Second Watch

by JA Jance

  There wasn’t so much as a moment’s hesitation on Hannah’s part.

  “You were much younger then, but you’re the detective who came to Monica’s funeral,” she said at once. “I heard from detectives working the case off and on for a few years, but it’s been so long now that I thought surely you had all forgotten about me completely.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “We haven’t forgotten about you, and we haven’t forgotten your daughter. We have some news for you today. Do you mind if we go inside?”

  She put down the rake and turned to lead us inside. The living room was small and neat and furnished with frayed furniture that was longer on comfort than it was on style.

  The walls were peppered with a collection of photos, and I took some time to survey them. The older pictures were of a girl and a boy together. From the looks of the hairdos and clothing, I pegged those as most likely being of Monica and her brother. There were what were clearly high school photos of both of them as well as a collection of a new generation of Wellington grandchildren, many of them featuring photos with Santa and elves.

  I was relieved to see that life hadn’t come to a complete stop for Hannah Wellington after her daughter’s death. Monica’s life had ended but the family had gone on without her. There were new people added into the mix—new children; new holiday traditions; new graduation photos; new wedding pictures. These were all things Monica never knew and could never be a part of.

  Hannah followed us into the living room and motioned us onto the couch. Then she took a seat in a rocking chair. It was only by rocking forward in it that Hannah’s feet touched the floor. That hit me hard. She and Faye Adcock had to be almost the same size.

  “What news?” Hannah asked. She wasn’t looking for niceties; she didn’t need anyone softening the blow.

  “We believe we’ve found your daughter’s killer,” I said quietly. “The problem is, the man who did it died years ago, and his widow committed suicide last night.”

  Hannah’s face was utterly devoid of expression as I delivered the news. “Tell me, then,” she urged quietly. “Tell me all of it.”

  I told almost the same story I had told Detective Hill the night before. Hannah heard me out without comment and without shedding a single tear. I didn’t hold that against her. I don’t believe she didn’t cry because she didn’t care. I think it was because she had cared too much for far too long.

  When I finally finished my painful recitation, I settled back on the sofa and the three of us sat in silence for the better part of a minute.

  “That’s it, then?” Hannah said at last.

  I nodded.

  “I always thought that knowing who did it would somehow make me feel better,” Hannah murmured. “It doesn’t, you know.”

  I wanted to say, “Closure isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be,” but I didn’t. I nodded, and the silence thickened around us once more.

  “And this woman claimed Monica was having an affair with her husband?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Hannah hadn’t taken her eyes off me the whole time I was speaking. Now she let her glance stray in Mel’s direction.

  “You’re a police officer, too?” she asked. “He said you were his partner.”

  “I’m a special investigator,” Mel answered. “So we are partners, but we’re also husband and wife.”

  “That’s what Monica wanted to be eventually,” Hannah offered. “A cop. Her father wouldn’t have approved, of course, so she didn’t start out with criminal justice as her major her freshman year, but she probably would have changed over to it eventually.”

  That one hurt. Monica had been my case. How was it that I had missed finding out she had wanted to be a cop? I felt my ears redden at the scope of my singular failure. I had been new on the job, but I should have done more. Pickles Gurkey and I should have done more.

  I wanted to say I was sorry, but Hannah was still talking.

  “Monica was always such a good girl,” she said. “She was someone who played by the rules because she thought the rules were important. I can’t imagine her having sexual relations with a married man. I just can’t.”

  Of course we all knew that Monica had been pregnant at the time of her death. That meant that somewhere along the way she had turned away from playing by any number of rules. When it comes to that, parents are always the last to know.

  Leaving that painful topic behind, Hannah turned away from Mel and looked at me again, squarely. I could barely stand to meet her gaze.

  “So when will all this come out?” she asked. “When will the news reporters learn about the woman who committed suicide and her connection to Monica’s case?”

  “Later this afternoon, most likely,” I said.

  “I suppose they’ll be talking about Monica’s death then, too?”

  “I would imagine,” I offered. “Someone may very well want to interview you about it. We wanted to give you some warning in advance of the media onslaught.”

  She looked down at her grubby overalls and the tiny work boots. “I suppose I’d better go change my clothes, then,” she said. “I should put on something a little more respectable.”

  Mel and I took that as a sign of dismissal. We stood up to take our leave.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Hannah exclaimed. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners. I didn’t even offer you something to drink.”

  “We don’t need anything, Mrs. Wellington,” Mel said, holding out her hand. “Nothing at all. And I hope you understand that we’re both terribly sorry for your loss.”

  Hannah gave us a tremulous smile. It was as though that one small gesture of sympathy on Mel’s part had somehow cracked through her reserve.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “The hurt of losing a child never goes away. I always keep a candle burning at the church in Monica’s memory. Once I get out of these clothes and into something decent, I’ll go over to the cemetery and put one on her grave as well. I’ve always been grateful for that, by the way, that at least her body was found so we had something to bury.”

  “You had two young boys to thank for that,” I said. “They made the call at no small cost to themselves.”

  “I don’t believe I remember that,” Hannah said with a frown. “Who were they? What were their names?”

  “Two brothers, Donnie and Frankie,” I said. “One of them is dead now. He died in a car accident several years ago. We interviewed the other one, Frankie, yesterday afternoon.”

  Hannah nodded. “Donnie and Frankie,” she said. “Very well, then. I’ll light a candle for each of them as well.”

  We left the house. Mel must have understood how drained I was because once we were in the car, she immediately suggested that we stop for lunch before heading back to Seattle.

  We drove around town for a couple of miles, soaking up the faux Bavarian atmosphere before settling in for burgers and fries at a local brew house. Once the waitress put our baskets of food in front of us, I opted for another pain pill.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a notification where the mother didn’t cry,” Mel said, as she swallowed a bite of French fry.

  I had to agree. “Me, neither,” I said.

  “And out of everything you told her, the only thing she objected to was the idea that her daughter had been carrying on with a married man. I suppose that’s to be expected, though,” Mel added. “I’m sure my mother thought I was a virgin on my wedding night. You and I both know that wasn’t true either time.”

  It was a joke, a tiny attempt at humor in the face of a very grim errand, but I couldn’t laugh it off. There was something about Hannah’s reaction that still niggled at me, too. Something about it wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  We had finished our burgers and were getting ready to return to the car when I finally figured out what was wrong.

  “Why did she do it?” I said.

  “Probably just horny,” Mel said.

  �
��No, I’m not talking about Monica,” I said. “That’s not what’s bothering me. What set Faye Adcock off?”

  “She said it was because you were reopening the case, and Mac MacPherson was threatening to blackmail her.”

  “Why didn’t she just call his bluff? It wasn’t like she could be charged with committing Monica’s murder.”

  “Right,” Mel agreed. “The most she could be charged with was being an accessory after the fact, but that might be a stretch.”

  “So what did she have to lose?”

  And then suddenly, with a click, I knew. I knew as surely as if someone had flipped a switch and sent a surge of electricity pulsing through my body. Faye hadn’t murdered two people in cold blood and then committed suicide to keep from having to pay some kind of phony blackmail attempt from Mac MacPherson. Everything she had done, including flinging herself to her death, had been done to protect someone else.

  According to Occam’s razor, the right answer is always the simplest answer, the one requiring the fewest assumptions. In this case that could mean only one thing.

  “We have to get back to Seattle,” I said, pushing away from the table. “We need to talk to Faye Adcock’s son.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I called Ross Connors while Mel drove. “Hey,” he said. “All hail the conquering heroes.”

  “I wish.”

  “What do you mean?” Ross seemed genuinely surprised. “Everybody I’ve talked to today, including Harry I. Ball, is singing your praises, saying that you walked out of surgery and started solving cases, including one very cold one, before they even took your stitches out.”

  “Staples,” I said. “They use staples these days instead of stitches. And whatever you’re hearing about that cold case may not be quite right. I’m hoping you haven’t pulled back on the crime lab doing that DNA testing for us, have you?”

  “I meant to,” Ross said, “but I had a meeting with a legislative committee this morning, and I hadn’t gotten around to it.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “In fact, if anything, give it a little prod in the butt.”

  “Why?” Ross asked. “What’s up?”

  “Mel and I drove over to Leavenworth this morning to talk to Monica Wellington’s mother. Something she said got us thinking that maybe Faye Adcock was covering for someone.”

  “How could she be?” Ross asked. “And why? Since her husband was the killer and since he’s dead . . .”

  “If her husband was the killer,” I corrected, “I’m thinking Kenneth Adcock and his wife were both covering for the same guy—their son.”

  The phone went so quiet I thought for a moment that Ross had hung up on me.

  “Hear me out,” I said. “Ken Adcock left Seattle PD in 1981, shortly after the Wellington case was designated closed, something that was done without Captain Larry Powell’s knowledge or approval. We have no idea when the evidence box disappeared, but as chief of police, Adcock would certainly have had access to that and to the HR records as well. But he didn’t have access to the M.E.’s office, and he had no way of knowing that at some time in the distant future, DNA would be the damning tool it is today.”

  “Even if we still had the physical evidence, was there anything to link the son—whatever his name is—to the dead girl?” Ross asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered.

  “So even with the DNA evidence, there wouldn’t be anything to compare it to.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You get a fire lit under that DNA testing,” I urged. “Mel and I are going to go get the crime lab something to compare it with.”

  “How can you? You don’t have a warrant. You don’t have probable cause.”

  “No,” I said. “Maybe not, but we’re old and tricky.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  “What trick?” Mel asked when I ended the call to Ross.

  “Give me a minute,” I said. “I’m working on it.”

  The next person I dialed was Ron Peters, who, unsurprisingly on a Tuesday afternoon, was in his office and taking calls.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Mel and I are on our way back from Leavenworth and want to be back in the loop. What can you tell us?”

  “Once the tow trucks showed up, officers were able to locate Faye Adcock’s weapon,” Ron said. “I know Mel mentioned something about that.”

  “What about her vehicle?”

  “A parking enforcement officer found it parked illegally near the Battery Street Tunnel. Her Kia Sportage has been towed to the Big Boy Towing impound lot in Lake City.”

  I knew from years past that Big Boy was one of the preferred towing companies that plied the streets of Seattle. I also knew the exact location of their impound lot. “We’re waiting on a warrant to search it,” he finished.

  “So things are under control at that end?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. All we need now is for everyone to get the paper-trail end of this pulled together—i’s dotted and t’s crossed. I’ll need something in writing from both of you as well.”

  “You’ll have it,” I said. “Tomorrow morning if not sooner.”

  “Oh,” Ron added. “Tell Mel that the IT techs downloaded what they needed from her phone, so she can get that back today or tomorrow, too. And speaking of phones, Mac’s phone records are on their way over.”

  Mel hadn’t been happy—in fact, she had been pissed as hell—when a CSI tech had collected her telephone in order to examine the authenticity of her recording of the events surrounding Faye Adcock’s death.

  “She’ll be pleased to hear that,” I said. “The poor girl feels naked without it. There’s one more thing I need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We thought it might be a good idea if we dropped by Faye Adcock’s son’s place to express our condolences. What’s his name again?”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea,” Ron replied dubiously. “But his name is Kenneth James Adcock, and he lives on the east side somewhere. Used to be Kenneth Junior but my understanding is that the junior bit goes away when the old man dies.”

  While Ron was still musing about that, I used my iPad and my Special Homicide access code to log on to Washington’s DMV database. Before Ron Peters and I said good-bye, I had located Kenneth James Adcock’s home address on a street in Bellevue called 132nd Avenue North.

  “So are you going to tell me or not?” Mel asked. I could hear the impatience in her voice.

  “I know you don’t have your iPhone, but do you still have your stylus?”

  Mel Soames is one tough cookie, and she may have cleaned more than one bad guy’s clock, but when it comes to manicures, she is definitely a girly-girl. In case you haven’t tried using an iPhone of late, long fingernails and the touch screen pad are not necessarily compatible. To that end, Mel had bought a whole collection of stylus gizmos, brightly colored metal pencil-looking things topped with rounded rubbery tips that work on the touch screen.

  Did I mention she’s bought several of them? That’s because they tend to get lost.

  “There might be one in the bottom of my purse,” she said. “I think I saw one the other day when I was up in Bellingham and looking for my room key at the hotel.” She shoved her purse in my direction. “Have a look,” she said.

  Let’s just say I do not like dredging things out of women’s purses. When I was growing up, my mother’s purse was absolutely off-limits, which accounts for my long-held phobia. This time, though, if we could make this plan work, digging through Mel’s purse might be worth it.

  “You still haven’t told me,” she grumbled as I scrounged through her belongings—several tubes of lipstick, mascara, a compact, an empty tissue container, an assortment of pens and pencils, a container of Splenda, and not one but three separate hotel keys, only one of which was from Bellingham.

  “Got it!” I announced at last, holding t
he stylus up in triumph. It was a shiny bright red, and that was the only reason I had managed to glimpse it in the dark depths of the deep black purse. “Now we’re in business.”

  Moments later I was back on the phone, this time to Todd Hatcher down in Olympia. Todd, who hails from Arizona originally, got pulled into Ross Connors’s orbit and into Special Homicide when he was working on his doctorate in forensic economics. His study on the rising costs of an aging prison population had turned Ross into a devoted fan.

  So yes, Todd knows his way around the world of economics, but it’s due to his uncanny abilities with computers that Ross keeps him on retainer. My best trick with electronic devices is to make them roll over and play dead—or, rather, be dead. Todd is able to get them to do handstands and tap dance.

  “Hey, Todd,” I said, “I need some help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I need you to create a bogus form for me, one that can show up on my iPad in—what’s it called again?—a PD something.”

  “You mean a PDF?” Todd offered helpfully.

  “Yes, that’s the one. I need one that can be signed directly on my iPad.”

  “I can do that, but what’s this bogus form supposed to say?” Todd asked.

  “A vehicle belonging to a suicide victim named Faye Adcock has been towed to the Big Boy Towing lot in Lake City. I need to have something with my name on it that I can have her son sign acknowledging that he’s being notified, on behalf of Seattle PD, about the location of his deceased mother’s vehicle.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “A Kia Sportage. You should be able to get the details on her and on the vehicle itself from the DMV.”

  “Okeydokey,” Todd said. “I’ll get right on this. I love writing fiction. You want me to e-mail you the form when I finish it?”

  “Please.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “I haven’t put the son’s address into the GPS, but I’m guessing about an hour and a half.”

  “You’ve got it,” Todd said.

  So did Mel. When I ended the call she was smiling. “Ken Adcock signs with the stylus. The crime lab grabs his DNA from that, and we’re off to the races.”