Chapter 11

"Ijust remembered something." Carrie Fishburn's husband stood in front of my desk, hat in hand. Carrie was the first victim of the monster drug that I was chasing and, like all the other victims, had me stumped. I gestured toward the metal chair beside me, but the man shook his head. "She had her hair done that day."

I wrote down the tip and smiled. "Thank you for coming in."

He nodded and turned, saluting Cheryl before exiting our office.

"Was that helpful?" Cheryl asked. In a town this small, there wasn't always work for a dispatcher, so she spent a lot of her time doing data entry and looking over my shoulder.

"Could be," I said.

I went to the war room and sat down with the files. Victim number two was also a woman, Barbara Clydesdale, who worked as a secretary in a medical office. She had been seen by her landlord doing laundry on her last day.

I picked up my phone and dialed the landlord.

"Lakeview Properties," the receptionist answered.

I repressed a grin each time I heard the name. I had been to "Lakeview Properties" to interview the landlord in question twice, and neither time had I seen a lake or a view. "May I please speak with the owner?" I asked.

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Detective White."

"Hold one moment."

There was dead air for almost a minute before the property owner picked up. "Hello?" she said. "Has there been any news?" Unlike Lindsey's soon-to-be former landlord, this woman actually cared about her residents.

"Nothing to report yet, I'm sorry," I said.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "How can I help?"

"You said you saw Barbara doing her laundry?" Laundry was in a common area, and any number of residents could have seen her.

"That's right," she said.

"Did you happen to notice her hair?" I took a chance.

"Oh yes." The owner brightened. "She had just had it cut and styled. I remember talking about some of the women who work at the hair salon and how talented they are."

Bingo. I thanked Lakeview's landlord and hung up. My next two phone calls confirmed that each of the four victims had been in for a haircut on the day they died. I went back to my desk and did a Google search of the salon. It was owned by a woman named Katrina Marley. I searched her up on social media and found pictures of the salon and all of the people who worked there, including Lindsey. There were pictures of older relatives, maybe parents or aunts and uncles. There weren't any pictures of children, other than the occasional business photo of clients with their kids. I was generating a picture of Katrina Marley that resonated with my criminal profile. She was an established member of the community with no real family responsibilities and access to all four victims.

I printed out some of the more salient things I had found, chewing over this new discovery. Why would a small-town hair salon owner be selling drugs? If common knowledge were to be believed, the salon was well respected and generated more than enough income. Why would she risk it all to peddle deadly poison to her customers? And why, after the first death, did she continue to distribute a substance she knew could be fatal? If she had all the information I had and ignored it in favor of profit, then I was dealing with a sociopath.

Maybe it wasn't about the drugs, though. Maybe there was something bigger going on. In Nashville, we had a forensic accountant who could dig into a company's books to discover if they were doing something wrong. You would need a court order for that, but I didn't need permission just to give him a call.

"Did you find something?" Cheryl wanted to know.

I shook my head, on hold with the Nashville Police Department. "Hello?"

"Nashville PD, how may I direct your call?" the operator asked.

"Tom Spur," I replied.

"One moment, please."

After a pause, Tom picked up. "Tom Spur."

"Hey," I welcomed the familiar voice of a colleague, even if I had been running away from life in the big city. "It's Jason White."

"Jason!" Tom warmed to me. We hadn't exactly been friends, but we had shared some friendly banter in the hallways. "How are you?"

"Good," I said, not wasting time reminiscing. "I'm a detective in a little town called Singer's Ridge. I've got a case I'm working on, and I wondered if you could help."

"Sure, go ahead," he responded.

"I was tracking some deaths from overdoses, and I've narrowed it down to…" I glanced up at Cheryl and chose my words carefully. "A local business. I'm not sure if the owner is in it for the drugs, though. I'm wondering if they're laundering money."

"Mmm," Tom agreed. "You would need to get a warrant to look at their books, but there are some signs you can look for without probable cause."

"Go on." I had my pencil out, ready to take notes.

"Have they made any large purchases recently? Had the floors redone or anything that would bring in a contractor?"

"Okay." I scribbled down on my notepad.

"How many staff members do they have?" Tom asked.

"Two, I think," I said, picturing Lindsey and Ava.

"Check to see if there are more, if there are people on the payroll who aren't doing much."

"Okay." I recorded that suggestion as well.

"Check to see if they get any regular deliveries and what those deliveries are," Tom finished.

"Great, thanks," I said and hung up.

"What did you find out?" Cheryl asked from across the room.

"Nothing yet," I said. "Just a hunch."

I stared down at my notes, three major questions that I would need answers to. Lindsey was the obvious source. I would be moving in with her, and we would have plenty of time to talk. My brain translated "talk" into an image of me on top of her in bed, and I brushed it aside. She had been right at the storage place to say that we couldn't date. Any move I made on her would be interpreted as forceful because I was now her landlord, and she was my tenant. Still, logic couldn't stop me from imagining the feel of her skin, soft beneath my hands, or the curve of her backside as she arched against me.

She might know if there had been any large purchases, whether there were ineffective staff members or any large, regular shipments. It didn't occur to me that Lindsey herself could be wrapped up in drug selling or money laundering. If her hair salon were to blame, she was obviously an innocent bystander who stood to lose everything. I had to talk to her as soon as possible.

I logged off my computer. I didn't think Cheryl or the chief would be so intrusive as to look at my screen after I was gone, but I didn't want to take any chances. If I was wrong about the hair salon, it could mean bad things for their business. I needed some corroboration before bringing the lead to the chief's desk.

While walking about five blocks to the salon, and all I could think about was Lindsey. I had stolen her cabin out from under her, and now I was about to accuse her boss of running an illegal drug and money-laundering operation. I would have to be extra delicate when asking her questions.

It was six o'clock. When I reached the salon, I could see Lindsey through the window, sweeping the floor. I tried the door, but it was locked. She looked up from her chores and smiled. She smiled at me, and for some reason, that sent a wave of guilt crashing into my stomach.

She came to the door, unlocking it to let me in.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she replied.

All the way over here, I could have been forming a plan for what I would say, but I had been too busy thinking about her and the cabin. I had signed all the papers yesterday, and the home was officially mine. That made her officially my tenant and out of bounds for any romantic affair. Still, the tiny wisps of hair that escaped her ponytail framed her face with an innocent charm that I found irresistible. Her mouth was a temptation against creamy skin, and I fought the urge to plant a kiss on those plump red lips.

"Do you need a ride home?" I asked, seizing on the first excuse that came to mind.

She shook her head, turning away from me. "I'm perfectly capable of driving myself. And it's not your ‘home' yet."

"Actually, I signed the papers yesterday. The cabin's all mine." That came out less tactful than I had planned.

She turned back, her eyes narrowed, that familiar death stare sizzling the air between us. Her fingers choked the broom handle, and I flinched, wondering if I was going to have to dodge a missile.

"You still have a few days to yourself." I tried to smooth over her anxiety. "I'm not moving in until the weekend."

She retreated to the salon floor to continue sweeping. I watched her backside as the broad strokes of the broom caused her to flex and unflex. She caught me staring and stopped what she was doing. This time she seemed more disappointed than angry.

"What are you still doing here?" she asked.

"How many people work here?" I blurted out.

"Six," she said.

That was four more than I had seen. "Does that include the owner?"

"No," she said. "Seven including the owner."

"I've only ever seen you and Ava here."

She sighed. Clearly, I was interfering with her closing routing and causing her to run late. "Two of the girls are part-time."

"What do the other three people do?" I asked.

"There's the owner, a manager, and an assistant manager," she said.

"What do they do?" I wondered.

"Why do you want to know?" she snapped.

"I'm just wondering if you are adequately supported," I lied.

"Really?" She sneered. "It's not enough that you're moving into my home, now you want to stick your nose into my place of business too?"

"It's not like that…" I said.

"Then what's it like?" she demanded.

This whole conversation suddenly reminded me of Angie, my soon-to-be ex-wife. Except, this was different. Lindsey was challenging yet rational. The combination was refreshing. Angie would have been throwing things by now, crying, begging, cursing. Not for the first time, I wondered what had happened to her. Where had she gone, and what was she doing with her life?

She had my brand-new Ford Bronco, most of my money, and four, almost five months of freedom. Had she ensnared another man? I was pretty sure she had. Before me, there had been a string of boyfriends, all too smart to be lured into marriage. Likely she had settled down with the next unlucky bastard and was sharing my fortune with him. It all had nothing to do with Lindsey, but I'd lost my stomach for dealing with women.

Did I really want to move back in with another woman? Sure, Lindsey was beautiful and resourceful and intelligent. And sure, she seemed to have a more rational head on her shoulders than Angie had, but hadn't I taken enough abuse in the past ten years to last a lifetime?

"I'm sorry I asked," I told Lindsey abruptly.

"Fine," she snapped.

I turned without another word and stalked to the door. A set of bells chimed as I breezed through, out into the twilight. I marched all the way back to the police station, trying to squash recollections of my former wife. It wouldn't help to bring all my baggage with me to my new life. Already, I had learned that one of the three conditions to suspect money laundering was true. There were staff members attached to the hair salon that appeared to serve no purpose. It wasn't a big enough business to demand an owner, a manager, and an assistant manager. Ava and Lindsey seemed to run the place perfectly well on their own when they were working. And who these other two stylists were, I didn't know. More than likely, if my suspicions were correct, they were friends of criminal partners who needed a cover to receive illegal payments.

I went back to my hotel room to pack my things. Whether Lindsey liked it or not, I was moving in this weekend.