A Reason to Believe

by Diana Copland

“New evidence, meaning what?”

  “They found the duct tape used to bind the kid’s hands in a box in a tool shed behind a neighbor’s garage. Along with a bottle of Ketamine. And just guess whose fingerprints are supposedly all over them?”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Who found them? The neighbor?”

  “Guy went out to fire up his snowblower, and there they were, sitting right on top of it. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Ed scowled and took another sip of his coffee. “According to Branson, the call came in yesterday morning.”

  “Wait, hadn’t the guy had the blower out? We’ve had thirty inches of snow since Christmas.”

  Ed’s lips twisted. “I’m not sure the question was even asked.”

  Matt was incredulous. “They didn’t ask him?”

  “I have no idea,” Ed answered. “None of us have even spoken to him.”

  The two cops exchanged a telling look. “I thought the theory of the crime was it was someone smart,” Matt said. “Someone who knew enough to get around law enforcement.” He glanced at Kiernan. “Someone who’d worn rubber gloves.” Kiernan nodded once.

  “Well, apparently the new theory is Reynolds murdered the little girl, and then was careless enough to leave his prints all over the evidence when he dropped it off in the neighbor’s shed, several days after committing the crime.” Ed lowered his voice. “And my contact at the crime lab tells me if anyone has tested the tape and the bottle of pills, it wasn’t them.”

  Matt stared into his steady gaze. “If they found the evidence yesterday, and they arrested him this morning, but the crime lab didn’t do the testing, then…who did?”

  “I heard a rumor it was sent to the FBI lab in the capital.”

  Matt scoffed. “Since when does our department go to the FBI? There was no kidnapping here. Unless that’s what they’re calling his hauling her down to the basement…”

  “I always knew you were smarter than the average bear.” Ed leaned back in his chair.

  “So, who alerted the media, and why?” Matt asked, his jaw tight.

  “Could have been anyone,” Ed answered with studied casualness. “Someone in the DA’s office, or a police detective who knows something rotten when he smells it. Sometimes what a case needs is the harsh media spotlight. And maybe a little help from the outside.” Matt wouldn’t have sworn to it, but he thought Ed sent Kiernan a subtle wink. “And I need to get back uptown before I find my ass in a sling.” He stood, hands slipping back into his gloves. “Nice to meet you, Fitzpatrick.”

  “Same here, Detective,” Kiernan said.

  Ed looked at Matt. “Just to clarify, you haven’t spoken to me.”

  “Understood.”

  “But if you happen to come across anything while you’re on vacation—” one of his brows arched sardonically, “—give me a heads up, will you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ed saluted him with an ironic smile, then turned and left as quickly as he’d come.

  “Well, his opinion is pretty obvious,” Kiernan said. “Marc Reynolds is being set up.”

  “Not only is Reynolds being set up, he’s being set up from the inside.” Matt reached for his gloves and stood. “Come on, we have work to do.”

  * * *

  The main branch of the county library was not far from the coffee shop, housed in an enormous brick building built specifically for the purpose in 1903. The inside was elegant in the way only old buildings could be. Each large room boasted mahogany trim and crown moldings, staircases with gleaming dark banisters and shining hardwood floors. The elevators were a later addition, and Matt and Kiernan stepped off on the third floor where the research and computer departments were housed.

  Matt led the way to a bank of computer screens and keyboards. He pulled out a chair in front of one of the screens, reaching into his inside jacket pocket for the folded copy of the Reynolds’ guest list. Kiernan pulled out a chair next to him, his eyes fixed across the room.

  Matt followed the direction of his gaze, but all he saw was a towering section of bookcases. “What are you looking at?” he asked as he sat down.

  “Huh?” Kiernan looked startled by the question. “Oh, the librarian.” He sat and pulled off his leather gloves.

  Matt looked again. “What librarian?”

  “The one between the stacks right there by the window,” Kiernan replied, a faint smile on his face. “Man, I’ll bet women are glad the styles have changed. That Victorian-era stuff looks really uncomfortable. And her bun looks so tight it must have hurt.”

  “Victorian era…” Matt looked again, but when he still saw nothing, an unpleasant realization dawned. He turned back to Kiernan and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Are you telling me there’s a…” He tipped his head.

  Kiernan laughed. “The word you’re looking for is ghost. It’s what I do, remember? See ghosts? And yes, there’s a ghost over there returning books to the shelves. Be glad you can’t see her. She looks like one of the types who used to wield a mean wooden ruler.”

  Matt glanced again nervously, and Kiernan chuckled.

  “Relax,” he said. “She’s no more aware of you than you would have been of her if I hadn’t been here.”

  Matt studied his face. “She’s not aware of us?”

  “Nope. She’s just doing her thing, like she probably did every day.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are generally two recognized kinds of hauntings. Residual and intelligent. Residual is more like an imprinting on the space. The spirit remains, doing what it always did, repeating scenes from their lives over and over. They aren’t aware of the passage of time, or the people who are there now. Intelligent is like Abby. They have a mission, a purpose, something they want to accomplish. They want to make contact, for whatever reason. Residual hauntings are much more common, frankly.” Kiernan shrugged negligently. “They’re especially common in places like this. Old, with an established period of use. She’s probably just comfortable here.”

  “Glad she is,” Matt muttered.

  Kiernan grinned, propping his chin on his hand. “I suppose this would be a bad time to tell you about the three ghosts in the coffee shop, then?” Matt stared and Kiernan laughed. “They were mill workers, still doing their job. Relax, Matthew. All it means is they were happy in the space. Haven’t you ever walked into a building or a house, and immediately felt comfortable?”

  “I always have here. Not sure I will so much, now.”

  “This shouldn’t change a thing. All it means is she loved the place enough to linger. That’s a good thing. I’d bet you move through the same spaces as ghosts every day, you just aren’t aware of it. Hospitals are notorious for lingering spirits. Police departments probably are, too. Spirits tend to remain where major moments in their lives occurred.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you, seeing things when no one else can?”

  “It’s my reality, remember? And it wouldn’t bother you, either, if you’d been doing it your entire life. Besides, I make a pretty good living at it. I’m good as long as they aren’t poltergeists, which are just an annoying pain in the ass, or demonic—” he shuddered, “—which we’re going to leave for the priests, thanks very much. Otherwise no, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Demonic?” Matt murmured, feeling faintly alarmed. “That’s real?”

  “Most of what you’ve heard about is real, in one way or another. Not the Hollywood version, no. But nasty spirits? If they were nasty people, it sort of follows they wouldn’t suddenly become angelic in the afterlife, right?”

  “Are they dangerous?” Matt prodded, his eyes searching Kiernan’s face.

  “I send up a prayer and make the sign of the cross at the beginning of my sessions for a reason.” He shrugged negligently. “As long as they don’t come after me
with a knife…” When Matt’s eyes widened, Kiernan laughed. “Kidding, Matt. Just kidding.”

  Matt stared at him balefully. “You are not funny.”

  Kiernan’s grin was unrepentant. “Yeah, I am. It’s one of my many charms.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Along with what I’m capable of doing with my mouth. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Matt knew color was climbing his neck even as he turned back to his computer screen. His blush was confirmed when Kiernan chuckled.

  “Shut up and do something constructive, will you?”

  Kiernan subsided, but Matt could see his lopsided grin in his peripheral vision.

  “So, what am I doing?”

  Matt glanced over to see he’d gone to the local newspaper site, too. He pointed to the People in the News link at the top. “That’s the local paper’s euphemism for the society pages. Just look to see how many times the names on the list turn up, and how often they’re mentioned in conjunction with the Reynolds.”

  They worked in affable silence for nearly two hours, making marks or notes in the margins next to names. Matt could see Kiernan begin to yawn out of the corner of his eye.

  “Keeping you awake?”

  Kiernan rubbed his hands over his face. “More like putting me to sleep. How many people are in this town?”

  “Half a million, give or take.” Matt made another note on the page.

  “So, if there are half a million people here, how come your society columnist only writes about fifteen of them?”

  “Those are the ones with money, including the owners of the newspaper. The rest of us don’t matter much.”

  “Which could be why they’re all so full of themselves.” Kiernan shook his head. “The same people invite each other to every cocktail party, every fundraiser, every meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary Guild.”

  “Hey, don’t knock the Auxiliary Guild. Without them, there’d be no cocktail parties, and then what would we read about?”

  “Oh, gee, I don’t know,” Kiernan drawled. “Maybe the news?”

  “Boring.” Matt shot him a grin.

  “This is boring. How many different ways can these people come up with to get hammered together?”

  Matt grinned as he continued to flip through the back issues of the newspaper. One thing became obvious as he read: the Reynolds were contributors to almost every major charity sponsored by the “top fifteen.” And the people most often photographed with Karen and Marc Reynolds were Police Commissioner Patrick Mitchell and his wife, Samantha.

  Before being elected to the governing body of local law enforcement, Patrick Mitchell was a defense attorney. Much like Marc Reynolds, he amassed a fortune doing so. Matt found himself wondering if it was how the Reynolds and the Mitchells became so close. Had Mitchell been a senior partner at the firm where Reynolds now worked? He switched over to the business pages and did a search for the names Mitchell and Reynolds. He found his answer in an article dated March of 2006.

  Marc Reynolds, up and coming defense attorney and junior partner at Porter Mitchell, has bought out senior partners Davis Porter and Patrick Mitchell, taking over the powerful local law practice. When contacted for a quote, Patrick Mitchell spoke very highly of his associate. “Marc Reynolds is a bright and ambitious young man,” Mitchell said. “I’m quite sure the firm is in good hands. I wish him the best of luck, but I doubt he’ll need it.” Davis Porter could not be reached for comment.”

  Matt read the item again. He pressed the print button, then changed the search. Minutes later, on a page listing political contributions for candidates for police commissioner, he found Marc Reynolds’ name. He’d made a contribution of twenty-five thousand dollars. Matt printed this document, too.

  “Find something?” Kiernan asked, his eyes avid.

  “Maybe. Not sure yet. You?”

  Kiernan frowned thoughtfully. “Just that the same four names seem to keep coming up in connection with the Reynolds’. And they’re all on this guest list.”

  Matt walked over to the printer and picked up his copies. “Which names?”

  “Davis Porter the fourth, Connell Richardson, Patrick Mitchell—” his frown deepened, “—and Garrett Preston. That name sounds familiar…”

  “He’s the ADA prosecuting the Reynolds case, remember?” Matt sat beside him. “And I’m pretty sure Connell Richardson is Karen Reynolds’ brother-in-law.”

  “Then we should be able to take him off of the list, yeah?” Kiernan asked.

  “I don’t know. At this point, I don’t think we can remove anyone. Here, look at what I found.” Matt handed Kiernan the pages and leaned back in his chair, watching him read them.

  A frown furrowed Kiernan’s forehead. “So, Marc Reynolds bought out Davis Porter and Patrick Mitchell.” He chewed his lip. “Interesting Mitchell was the only one who was available for comment.”

  “Interesting that Marc Reynolds then turned around and donated twenty-five grand to Mitchell’s campaign. I find myself wondering how a junior partner in an established law firm has pockets deep enough to both buy the firm and make the contribution.”

  “Do you think Porter somehow got the raw end on this deal?”

  “No idea. But I think it’s worth following up.”

  “I suppose,” Kiernan frowned as he handed the pages back to Matt. “I don’t believe you’re going to find this was motivated by business.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Kiernan’s eyes were pensive. “I felt it, remember? I lived the memory with her. He was furious and, for whatever reason, his anger was aimed at Abby. He was angry enough to kill her. It was personal. It doesn’t feel like something motivated by a business deal gone sour to me.”

  Matt knew Kiernan believed what he’d seen and felt during the reading in the Reynolds house, and watching him had been convincing. What Matt had seen and felt with his own eyes was compelling, too. But the part of him that had been a cop for nearly ten years couldn’t help but look on all of it with a remaining, albeit small, dose of skepticism.

  Kiernan believed what he was saying, but it didn’t make it true. Cases were solved by finding a trail of evidence and following it to its natural conclusion. So far the only things that looked like solid evidence were the guest list from the Reynolds’ house and Marc Reynolds’ ability to somehow buy out the senior partners at a successful law firm. Add in the hefty contribution to a political campaign, and all Matt’s instincts took notice. In his career he’d seen murders motivated by a lot less than a business deal gone sour.

  He chose to keep the opinion to himself for the time being.

  Folding the papers and slipping them into his jacket pocket, he felt a vibration under his fingers and withdrew his cell phone. “Sheila,” he said, lifting the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Sheila’s voice was brisk. “Listen, I’ve only got a half hour before my shift starts at the hospital, but I might have something from Toni.”

  Matt straightened. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I’ll let you decide if it means something. I’ve barely got time to shower and change, but if you and Kiernan could meet me in the employee lot near the ER in like, twenty minutes…”

  “We’ll be there.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and gathered the sheets of the guest list. “Come on. Sheila thinks she might have something.”

  Kiernan pushed to his feet, and Matt tried to ignore his uncharacteristic silence.

  * * *

  The trip to the hospital from the library, which ordinarily took five minutes, took twice as long due to the heavy snow on the roads, but they still arrived with time to spare. Matt pulled into a space near where he knew Sheila parked her car and killed the engine.

  Kiernan hadn’t said a word during the drive. He sat with his head turned away, staring out
through the passenger window. He was so quiet and still, neither a trait Matt associated with him.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Spill it.”

  Kiernan turned his head, his eyes wide. “What?”

  “You are never this quiet. What’s on your mind?”

  “How do you know I’m never this quiet? You’ve known me all of four days.”

  Matt could see his point. “Okay, how about this? You haven’t been this quiet in our acquaintance, which leads me to believe you have something on your mind. Care to tell me what it is?”

  Kiernan looked down, his lips pursed. He sighed and unfastened his seat belt before he turned to lean against the passenger door. “Okay, look. Before the day after Christmas, you’d never even heard of me. Contrary to what my sister thinks, most people haven’t. And before Christmas Eve, you’d never seen a ghost in your life. So I guess it’s only reasonable you should doubt not only what I can do, but what you saw as well…”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t say I doubted anything.”

  Kiernan fixed him with a pointed look. “Aren’t you?”

  Matt felt irrationally as if he’d somehow insulted Kiernan. “Look, I’m a cop, okay? Everything I’ve done from the day I got my shield, every investigation I’ve ever been involved with, was rooted in reality—what I could see, what I could prove. I’ve solved a lot of cases that way, Kier.”

  The wonderful eyes remained subdued. “I don’t doubt it for a moment. I’m sure you’re a terrific detective. But how many of those cases started out with you seeing the murder victim at the scene of the crime, standing upright and pointing you toward their body?”

  Matt bit his lower lip. “You know how many.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Kiernan’s eyes searched his face. “Back at the library, when you found the information about Marc Reynolds buying out the law firm, I could feel your doubts resurfacing, the cop in you finding a way to push back not only what you’d seen, but what I might be able to add.”

  Matt started to speak, but Kiernan held up his hand.