The facts processed, Alex met his brother’s gaze. “Why am I here for a dead guy who may or may not be homeless?”

A smile flickered on Deke’s bulldog face. “Always warm and fuzzy.”

Small talk wasted time. “I’m trying.”

That jostled a laugh. “Right.” Deke shined the light toward a distant corner filled with rubble, where moonlight leaked in through the building’s patchwork roof and cast eerie slashes of light across the cement floor. An animal scurried across the floor.

“It’s what I found near the victim.” The two moved toward a midsize, worn brown leather bag.

“Looks like a tool kit,” Alex said.

“Might be. I’m guessing it belongs to our guy.”

Alex knelt and studied the case’s weathered exterior. Inside it looked as if it had once held wrenches, screwdrivers, and an assortment of other items but now was empty. Deke wouldn’t have mentioned the bag without reason. “Has this been photographed?”

“And dusted for prints.”

With a gloved hand, he reached inside the case and, in a side pocket, found a 9mm Beretta. “He stashes the bag and gun in the corner.”

“He wasn’t expecting trouble, or he had another gun on him that was taken.”

Alex glanced back at the charred body. “I’d say trouble found him.”

Deke rubbed his chilled hands together, seeming to replay the crime in his head. “Company shoots him. Strips the body and cuts off head, hands, and feet. Sets the torso on fire.”

“Nothing to identify the victim.” A lot of trouble to go to for a homeless guy.

Deke squatted in front of the bag and shined the light inside. “There’s a card tucked in the side pocket. Easy to miss the first time.”

Alex fished through the pocket until his fingers brushed the dog-eared card. He pulled it up into Deke’s light. The card read DEIDRE JONES, POLICE OFFICER, NASHVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. “What the hell.”

Deke read the card. “Shit. What’s her card doing here?”

“You called me about Jones last week. Wanted me to do some digging. Think she’s skimming money. But you gave me her rank as detective. This is an old card. This guy knew her from the past.”

“That’s my guess.”

“Could he have been a confidential informant?”

“Maybe.” Deke allowed his gaze to drift. “Keep talking.”

“The two had a meet. This guy gets shot and dismembered. You think Jones could have shot him?”

“A cop would know how to make an identification difficult. And this is going to be a difficult identification unless we’ve got DNA for a cross-check.”

Alex had dug only a little into Deidre Jones’s past and work life. What he had learned so far was that she was smart. She closed a lot of cases and was well respected.

Deke shifted his stance. “You’d think she’d also have the sense to search the area first. Sanitize it completely.”

“Jones has been with the Nashville Police Department for eight years. Top in her class at the academy. Worked as a uniformed officer for four years before being promoted to detective. Impressive closure rate. Good cop by all appearances. But that’s skimming the surface.” Alex sifted through more Deidre Jones facts. “She’s in tremendous shape. Organized a marathon training group. Well liked. I considered joining the group but decided against it. These days when I show up, people clam up. I’m trying to make friends with a member of Jones’s running group.”

“Make friends?”

“Miracles do happen.” Alex’s waking hours were spent working, and the one or two folks he called friends dated back to middle school. “She’s recently separated from her husband. Divorce wasn’t friendly.”

Deke grunted. “Which ones are?”

“You should know.”

Deke absently rubbed his thumb against his naked ring finger. “Two divorces is my limit.”

“You have two strikes already so does that mean you’re not getting married again or divorced again?”

“Divorced again.” Deke shoved his hand in his pocket. “I asked Rachel to marry me.”

“And?”

“She’s chewing on it.” Deke and defense attorney Rachel Wainwright had been living together for almost a year and a half.

“She’s a lawyer. They weigh all the options.”

“That’s what worries me. On paper, I don’t look like a winning horse.”

Alex noted the rising and unexpected worry in his brother’s voice. “Rachel is the patron saint of lost causes. She’ll say yes eventually.”

“Saying I’m a lost cause?”

“When it comes to marriage, yes.”

“Ass.”

Alex shrugged and shifted his focus back to the case. “Deidre did a hell of a job bringing down Ray Murphy. Her case was ironclad, but if she comes up dirty, his defense attorneys are going to have a field day.” Ray Murphy was a drug dealer who’d made millions selling meth. Deidre had worked undercover, getting Murphy’s girlfriend to flip and wear a wire. It had taken a year, but Deidre had worked the case better than any other cop could have.

“You think Murphy set this little scene up?”

“He’s smart enough. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Alex studied the bag and then glanced back at the body. “Find anything else?”

“That’s it. Ballistics and whatever else forensics finds will have to be sifted through at the lab.”

“All right.”

Deke stared at the bag, illuminated in the halo of the flashlight. “She’s a highly decorated officer. I want whatever facts you can dig up before I talk to her.”

Never ask a question without knowing the answer first. They’d learned the lesson in the cradle from their father, the late Buddy Morgan, a legend in the Nashville Police Department Homicide Squad. Most kids got bedtime stories. The Morgan kids heard recaps of homicide cases. Not a surprise all of the Morgan children had gone into law enforcement. Their other brother, Rick, worked homicide with Deke, and baby sister, Georgia, was a forensic technician.

Of all the Morgan children, Deke looked the most like their father. Old-timers said he was a carbon copy. Rick, the next in line, was a slighter version of Deke. Alex shared their dark coloring, but his features were more aquiline and narrow, like their mother’s. Georgia, adopted when she was days old, was the outlier when it came to looks. She favored her birth mother’s strawberry-blond hair and freckles, though when it came to temperament, she was all Morgan.

Deke and Rick loved homicide and, no doubt, would do the work until the city forced them to take the gold retirement watch. Alex didn’t see himself in TBI in the next decade. He made no secret about his political ambitions.

“Okay. I’ll keep digging.” Alex checked his watch. “I’ve got to go. Georgia is singing tonight.”

Georgia sang on her off nights in Rudy’s. Her musical talent had also been a gift from her birth mother. No Morgan brother could have identified a musical key or note, even if presented with a lineup. “I texted her and told her I was here. She understands.”

“Right.” They might not like it, but they understood the demands of being a cop.

Deke’s lips lifted into a rusty grin. “You sure you want to go to Rudy’s?” A retired cop owned the bar, which had become a favorite hangout for anyone wearing a badge.

“I told Georgia I’d be there.”

“You’re going to get hassled.”

A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “They can try.”

Deke laughed. “I remember when you were a kid. Mom bought you that stupid striped shirt. You were in the fourth grade?”

“Fifth.”

“You got all kinds of teasing over that shirt. And instead of trashing it, you wore it every day for two months.”

“Became known as my fighting shirt.” Alex had never gone looking for a fight, but when one found him, he never backed away. After eight weeks, the shirt had been torn, mended, and bloodied more times than anyone could remember. When it vanished from the wash, his mother had denied responsibility, but they all knew she’d finally thrown it out. Alex could handle the trouble, but their mom could not.