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couldn’t help thinking of a stupid “I can’t believe it’s not…” comeback that thankfully remained in my head behind the mouth-gate that sometimes works. Really, she isn’t opposed to having her top supervisor be a long-haired dude—so unlike the other two guys on our team of six, who always came to work in ties and slacks. “Dressed for success” is the way they like to put it. Desperately wanting to move up in this business, they act as if the only thing that matters in life is the proliferation of our company’s success. Even so, Matilda values my presence on her team, and I often catch her smiling when I offer a well-placed sarcastic observation to keep things grounded in our team meetings.
    As I said earlier, my work attire is a bit cleaned up from the blue-jeaned rocker I normally roll as. Slacks and a polo shirt are the standard fare for all of leadership in our center, though I’m wearing biker boots instead of loafers since I rode my Harley to work. My hair is pulled back in a pony tail. Maybe the earring bothers some folks, but at least it’s a diamond stud instead of the gold hoop I normally wear. A little less pirate that way and more GQ.
    Anyway, not long after my laptop warmed up and I prepared to get started on the reports Matilda needed, my cell phone rang.
    It’s Fiona, calling from the bookstore she works at as a day manager.
    Bad news. Very bad, actually.
    The killer has struck again…another music industry personality who happens to know Fiona. Dickey Rollins, Candi Starr’s manager.
    My wife is in tears, barely able to tell me the scant details she’s learned about the latest murder. She’s headed downtown to meet Detective Ed Sliver, one of Nashville’s premier homicide specialists, and one whom she’s assisted in the past with her psychic abilities. But she wants me there, too. Needs me there, she says.
    I needed time, at least an hour to get the reports done for Matilda. So, I pulled Dennis from his tail-chasing activities and sat his ass down next to me. By 11:00 a.m., I was out the door, having just handed my reports to Matilda. Since my partner supervisors, Becky and Kendra, had already agreed to keep an eye on my team, she let me leave work early. Acute interest glowed within her green eyes, accented by her shiny ebony skin as I said goodbye.
    She’s just dying to know what this is about.
    Fiona would be proud that I haven’t divulged a damned thing…yet.

Chapter Five

    Division Street near downtown Nashville is home to some of the more famous historic places in the city. At least in terms of the music biz. There are lots of big houses from the early 1900s, with mature magnolias in the manicured front lawns. Over the years, many of these places have since been converted into recording studios and offices for both record labels and management companies alike. All cater to both the up and coming artists as well as the established country stars. The very heart and soul of “Music City” lies here beneath the worn pavement.
    Some buildings in this neighborhood are even older, dating from the mid to late 1800s, and NVP has investigated several of these locations. I just passed the old Johnson place on the way to the converted Victorian that serves as home for Dickey Rollins Productions. Kind of creepy in passing…I pictured the hideous half-man, half-something else apparition following us throughout both floors of that house as if it happened this morning. It’s still very fresh, even if almost a year ago. All five members in the group at the time had nightmares after the investigation, and Tony still brings it up every now and then.
    Memories of how I almost didn’t make it out alive from Maude Johnson B&B’s attic sent an icy tingle down my spine, despite the ninety degree heat and oppressive humidity engulfing me as I maneuvered my bike around the slower moving traffic. Yeah, I tend to be somewhat reckless when it’s just me on the road, but I’ve yet to spill my