“A face?”
“Of the child. What if we had her face?”
Bishop shook his head. “You’re talking about forensic reconstruction. Hell of a cost that isn’t likely to get approved in the near future. We could be waiting for months. Years.”
Georgia shifted her gaze to Bishop. “What if I knew someone who would do it for free?”
“Free.” Bishop looked amused now. “We’re talking about thousands of dollars of work.”
She held up her hand. “If I got the help, would you take it?”
“You aren’t going to get that kind of help just like that for free.”
“What if I can, smart-ass?”
Bishop interlocked his hands behind his head, leaned back, and smiled. “So you got connections we don’t know about?”
“Yeah.”
“I know all the artists in the state,” Rick said. “Whom are you talking about?”
“This gal I met at KC’s bar.”
“In KC’s bar? The place where you sing once in a while?” Bishop laughed. “I can’t wait to explain this one to the judge if we ever get this case to court.”
Georgia had a great singing voice and when she wasn’t working she sang at KC’s bar, a place called Rudy’s. KC, a former cop, had bought the bar last year. No one thought he’d make it work, but he’d surprised everyone by not only keeping the business afloat, but also growing it. He packed them in nightly with singing acts.
“Does she sing too?” Rick asked.
“No, she doesn’t sing. She draws. Portraits. Six nights a week. She’s really good.”
“Georgia, what’re you smoking?” Rick asked. “Just because you can draw a face doesn’t mean you can reconstruct one.”
“She’s a cop, jerk. Baltimore Police Department. And she’s a trained forensic artist. She’s taken some kind of leave.”
“On leave? Working in a bar in Nashville drawing portraits?” Bishop asked. “So what the hell kind of issues does she have?”
“I don’t know,” Georgia said. “She’s nice. She’s talented, and she would do this if I asked.”
“I don’t know, Georgia,” Rick said.
“I got her a lead on a house that she rented a couple of weeks ago so she kind of owes me.”
“Is she the one you got to rent the Murder House?” Rick asked.
Georgia shrugged. “She said that kind of thing doesn’t bother her.”
Bishop laughed. “Hell, if anything, I got to meet this woman for a laugh.”
Rick rolled his head from side to side. “Georgia.”
“Rick,” Georgia said. “She’s really good. I’ve seen enough of these artists in action. She’s good.”
He shoved out a sigh.
“You aren’t considering this, are you?” Bishop asked.
“If the medical examiner’s preliminary write-up doesn’t match our records, then we’ll be at a loss. You got a better lead?”
“Not now.”
Rick rose. “Give her a call, Georgia. If we end up needing her, I’ll pay her a visit.”
She clapped her hands in victory. “You won’t be sorry.”
Rick wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Two
Monday, August 14, 3 P.M.
Eyes were the mirrors to the soul, weren’t they?
Jenna Thompson studied the eyes in the sketch. Lately, when she sat down to draw, she was never satisfied with the subject’s eyes. Often she’d draw, erase, and redraw them. She’d developed an issue with eyes that had started as a quirk but was getting worse.
When she drew at KC’s, the portraits were quick and dirty. Twenty bucks for a ten-minute drawing and forty bucks for a twenty-minute drawing. She always saved the eyes for last and when she drew them, she sketched quickly and refused to study them too closely. It often pained her to hand over a drawing when all she wanted to do was refashion the eyes. A bit more light. Wider. Narrower. Brighter. Sadder. They were never right. But she didn’t have the time to worry.
But when she was at home in her studio, and time wasn’t an issue, she found herself trapped in endless drawing cycles.
She studied the portrait of the young bride. She’d met the woman at KC’s when she’d done a quick drawing. The woman had been so thrilled she’d asked Jenna if she could do her wedding portrait. It had been years since she’d done any commission work but the added cash was too hard to resist.
She studied the preliminary attempt. Why couldn’t she capture the eyes of the young woman? She leaned to the left and studied the dozens of photographs she’d taken of the young blond woman with the bright smile and dancing eyes. The photos had captured her image perfectly. But it was her job as the portrait artist to capture her soul. Her essence. In the eyes.
As Jenna reached for her eraser, someone knocked on her door. Quick, hard raps that spoke of impatience, annoyance, and anger. Frustrated, she glanced at the cottage’s front door and then back at the portrait. The eyes reflected happiness but somehow fell short. What were they missing?
Another knock.
Irritated, she turned the easel away so that whoever was barging into her quiet time would not see the work. She grabbed a rag from the back pocket of her jeans and wiped the paint from her hands as she padded in bare feet across the cabin’s pine floors, which smelled faintly of pine cleaner.
Jenna had rented the cabin a couple of weeks ago. The price had been too good but Georgia Morgan had been upfront about the place’s history. A woman, a private detective, had been killed on the property. Locals knew the story well and had no interest in a sale or a rental. They called it the Murder House. But Jenna had agreed to see the house and, the moment she’d seen it, had fallen for the rustic exterior, large windows overlooking expansive woods ringing the open field, and stream behind the house.
A day after she’d signed the one-month lease she’d been at the local grocery store. When the clerk had read her handwritten new address on her check, he’d raised a brow.