Free Be Afraid by Mary Burton

press.” Rick kept the bulk of his frustration out of his voice. “Got to love ’em.”
    Dr. Heller grinned. “They aren’t all bad, Detective.”
    He thought about the dash-cam video of his shooting that had played over and over again on the news stations. “I’ll keep telling myself that.”
    Dr. Heller’s phone buzzed and she checked the display. She answered the call and listened. When she hung up, she looked pleased. “We’ve a call back on the hip implant. The company was able to match the serial number of the implant with a name. Your victim is Diane Smith, age thirty-six.”
    Rick wrote down the name. “Damn, that was fast.”
    “The implant was installed ten years ago. I don’t know if the address is still good.”
    “Hell, this is more of a break than I was expecting.”
    “Better to be lucky than smart,” Detective Bishop said.
    Rick heard the meaning simmering under Bishop’s words but let it pass. Sooner or later they’d have a showdown about whatever was chewing on his ass, but not today. “Now that we’ve a name, we can get moving on this.”

    With Diane Smith’s name in hand, it hadn’t taken long to find her home address and employer’s name. They opted to start with her employer, Temperance Real Estate. Rick dropped Tracker off with Georgia as she ended her shift and then he and Bishop drove to Temperance Real Estate, located in an historic stone building resting in the shadow of several sleek office buildings in downtown Nashville.
    Temperance Real Estate offices were on the third floor of the building. After speaking with the company’s receptionist, who seemed a little rattled by the arrival of detectives, they were escorted to a corner office.
    As they entered, a man moved out from behind a tall desk, buttoning his suit jacket as he moved. He shrugged broad shoulders and extended his hand first to Rick. “I’m Trent Lockwood. I own Temperance Real Estate. My secretary tells me you’re homicide detectives.”
    “That’s right,” Rick said. “Rick Morgan.”
    Bishop held up his badge. “Jake Bishop. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Diane Smith.”
    Lockwood’s unnaturally dark hair was slicked back, sharpening the angles of a tanned, long face. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but preliminary recon before the interview put him in his sixties. His expensive, hand-tailored suit and gold cuff links spoke to the success his firm had enjoyed the last few years. Temperance and Lockwood had influenced three of the top ten Nashville development deals in the last two years.
    A frown furrowed Lockwood’s brow as he absently tugged on his cuffs. “She’s one of our most productive real estate attorneys. Been with us about ten years. Why? Has something happened?”
    Bishop studied the office, silent and content to let Rick handle the interview. Bishop had been giving Rick lots of opportunities on the cases and he suspected it had more to do with giving him enough rope so that he could hang himself.
    “Does your company own a property in the West End? It’s on Dover Street,” Rick said.
    Gray eyes narrowed as if Trent didn’t appreciate the dodge to his question. “I’ve no idea. I’d have to look it up. Again, why?”
    “Has anyone questioned why Diane didn’t come in to work yesterday or today?”
    “She’s on vacation. She’s been planning a trip to her cabin in the Smokey Mountains for months and finally texted in Saturday night that she was taking a break. She’s closed big deals lately and deserved the time off.”
    He wondered if Diane had sent the texts. “Diane Smith’s body was found in the burned-out ruins of the Dover Street house yesterday.”
    The lines rimming Lockwood’s eyes and mouth deepened. “Are you sure you’ve the right person?”
    “We identified her from a hip implant. The serial number matched up to her name.”
    His face paled. “She wasn’t recognizable?”
    Rick studied his face closely. He’d developed a nose