and it was wildfire shooting down his leg.
Bishop flicked imaginary lint off sharp creases in his pants. “Seems there’s always pain after your kind of shooting.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
Bishop eyed him closely, searching for any sign of weakness but Rick would have swallowed nails before saying a word. Say anything you want about him but he was no quitter.
“I know injuries.” The signet ring winked in the sunlight. “Our pace has been slow, but it always heats up sooner or later. It could get rough.”
Deadpan, Rick said, “When it does, stick with me and I’ll see you through.”
Bishop laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Nashville morning traffic was congested with the early commuters scrambling to work. As the crow flies, the drive to the park was mere miles but it took a good twenty minutes to make the trek.
When they arrived at the 132-acre park they were greeted by a collection of squad cars with lights flashing, and a dozen officers standing by a string of yellow crime-scene tape that roped off a pond that had been recently drained.
In the center of the taped area stood Rick’s sister, Georgia Morgan, a senior member of the Nashville Police Department’s forensics team. She’d fastened her red hair into a topknot and wore a hazmat suit that swallowed up her small frame. Her knee-high boots were submerged in the pond’s ankle-deep mud; she snapped pictures of the old fountain and the hole beside it.
Rick and Bishop got out of the car. Rick opened the back door and helped Tracker out. The dog barked and wagged his tail and Rick couldn’t help but smile. He rubbed the Belgian Shepherd between the ears as if to say, “Yeah, I like the work too.”
Bishop eyed the dog.
“Don’t underestimate either one of us.”
Bishop shrugged, touched his gun, a habit he had before they entered a crime scene. As the trio approached the yellow crime-scene tape, Georgia glanced up, nodded, and then dropped her gaze back behind the viewfinder of her camera. She leaned forward and aimed it at a faded, muddy splash of pink peeking out from a tattered plastic bag. She snapped and the camera flashed.
“Who found the body?” Rick asked.
Bishop removed a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “Maintenance crews were draining a lily pond to fix the plumbing when they spotted the garbage bag. They opened the bag and found the pink blanket and the body, which is only bones now.”
“Any identifying information on the body or blanket?”
“Not at first glance but from what the responding officer said, once Georgia arrived she wouldn’t let anyone near the site until she’d documented every detail. Your sister is a real ballbuster.”
“She wants to get it right.” He bit back a more heated defense of his sister, knowing Georgia would not want big brother fighting her battles. Bishop’s jabs at him rolled off his back like water off a duck, but if it went too far with Georgia, well, he’d learn a lesson about pain.
“We all do, pal,” Bishop said.
“Does my baby sister scare you?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Sure about that?”
“Very. And let me say now,” he said, his voice low. “If you got any physical issues that come up during this case that you think might make you drop the ball, let me know, so I can catch it. I don’t want this case fucked up.”
“Don’t worry about me, Yank.” The reference, a reminder of Bishop’s outlier status, had the other cop shoving a hand in his pocket and rattling change.