“Or his guilt. That house is a crime scene, Madison, and he knew you were going to violate it.”
I barely heard him. My mind raced to a specific moment two days ago. I had to keep talking to retrieve the memory. “We violated the crime scene, together, Tex. You and me, two days ago, when we went to meet up with her son.”
Her son. How had I missed that? How had Tex missed that?
“That has to be it! He was here. He made it seem like he should have been there so nobody would question his presence at the scene of the crime, Long enough to make sure he covered his tracks.”
“So you went from being a decorator to a profiler?”
“The charitable donation. The rush to get out of town. The attitude when I first called and the change of heart. It all makes sense.”
Tex’s smile froze on his face. He leaned forward and touched my shoulder. “What is it? Did you think of something else?”
“Have you checked out Steve Johnson? Thelma Johnson’s son?”
“Keep it down,” Tex said sharply.
I dropped my voice. “We met him. At the house. That’s why he was so angry when I first called, he wanted to get out of Dallas before anybody put it all together. That’s probably why he changed his mind and sold me this stuff. He wanted me to get rid of any evidence!” It was my turn to gesture toward the SUV. “He lives in Cincinnati. He probably already skipped town.” I ticked facts off on my fingers, waiting for Tex to catch up.
“Listen to me. That guy has nothing to do with the murder,” Tex said, now with a hand on either of my shoulders, squaring me off, forcing me to face him.
But I was unstoppable, barely hearing him. “If he was Thelma Johnson’s son, then he was related to Sheila Murphy, somehow. He said he and his mom used to be close but they aren’t now. He was even listed in the paper as her only surviving relative. Don’t tell me you didn’t check him out like you did me,” I said.
“Night, try not to react to what I’m about to say.” He stared at me, his crystal blue eyes piercing my thoughts. “There is no Steve Johnson. The man you met was one of us.”
FIFTEEN
“One of who?”
“A cop.”
If the reality of his words had hit me right then and there I might have slapped him, but it took longer than that to process the information. Long enough for him to guide me back inside the studio and into a chair in the office. By that point I had moved from a slapping mood into one of numbness.
“Do you want a cup of water?”
“I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
“There is a homicide investigation at stake, and there are things I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“You were with me the day I went to Thelma Johnson’s house. You met the man I thought to be Steve Johnson. There is a reason you allowed me to be in that position and I want to know what it was. As far as you can see, I’ve been completely cooperative even when I didn’t think I was being cooperative. So spill.”
Tex filled a small Dixie cup with water from the cooler and sat in the chair opposite my desk. His head tipped to one side and I imagined him weighing his words, deciding what to share, what not.
“When Thelma Johnson died, it reopened the case of Sheila Murphy. Both women were suffocated. It was eerie; twenty years had passed. A lot of people who were involved with this investigation had come and gone. Most of the guys only heard about it through other sources, or remembered it from the news.” He didn’t say anything about not knowing who the killer was and I knew, for him, that question already had an answer.
“Thelma Johnson does have a son. He does live in Cincinnati. And you did talk to him. Once. His name isn’t Steve, it’s Terry. He agreed to cooperate with the investigation. Homicide planted bait in Thelma Johnson’s obituary, thinking they might draw out a lead. The phone number rings at the house, and also at the station. It was a long shot but we were desperate. Most people who read the obituary wouldn’t think twice about a son who outlived her but someone who wanted something from her, someone who had something to gain from her, would try to make contact and maybe even set up a meet. You called the number. Our guy called you back. He was a rookie cop with a phone number and an address that anyone who did a half-assed search on the web would find.” He leaned back in his chair and met my stare. “No disrespect.”
“None taken.” I’d fallen into a trap they’d set for a killer. I shuddered.
“A background check said you were on the level, so he arranged a meet.”
“You checked my background?”
“Standard procedure. I already told you we checked you out.”
That day, when he’d driven me to Thelma Johnson’s house, was the day he’d asked me about my business. It was the day he first asked about Hudson. Hudson and I had worked together often; there would have been a record of phone calls to him and checks written for work I’d hired him to do. A background check would have turned up our interaction. Tex had known from the get-go that I had a relationship with Hudson James.
“Fine. So you had to do something.”
“Our guy told you he’d arranged to donate the estate to a local charity. That was supposed to make you lose interest. But after you made that offer we figured you might be looking for something—or working for someone. We had to follow up on any lead we got.”
“You were at the Mummy when he returned my call. You knew all along.” I felt like an idiot for playing directly into their plan.
“C’mon, Night, I’m a cop. I’ve done this before. Four women are dead. I want to stop that from happening again.”
If it had been happening to someone else, I would have probably seen things from Tex’s side, but I couldn’t help feeling violated and used.
“How do you expect me to feel right now? You played me.”
“A lot of people fall for something like this. Don’t underestimate how smart these criminals are.”
“You’re actually telling me these criminals are smarter than I am?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Sure sounded like it to me.”
“Night, let me ask you a question. Who else had access to your trunk?”
It was the one question I didn’t want to think about. I averted my eyes and looked at the floor. Something wasn’t right. I stood up and scanned the corners of the carpet.
“Where’s Rocky?” I asked suddenly, my voice laced with panic.
His eyes followed mine around the room.
“He was here a second ago.”
“Did you shut the door?”
We both looked at the office door, open the width of one Shih Tzu.
“Damn it, Tex,” I said, and rushed into the studio, just in time to see an eight-foot silver arc lamp crash to the ground.
Rocky’s head and tail were lower than usual when I found him next to the marble base. Both the perfect round shade and globe-shaped bulb had shattered upon impact. The metal arc was bent from landing on a glass top table that now had a large crack across the middle. A small wet spot stained the rug next to the crash.
I scooped Rocky up and stepped around the furniture. I doubted any of it was fixable. The scared puppy pushed his head next to mine and wrapped a paw around each side of my neck like a hug. He was asking for forgiveness. It was easy to forgive a puppy. It was the only emotion I could handle.
I clipped Rocky’s leash onto his collar. “I’m taking him outside.”
“I’ll take him,” offered Tex.
“No, you won’t.”
“Then I’ll clean up the broken glass.”
“Leave it.”
“Night,” he started.
“It’s my problem. You work on yours, I’ll work on mine.”
I stormed out the back door and set Rocky on the sidewalk. He pulled me toward the back of the alley. After the near miss of an eight-foot tall metal arc lamp anchored in a 20-pound marble block, I was betting on a record-sized poo.
While Rocky arched his bac
k and stared up at me with guilty eyes, my mind raced. Something still wasn’t right. If the cops had invented a son and planted him at Thelma Johnson’s estate, then my being there had put a wrench in their whole plan. Tex knew I wasn’t involved, so why allow me to show up at all? Did they really use me because of my affiliation with Hudson?
Tex was looking at the big picture but he wasn’t seeing the right one. It was like watching the director’s cut of a movie. It was something I’d learned after I first started volunteering at the Mummy. Occasionally, we landed a print that included footage cut from other versions. At times, when I watched movies I knew well, I was surprised to find more to the story than what I remembered. So much was lost on the editing room floor, the end result often lacked the scenes of continuity that tie the whole vision together. Tex wasn’t seeing the whole movie. He was seeing the edited version he’d been replaying for twenty years.
That’s what I needed to see. The whole picture, cutting room floor scraps and all.
I had half-expected Tex to come looking for me out back. He didn’t. When Rocky finished up his business and I finished cleaning up after his business, we walked back down the length of the alley. No Tex. I poked my head into the studio and called out for him, but he wasn’t there. I went out onto the street, expecting to find him unloading the rest of the truck. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
Not only was there no Tex, there was no truck.
The lieutenant had stolen my car.
Fear, doubt, and anger converted into a shot of adrenaline with a don’t-mess-with-me chaser. I went inside and called the cops.
“Police Dispatch,” said a monotonous voice on the other end of the phone. He sounded like he was chewing something. My bet was on sandwich.
“This is Madison Night. I want to report a stolen car.”
“Where you at?” asked the voice.
“Don’t you have that information on your caller ID?”
“Ma’am, it’s a routine question. I’ll need your address.”
I gave him my contact info and answered a series of questions. He said he’d send a patrol car out to take my report. The proper channels were doing little to diffuse my attitude.
If Tex had known about my knee injury, I didn’t think he’d be so willing to hijack my car. Not one to play the victim, that was fine by me. The him-not-knowing, not the carjacking. That was definitely not acceptable.
I unlocked the front door and flipped the Closed sign to Open. As long as I was spending more time at the studio, it didn’t hurt to be available should opportunity come knocking. I shut Rocky inside the office and spent the next half hour cleaning up the lamp mess. After hauling the broken pieces to the dumpster, I selected a replacement floor lamp from the storage unit. I hoisted it onto a dolly and pushed it inside close to the now-empty spot. A rectangular impression on the carpet marked where the marble base of the arc lamp had sat. The round metal base of the new lamp covered most of the impression but left exposed corners. I could fix that with a vacuum but it would have to wait until later. A royal blue squad car with Dallas Police emblazoned on the side in aggressive italics pulled up to the curb in a red zone.
“Madison Night?” asked the chubby officer who stepped out from behind the wheel. I quickly recognized him as Officer Clark, the same officer who had been with Officer Nast when I was attacked outside Hudson’s house.
“Yes. My car was stolen.”
“Where was your car when this happened?”
“Right where yours is now.”
He took notes on a form clipped to a board and asked questions about the make, model, and year without looking up.
“License plate number?”
“I don’t know. It was a rental.”
“Where were the keys?”
“Probably in the door.”
“You left your keys in the door?” His head snapped up.
“I was unloading the truck with the help of a—a volunteer. I believe he’s the person who stole it.” The officer took notes. “You probably know him. Tex Allen?”
“Lieutenant Tex Allen?” His head snapped up again.
“Yes. Lieutenant Allen stole my car.”
Officer Clark turned his back on me and went inside the squad car. The windows were tinted to protect against the hot Dallas sun but through the crack in the door’s opening I saw him pick up his radio. He glanced at me, pulled the door shut behind him, and turned the other way. Finally he got out of the car.
“Looks like a mix-up. Lieutenant Allen says you knew he was borrowing your car to help out with your work here. He’s at a…” He flipped through a small notepad. “He didn’t say. A local residence? Says you borrowed some stuff from somebody and he’s helping you put it back?”
“He and I did not arrange that.”
“Listen, ma’am, if you want to file this as a stolen vehicle to make up for some one-night stand with Lieutenant Allen, that’s your decision.” He tipped his head and made a note on his pad. “One of the more creative ways to get back at him, I’d say. I’ll write up the report and we’ll start the investigation but you will have wasted a lot of people’s time and tax money, and chances are you’ll have your car back in a couple of hours. I’d say you need to forget about Loverboy Cop and move on.”
Oooooh!
“Despite what you think, this isn’t about a one-night stand. He stole my car and I want it back.”
“Tell you what. I’ll take this back to the station and fill out the paperwork. But I just spoke to the guy and sounds like this was a big misunderstanding. You have Lieutenant Allen’s number?”
“Yes.”
“You might want to give him a call and straighten the whole thing out.”
“I want you to fill out the paperwork and treat this like Grand Theft Auto.”
His eyes went wide. “That was either one hell of a night, or you’re one hell of a woman.”
I stormed back to my office as best as I could with a bum knee. I fished a bag of ice out of the freezer in the office and held it against the lime green fabric over my knee. I needed to cool down.
With my free right hand I checked the messages. Two hang-ups. One from a couple who had recently bought a mid-century modern ranch that had been renovated in the eighties. They needed a contractor to undo the damage. I could recommend Hudson, like I had done so many times in the past when these calls came to me. I went as far as dialing the first four numbers before I hung up.
I thought about last night, the attack, and the kiss. His explanation for what had happened years ago. I hadn’t been lying when I said I believed Hudson’s explanation, but Tex had raised questions in my mind. I dialed their number and, after a brief welcome to the neighborhood, gave them his contact information.
While I should have spent my afternoon trying to find my next clients, I couldn’t. My mind wasn’t on square backed sofas and floor to ceiling curtains and bullet planters and tulip chairs. It was on four murders that had taken place around Lakewood. I pulled a new lined notepad from the desk drawer and jotted a few notes.
Sheila Murphy
Thelma Johnson
Pamela Ritter
Carrie Coburn
What did I know about these women? I put pen to page next to Pamela’s name. Real Estate Agent. Swimmer. Twenty-something. Outside of those few items, I didn’t know much about her. I knew even less about the others.
I turned to the Internet and typed “Sheila Murphy murder” into Google. The top hit was the article from the recent Dallas Morning News. I didn’t click the link. Instead I scrolled down the page for older information. On page two I found what I was looking for. A copy of the newspaper articles from when she was killed.
I clicked the link and stared once again at the smiling face of young, blonde Sheila Murphy. It was the same picture the paper had used in the more recent article.
I learned nothing new from the article. Sheila had been at a costume party near White Rock Lake. She’d gotten into a fight with her boy
friend and left. Witnesses at her apartment building saw her return home in an unfamiliar truck. The next morning, her body was found by White Rock Lake, wearing a shirt that could be traced back to Hudson James, identified as the driver of the truck. Other evidence placed her in his truck, and his truck at the lake, but ultimately a jury did not find him guilty.
The details matched what he’d told me. Almost eerily so. It was as though he’d been plagued by the account of that night since it had happened, like he relived it so many times that the memory was untainted by age. I wondered if that was true, if he was locked up to this murder like Prometheus bound, waking every day to have his liver pecked at by vultures who continued to believe in his guilt.
One little fact of Sheila Murphy’s murder nagged at me. There had been no evidence of rape or sexual assault, yet Hudson told me she was in her underwear. He’d been a gentleman and given her his shirt, and that one piece of evidence had been more damning than the rest combined.
I clicked around other articles but found no mention of this fact. Yet, the question remained. Who had taken her clothes? Maybe it had happened at the party she’d fled. A costume party, the article said. A fight with her boyfriend.
Of everything I read, this was the only article that even mentioned that a boyfriend existed. There had to be a way to find out who he was, and not just by asking Tex. If the lieutenant could operate his investigation on his own terms, telling me bits and pieces of information while using me as bait, then I would compartmentalize what I found out, too. If I was indeed connected, then I was at risk and I had to take care of myself. Last night’s attack was proof of that.
I did a Google image search for Sheila Murphy, hoping to find a virtual memorial that showcased a series of pictures dedicated to keeping her memory alive. I hit pay dirt.
www.Findmykiller.com/SheilaMurphy featured the same smiling image of the young victim I’d come to know from the papers, but below a brief paragraph that summarized the unsolved crime was a gallery of images. I clicked on the first few and found photos of her childhood. I scrolled through three pages and clicked on the last picture. My breath caught in my throat.
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