The Truth Seeker

by Dee Henderson

  “Why not? He’s interested.”

  Jennifer was reading what she wanted to see. Quinn might be interested in a friendship, but nothing more. “No he isn’t.”

  “Want to bet?”

  Having already walked into a family bet once tonight compliments of Jack and his latest dare, she wasn’t touching this one. “No, I don’t. Besides, even if he’s interested, I’m not.”

  She was smart enough to know there would be nothing casual about a relationship with Quinn, not on her side. She had a habit of being overly cautious and then abruptly just handing her heart over and saying here. There wasn’t a safe middle, and unfortunately she hadn’t chosen well the few times she had risked it in the past. She still had the child’s habit of making an all-or-nothing decision.

  “Quinn’s not that old,” Jennifer said, puzzled.

  Forty-four. There were nine years between them, but Lisa had never thought his age was the problem. He wore it well. It was what it said about him that was the problem. The guy should have settled down long ago. But it would be putting down the guy to make that point, and she found herself reluctant to be critical. Knowing Quinn, there was probably a decent reason behind his unwillingness to settle down. “I don’t want to live in Montana,” she replied, lying through her teeth as she let herself dream a little.

  “You would love it and you know it.”

  “Can you see me being a stay-at-home wife?” Living miles from a decent-sized town, with only Quinn and the ranch hands for company . . . it actually sounded wonderful. She liked the city, but she got out of it every chance she could.

  “You’d have your pilot’s license within six months,” Jen replied. “And it would take a couple years just to identify all the wildlife that stops by. I heard Quinn saw a cougar last winter.”

  Lisa perked up at that news. The closest she had ever come to seeing a cougar was finding pawprints in the snow as she hiked through the mountains. “Really?”

  “It came all the way down to the main barn.”

  “I hope he didn’t kill it.”

  “Knowing Quinn, he probably sweet-talked it into moving on. Besides, just think of all the land you could explore. Aren’t there caves on his property?”

  “Several back in the bluffs.”

  The movie came back from commercial. Lisa was relieved. It was only a matter of time before her sister worked the conversation around to the subject of religion. Jen was only marginally more subtle about it than Kate. Religion and Quinn had become favorite conversation topics for her sisters. Talking about a guy with any of her sisters was always done at her peril. They had long memories for what she said . . . and what she didn’t say.

  “Oh, I’m going to cry. This is so sad,” Jennifer said as Tom and Meg said good-bye, possibly forever. Lisa moved aside the phone as Jen blew her nose. Personally she thought the movie was a little overblown. Nobody was this romantic in real life although Marcus and Shari came close. But it never hurt to dream.

  “Lincoln, what is going on?” The Italian restaurant a block east of the gallery had partially emptied, due to the late hour. Quinn ordered coffee and a sample platter of appetizers to give them an excuse to linger while they talked.

  “It’s Amy Ireland?”

  Quinn was still trying to take in the stunning realization of what Lincoln had found. “Yes. She attended a two-week camp sponsored by the Chicago Museum of Art when she was sixteen. She must have met Rita Beck then. And since I don’t remember seeing Rita on the camp roster, it explains why I missed finding the connection.”

  “I thought it was Amy, but I’m not exactly in a position to ask Mrs. Beck.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m trying to prove that Grant Danford did not murder her daughter.”

  Quinn winced. “The case you’ve been working the last two months, the guy serving a life sentence.”

  “Rita was twenty-five when she disappeared. Her body turned up eight years later buried on Grant Danford’s estate. A witness placed Grant and Rita together the last day she was known to be alive, contradicting his statements to the police. The jury came back with a murder conviction.”

  “You think he’s innocent?”

  “His sister does; she hired me. After two months of looking at the case— I think there’s a whole lot more there than what came out at the trial. Not that Grant is helping me much. The man is being a royal pain to work with, asking questions in answer to my questions instead of giving me straight answers. I’ve been interviewing everyone involved in the case that I can find.”

  Quinn considered his friend, thought about it. Lincoln chose the cases he worked these days. He wouldn’t have taken this one, stayed with it this long, if he didn’t have a gut instinct there was something to find. The sister probably sincerely believed Grant was innocent—and Lincoln had never been able to turn down a plea from a lady. Quinn wished him luck. Clearing a guy already in prison was a tough challenge. “Why were you at the gallery tonight?”

  “Filling in background, looking for people who knew Rita.”

  “Seeing who came to see her pictures.” If Grant really was innocent—killers tended to return to their victims, even years later.

  Lincoln nodded. “Footwork. I’m doing a lot more of it now that I’m retired.”

  And still liking the work, Quinn could hear it in his voice. “I’m going to need to talk with Mrs. Beck at length about her daughter’s friendship with Amy. And as soon as Mrs. Beck learns Amy Ireland has been missing for twenty years, it’s going to bring back a lot of painful memories; she may shut me out. And she’s definitely not going to want to help me if she knows the two of us are old friends and that it was you who found the connection between the girls.”

  “The fact Rita was missing eight years before being found might actually help you—Mrs. Beck will identify with another mom needing closure.” Lincoln considered him and slid the check over. “And I won’t take our disassociation in public personally, as long as you’re picking up the tab when we sit down to compare notes.”

  Quinn picked up the bill. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  Lincoln smiled. “I learned from the best. Emily should also be able to help you out with the background work. She hasn’t wanted to touch the Grant Danford case with a ten-foot pole; she thinks he’s guilty. She’ll be able to do some research for you without people connecting her to what I’ve been working on.”

  “I appreciate it. I need to find out everything I can about that summer the girls met before I talk to Mrs. Beck.”

  “You’ll be amazed at Emily’s resourcefulness.”

  “Can I also see the Danford files? I’ll need to be prepared before I step into the minefield of how Rita died.”

  “Come over tomorrow, I’ll show you what I have.” Lincoln spun the ice in his glass. “Lisa worked the case.”

  Quinn set down his coffee without tasting it. “She did?”

  “She was the one who excavated the grave.”

  Eight

  Robin Johnson, age thirty-one, shot and killed during a convenience store robbery. The case was seven years old, unsolved. Lisa slid the first X-ray onto the light table over the special hotshot bulb that could get more light through the old film, then swung over the high intensity magnifying glass. She frowned at the fracture lines in the skull that radiated across the left parietal bone in an oblong starburst. Robin had been hit—a hard blow from something blunt, long, and heavy.

  She scanned the other X-rays she had on the light table. The angle of the bullet went from the abdomen up into the chest. Robin had been knocked down and then shot? The cruelty was incredible. Lisa studied the films, absorbing everything they could tell her. There had to be something she could do with this case.

  Two hundred and sixty cases. Arbitrarily, counting boxes and thumbing through the printout of unsolved murders, Lisa figured she could solve 10 percent of the open cases through a solid forensic review of the evidence. That gave her twenty-six cases going back thi
rty years.

  She had decided to identify the most promising cases and then take them apart: send unidentified fingerprints and bullets back through the current databases; analyze the crime photos, scrutinize the autopsies; read through the police reports, case notes, and depositions looking for contradictions and assumptions; and try the latest techniques for fiber, blood, and fingerprint collection on the evidence.

  It was the last Saturday in October, and while it wasn’t atypical to spend part of her weekend at work, she was doing it today just so she wouldn’t sit around the house and brood.

  He hadn’t called.

  Lisa crumbled the page on her notepad when she realized she’d been doodling Quinn’s name, annoyed to have him intruding again. She missed the trash can, and the page joined the half dozen other crumpled balls that had flown that way during the day. Quinn was leaving for Montana tomorrow, and he hadn’t bothered to call to say good-bye.

  She didn’t want to admit she’d been lingering around the house the last two nights on the hopes he would drop by, making sure she had her cellular phone nearby when she was out on the hopes that he would call. She had told herself she wasn’t going to care; it didn’t matter . . . but it did.

  She’d put the things he’d said and done into the expectations column, and then the days had passed and he didn’t call. She rested her head in her hands. She needed to go home. Go back to bed. Admit she’d pushed way too hard on her first week back at work. The fatigue was a good part of this depression. Her body hurt. And she deserved this pity party.

  She gave herself five minutes, then forced herself to detach her personal life from work and accept reality. He would have called if he’d realized it was that important to her; he hadn’t meant the slight.

  Go home or stay?

  Stay. At least she could try to do some good here.

  Work had always been the best way to get back her perspective. At least she was alive. She pushed her chair away from the light table and returned to the desk. Robin Johnson. She picked up the police report. She needed to see how far the case had gotten during the initial investigation. If they didn’t have DNA available to tell them who the killer was, then what forensic evidence could do was provide that last piece of the puzzle; the investigation had to provide the framework.

  The first success was going to be the hardest.

  “You’re working late.”

  Lisa blanked her expression before she looked up. Quinn. Her heart skidded to a stop somewhere around chagrined at what she’d been thinking earlier.

  “Going to forgive me?”

  Now she was confused. “For what?”

  “Dropping off the face of the earth for a few days.”

  It was either a good guess or she hadn’t blanked her face fast enough. “Oh, is that what you did?” She pushed out a chair with her foot in silent invitation, feeling the joy taking over and turning her day bright again just because he was there. He looked so good—a man shouldn’t be able to make a gray shirt and faded jeans a fashion statement.

  He pulled a white sack from his pocket and offered it across the table. “You didn’t even realize I was gone.” White chocolate-covered raisins, somewhat smashed. He had a habit of bringing something.

  She took a handful, considered them, considered him. She gave a slight smile. “I realized.”

  Seated across the table, she got a chance to look at him more closely and her amusement faded. He looked tired, no . . . exhausted. The humor that was normally around his eyes was gone; the energy that pulled people toward him dimmed. The man looked discouraged. “You want some coffee?” she asked, feeling out the situation.

  “I could use some.”

  She got up and took two mugs from the collection Diane had assembled and reached for the half full coffeepot. She brought the sugar bowl and a spoon back with her, knowing his preference.

  “Thanks.” He was silent as he drank the coffee. She wondered what was wrong.

  He turned one of the photos on the table toward him. “No one solved this case?”

  “Cold seven years. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be finding a miracle.”

  “She deserves one.”

  “Agreed. I’m just not a miracle worker, despite rumors to the contrary.”

  They shared a smile. “I’ve got faith in you.” He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “I need a case. It’s closed, but they said it would be somewhere in the archives Gloria is working on.”

  He’d come to ask a favor. She didn’t know why it made her feel so good, but it did. She leaned forward and touched the keyboard, taking her laptop out of sleep mode. “Not a problem; I can access the larger database Gloria is building. Which one?”

  “Rita Beck. She disappeared eleven years ago; her remains were recovered three years ago on the Danford estate. Grant Danford was convicted of the murder.”

  The image of bones turned chocolate brown from rich, dark topsoil clicked back into her memory in vivid detail. All the emotions she had felt at the time were coming back with intensity; Lisa tried not to flinch. “I remember the case,” she said softly. body was discovered buried near the stables.” She pulled up the search screen and gave the case particulars. “I’ve got to learn to type,” she muttered, punching the delete key.

  Quinn laughed; it sounded a bit rusty, but it was a laugh. “I notice you’re pecking with two fingers.”

  “And the busted finger isn’t helping. Why this case?”

  He hesitated. “Lincoln is working for Grant Danford’s sister. He thinks there may be something to Grant’s claim of innocence. And there’s a possible link to a missing person’s case I’ve been working on for a number of years. I need to see the full file.”

  “The district attorney made his name on that case. If he convicted an innocent man—” She frowned as the laptop went dormant and the search paused; if it locked up again she was going to resort to hitting it. Ever since she had expanded the memory, the machine had been acting up.

  “Okay, here we go. Rita Beck. Box 46C2.” She read the index. “It’s been processed and is in the charcoal stage to remove moisture. It will be down in storage room five.”

  Quinn wrote down the number. “Stay. I’ll have the evidence clerk get it.” He disappeared before she could get to her feet.

  Lisa collected Robin Johnson’s case file and stored it away, hoping that Quinn would rejoin her rather than find the file he was looking for, say thanks, and sign out a copy. She really did want to help.

  He came back with a sealed blue crate. She pointed to an empty table. “Let me unseal it, deal with the charcoal.”

  While she worked, he circled the room. Most of the open murder cases had been located, brought in, and slid onto the metal shelves. Gloria was down to locating a handful of stragglers.

  The rudiments of a decent crime lab, including one very expensive microscope, had taken over the east tables. She was getting into the chase. There was a bold red twenty-six written on the whiteboard, and she saw him smile as he noted it.

  She set out the contents of the box. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I’ll copy and take it with me.”

  She wanted to protest but bit back her words. He didn’t look like he had slept much in the seventy-two hours since she had seen him last. “There’s a copier next door. Stamp the pages as confidential; the evidence clerk can authorize the release.”

  When he came back she was shutting down her computer for the night. “When did you last eat?” She reached for her briefcase.

  “I’m fine, Lisa.”

  “Don’t bother to argue. I’m buying.”

  “Quinn, you’re supposed to take the Do Not Disturb sign off the door occasionally so the hotel maids will clean the room.”

  “I’ll remember—eventually.” He crossed over to the room safe to store the Rita Beck files inside.

  He hadn’t bothered to unpack his suitcase; it sat open on the dresser, stacks of clothes spilling out. There was at least a week’s
worth of newspapers cluttering the table and tossed in a stack on the floor. Two Chinese carry-out cartons were balanced on the top of the wastebasket and several cellophane wrappers from peanut butter cracker packs were heaped on the bedside table next to the TV remote. His Bible, the leather cover so worn it was beginning to separate, was on the bed next to a pad of paper filled with his precisely printed handwriting.

  She picked up water glasses and stacked them on the tray, swirling a finger in the ice bucket now full of room temperature water. Quinn needed someone to look after him.

  “You like to sleep in the ice age?” It was all of sixty-five degrees in the room he had the thermostat turned so low.

  He glanced back as he locked the safe. “This is comfortable.”

  “If you’re an Eskimo.”

  He tossed his hat on the side table. It landed with a thud, sending a yellow phone message fluttering to the floor. “Let’s go eat.”

  “After you take something for that headache.”

  He paused and nearly scowled, making her want to laugh. He had a thing about aspirin; he really didn’t like taking them. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She leaned against the door to the bathroom while he rummaged through his shaving kit for the aspirin bottle. He opened the childproof cap and shook one tablet out into his palm.

  “Two tablets, Quinn. One isn’t even going to remove that frown let alone the pain.”

  “Just how much medical school did you have?”

  “Enough to make it an order.”

  He swallowed them with a grimace and shut off the bathroom light. “Let’s go eat.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “Sinclair’s, downstairs.”

  It wasn’t the casual restaurant she had expected; this was upper tier elegance and they were both underdressed. The room lights were dim, the music subdued, the decor rich. A group of five businessmen were finishing a late meal; two couples had tables near the windows.

  “Two, Michelle, nonsmoking.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Diamond,” the hostess replied with a welcoming smile.