Chapter 4 Dominic
Dominic
“Is it just me, or does it feel like—if the same person is killing these girls—they’re getting smarter?” I question as I pull off the bypass and into a long, curvy driveway, having followed the car’s GPS to the address Shane put in before we left the station.
I don’t like to draw any conclusions without all the facts, but damn, the connections between the Gwen Bridges and Heather Turnwat cases are too glaring to deny.
Halfway into our drive here, Detective Wilkins called to update us that whoever booked the room Heather was murdered in at the Monarch used a dark web broker—someone who specializes in booking anonymous travel arrangements using untraceable accounts.
A lot of times, these brokers will reserve hotel rooms using prepaid cards, stolen credit cards, or even hacked corporate accounts.
Our digital forensics experts are looking into it, but it’s difficult to trace the source after the transaction has been completed.
It’s much easier for law enforcement to trace the source in real time, while the transaction is occurring.
From what Wilkins said, they can already tell the broker used a disposable, encrypted device, along with Tor software to conceal their IP address, when booking the reservation.
“Tell me about it,” Shane says, resting his arm on the passenger door.
“The Monarch’s general manager is being cooperative in letting us look at all of the security footage, but it doesn’t help that the same day the room was booked, they were hosting the Alabama football team and all of the parents for Vandy’s big Parents’ Weekend.
Not to mention the Monarch’s track record of hosting high-profile and celebrity clients and the subsequent discreetness they like to use for their special little VIPs has their security cameras giving us footage I’d swear was filmed with a potato. ”
Nashville’s laws in relation to hotels and security surveillance allow for unfortunate loopholes like these.
From what Wilkins showed us earlier at the station, we have a lot of footage of the Monarch’s lobby and reception from the day of Heather’s death, but it’s grainy at best. And, for the most part, that’s on purpose.
“I have a feeling they’re going to be changing that practice very soon.”
“Yeah.” Shane snorts. “Nothing like a homicide to get a hotel to beef up their security.”
We’ve already put a few detectives in charge of interviewing hotel staff to see if we can get any details about the person who actually checked into the room, but with the quantity of reservations that day, the shoddy camera quality, and the number of people going in and out of the Monarch’s lobby, I’m not hopeful we’ll get any solid leads.
I pull to a stop and cut the engine. Shane climbs from the passenger seat of our black, unmarked Camaro as I slide out from behind the wheel and step onto the concrete driveway of a quaint blue farmhouse on a hill with at least five acres of land surrounding it.
This house is in a much wealthier area than I expected—all the way in Franklin, south of Nashville.
It’s incredibly quiet. I can’t quite reconcile the idea of a woman who lives here with a sex line operator for Call Me Anytime, but it’d hardly be the weirdest shit I’ve seen in my tenure as a detective with the Metro Police Department.
People are always surprising me in new, exciting, fucked-up ways.
“You sure this is the address that came back for the number you ran?” I ask, still a little uncertain.
Shane leans into the top of the car, his face annoyed but playful.
If I’m honest, it’s what he looks like pretty much all the time.
He’s only a year younger than me, and we’ve been partners for the last five years, both of us making the switch from street cop to homicide detective at the same time.
As such, we’ve fallen into the usual work/friend/practically-married-because-we-spend-so-much-time-together rapport.
He’s the person I trust most in any given situation, and yet I consider throwing him in front of a bus every time we see one.
We click, but we clash. Anytime you see someone for more than sixty hours a week, it’s bound to come with ups and downs.
“No. I’m not sure,” Shane says dryly. “I just directed us out to some random-ass house in the boonies of south Nashville for the hell of it, Dom. In fact, thanks for pointing it out so I can rectify it.”
“Just checking, dude,” I answer with a chuckle. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Hannah May, 615-250-5555,” he clarifies like a smart-ass. “This is the Ruby Cocklover’s house.”
I nod, shutting my door before climbing the concrete steps to the pale-yellow front door. I raise a fist and knock, and Shane comes to a stop beside me, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in the side of his mouth.
He chews on it a little loudly, and I eye him, blinking rapidly. Him and that fucking toothpick. I swear it’s constant.
He pulls the toothpick out and sighs, and the door swings open in front of us.
In its opening is an older woman with dark hair in a loose bun and a smattering of wrinkles that puffs up the skin beneath her eyes.
Her style is more country club than downtown floozy, and falling in what I’m estimating to be her fifties, she’s not at all what I was picturing to match the voice of “Ruby Cocklover.”
I doubt she’s the woman we’re looking for, but what the hell do I know? I didn’t think this would be the house either.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asks, and I’m even more convinced she’s not Hannah May. Her voice is rougher than the soft hum from this morning’s strange-as-fuck call. Still, with Ruby Cocklover as a fake name, it’s not beyond the scope of reality that she’d have used a fake voice too.
After exchanging a quick wide-eyed glance with Shane, I hold out a hand and introduce myself.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Dominic Dunn, and I’m a detective with the Metro Nashville Police Department.
This is my partner, Detective Shane Maddox.
We were hoping to have a word with Hannah May,” I explain.
“We have a few questions about a case we’re working on. Does she happen to live here?”
“A case?” the woman questions, her eyes a little unfocused as she looks between the two of us.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer politely, knowing how off-putting it can be to have a couple of police officers show up unexpectedly at your door. “Is Hannah May here, by any chance?”
“Hannah?” she asks, stepping outside and pulling the door partially closed behind her, mouth downturned in worry now. “What do you want with Hannah?”
“We’re just looking to have a quick chat with her,” I answer. “Nothing to worry about. Is she here?”
“Hannah’s here, all right, but she’s a twelve-year-old girl,” she says then, shocking the shit out of me and Shane alike.
The two of us look at one another before turning back to the woman on the stoop. “Hannah May is twelve?” I ask, and the woman nods.
“Yes. My Hannah is twelve, and I’m her mother, Sherry May. What is this about? Is she in trouble?”
My throat feels tight. I’ve told a lot of people a lot of messed-up stuff over the years, but telling this woman that we think her twelve-year-old daughter might be working for a sex hotline somehow feels ten times worse than any of that.
Shane, sensing my discomfort, steps in for me. “Hannah May, right? That’s your daughter?”
“Yes. I just said that, didn’t I?” Sherry nods, but she pointedly moves her eyes to me. “Now, what’s going on, Tony?”
“Tony?” I ask, rubbing a hand down my jaw as I start to feel a little like I’m losing it. Interestingly enough, if you take out the sex, this is largely how I felt talking to her daughter earlier today.
“Yes. Tony DiNozzo,” Sherry says. “I think when you and Gibbs show up at my house asking questions about my daughter, I deserve answers as to why.”
“Ma’am, I’m truly sorry, but I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” I say—because seriously, what is happening? “Is Hannah May your daughter or not?”
Sherry sighs, pushing the door open behind her and waving us inside. “Come on up. Looks like we’re going to need a pot of coffee for this.”
She doesn’t wait for a response before turning and heading in the house, then up the stairwell directly across from the door, leaving us standing outside. I look over at Shane, and he offers a gallant hand toward the door. “After you, Tony.”
“You’re not funny.”
He shrugs. “I’m a little funny.”
“What in the hell is going on here?” I whisper with a shake of my head. “And why does this case feel like it keeps getting weirder and weirder?”
Shane laughs. “It’s a murder investigation, Dom. What do you want it to be? Normal?”
“Valid point,” I admit before stepping inside and heading up the stairs to follow Sherry.
Shane closes the door behind us and jogs up the stairs after me. I have no idea what we’re getting ourselves into right now, but I guess we’re about to find out. The woman hardly looked like someone who would have me putting my hand on my holster, but it’s still always smart to be cautious.
My eyes are quick to scan the second floor once I reach the landing, assessing if there’s anyone else in the room and making note of anything that could be used against us, should shit hit the fan.
The space is open and well appointed, with a kitchen featuring a big island that showcases white quartz countertops, a dining room with a sizable wooden table and chairs that match the place’s farmhouse style, and a living room that has a TV currently blaring.
Sherry stands beside the stove, her hands busy putting on a pot of coffee.
Some kind of scuffle happens on the television, shouts and gunshots ricocheting from the speakers, and Sherry rushes into the living room to turn it off. “Sorry about that. Why don’t you take a seat while I get a few cups out for us?”