“I’m asking Rachel,” Scott said.
“I don’t know. I only know what he did to me.” Rachel shook her head.
“Trust me,” I said it as if Rachel hadn’t spoken at all. “If Tim did find out, House certainly had the means and motive to kill him. I don’t think there’s any doubt. Listen, Scott, he’s speaking at the graduation tomorrow night. You need to go and arrest him now.”
“Hold on, Jamie. I appreciate you telling me how to do my job, but you could be wrong.”
“Not likely,” I snapped.
“I admit this looks pretty bad for House, but right now, all we have is circumstantial evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence? He’s a stinking creep, and you know it.”
“Yes, judge, I want you to find him guilty. He’s a stinking creep. Jamie said so. I am sure that will fly. I’ll advise the DA of your prosecutorial instincts.” Scott didn’t try to hide his sarcasm.
Rachel laughed a small laugh, but it seemed genuine.
I wasn’t amused. I glared at Scott.
“Calm down a minute, will you? I scoured the case file with a fine-tooth comb right after Tim was killed,” he said. “The police questioned House twice after Stewart’s disappearance. Someone at the park had seen his car there and reported it when the parents of the missing girl posted a reward. They dismissed him as a suspect then. And I checked on his whereabouts last week when Tim was killed. He was in Washington, DC at the time of the murder.”
“Big deal, it was a professional hit. He could have hired anyone. Did you knock on his door and ask to see his bank statements?” I sounded as indignant as I felt.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He’s not inheriting Tim’s estate. That’s why you’re in the DA’s crosshairs.”
“Thanks a bunch, friend.” I was adept at sarcasm too. “Take the word of a scumbag, but put me in the suspect pool.” I knew I was being unfair. It wasn’t Scott’s fault, but I couldn’t stop the angry words.
“He’s a suspect now, though, so stop looking at me like I’m the murderer,” he said. “In the meantime, we still need to find out who Tim was bringing to the meeting tonight. He . . . or she . . . might be able to tell us exactly what Tim was onto. We can’t arrest House or anyone else without evidence no matter how much we don’t like them.”
I scowled at him. “What about what he did to Rachel?”
“Statute of limitations is five years on sexual assault of a minor.”
“Five years!” I was appalled.
Scott threw up his hands. “I don’t make the laws, Jamie.”
Rachel interrupted our stare down by changing the subject. “Did you find anyone who knew Tim?”
I shifted my eyes away from Scott’s. “Not exactly. But he did get frequent visits from a man with a Highland Scots’ bumper sticker on a blue sedan with tires frequently marked by a dog named Roger.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t ask.” I waved away her unspoken question. “I thought we could swing by the school today and ask around, but we need to hurry before anyone else is murdered—mainly the three of us. I don’t want you to come, Rachel, now that I know how hard it is for you, but I’m afraid to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I was just caught off guard by the park.”
“I need you sober tonight.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“I can see that.” I picked up the empty beer bottles and tossed them in the trash.
Rachel ignored me. “Scott, did you bring the passwords I need to get into the mainframe?” He nodded. “Good. Now leave me here with my laptop, and I’ll do some research on House and the other suspects. You might be surprised at what I can dig up.”
She went to the bathroom, poured the rest of the beer from her open bottle down the sink, and threw the two full bottles in the trash to prove her point.
“I don’t want you left alone,” I said, unconvinced.
“I’ll be fine. Take the room and car keys. You can even take my purse. I won’t have any way to go anywhere or buy anything. Please. If Ms. Stewart got killed trying to protect me, I want to do what I can to find her killer.”
I looked at Scott, who nodded. He took the two beers out of the garbage, popped the tops, and poured them out too. “Just a precaution.”
Rachel didn’t comment. He gave the passwords to her and collected her purse and keys. “My cell number is 555-5309. If you get crazy—want a drink or whatever—give me a call. We’ll talk it through. Good luck.”
I gave her a hug. “Be safe, girlfriend. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Driving through the parking lot at school proved discouraging. Evidently, blue was the color of choice for a lot of drivers, and three out of every four bumpers proudly dis played the Highland mascot blowing on bagpipes.
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” I said.
“Not really. Come on. We have a few minutes before classes dismiss for the year. Let’s go to the office and let my badge do the talking.”
The principal wasn’t in his office, but after a conversation with the assistant principal, the secretary made an announcement that blared through the classrooms, offices, library, and gym.
“If you drive a blue sedan and are a friend of Tim Manter, please meet Scott Walters of the Anderson Police Department in the cafeteria. Now.”
The cafeteria was long and wide and held three rows of twelve tables each with bench seats. The eight-foot mobile tables had yucky, hunter-green laminate tops and seats. The heavy-duty gray floor tiles were scuffed with black shoe marks from a day’s foot traffic. Bits of paper and food littered the area, and I brushed off some crumbs before I sat down. Scott and I waited fifteen min utes after the last bell of the day, but no one showed.
“I knew it couldn’t be this easy,” Scott said, sighing. “Let’s go.”
“Just a few more minutes, Scott, please. What have we got to lose besides time?”
For me, coming into the school building brought back lots of memories. The sounds, smells, and sights wrapped me in a warm blanket of reverie. My four years at Highland had been filled with laughter, learning, fun, and comfort. Every recollection—from the school lockers to the principal’s office—was good. I couldn’t remember a single bad experience. Besides the Cliffhangers club, I had been a part of band, on the yearbook staff, ran cross-country, and was on the drama and debate team. I maintained a 3.5 grade point average and got along with most of the teachers.
How could Rachel’s experience have been so radically different? How could I not have noticed? I felt my new best friend—guilt—return with laser focus.
Thankfully, the cafeteria door opened before the feeling leveled me. In walked a tall, lanky man with an air of authority. He wore a well-tailored, charcoal, pin-stripe suit, with a basic white shirt and silk yellow tie with diagonal charcoal stripes. His black shoes were buffed to a sparkling shine. Although his blond hair grayed at the temples, he didn’t appear to be much older than his early- to mid-fifties. I noticed an inch-long scar that sliced across his left eyebrow. His face was clean-shaven, but he neither smiled nor scowled.
All business, he stuck out his right hand to Scott. “Craig Haskell, principal. May I help you?”
Scott produced his badge. “Scott Walters—Anderson Police Department. This is Jamie Storm. We’re looking into the death of Timothy Manter.”
Haskell looked at me. “Your badge?”
“She doesn’t have one,” Scott said. “Tim’s a friend of ours from high school. She’s back here for our class reunion and wanted to tag along.”
He acknowledged me with a slight nod, his hazel-green eyes veiling any emotions he might be feeling. Almost like he was protecting himself from an invisible enemy.
“What do you need from me?” the principal asked.
“Information. A lead brought us here. Someone from Tim’s neighborhood saw a blue sedan with a Highland High bumpe
r sticker. Of course, everybody in town has a Scots bumper sticker, but we had to try. We thought it possible that whoever drove the car might have known Tim and why he was killed.”
“I own a blue car, although I’m a little wounded by the blue sedan description. I drive a BMW 320i that tops out at 226 mph.” He smiled, but I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or arrogance.
“Nice,” Scott said, and meant it.
“I’m a friend of Tim’s—or was. I’m not sure how I can help, but I’ll tell you what I know.”
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I was anxious for information about Tim. Please God, let this guy know something.
“Go on,” Scott said.
“Tim phoned me about two years ago out of the blue. He was a stockbroker in New York, single, and interested in my past. Well, not really my past,” Haskell qualified. “But thirty years ago I was engaged to Dacia Stewart.
Bingo!
Scott and I exchanged glances.
“Tim was looking for answers regarding Dacia’s disappearance. When the principal’s job at Highland came open, I applied. I moved down here, and he and I have searched for those answers ever since. He told me about the Cliffhangers club and wanted me to come to the class reunion with him.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked, more than a little curious.
“We didn’t find anything new, but we did become good friends. We spent time fishing, rock climbing, and spelunking together. In bad weather we watched movies, did remodeling projects, and skied. He was like family. Good times. Last week, he called. I think it was Saturday night, and he wanted to know if we could meet after church on Sunday.”
I had to interrupt. “Tim went to church?”
Craig nodded. “In the last few weeks he had started going to that big church on College Drive in Parkside. He invited me a couple of times. I declined. I really have no interest in that sort of thing. We used to go on weekend fishing trips, but after he started the church thing, we could only take one-day trips. Had to be back for Sundays. I think church takes up a lot of time, and personally, I don’t believe in God and never will. I’ve seen too many good people hurt for no reason. Dacia is a good example of that. I really can’t see how a loving God would let someone like her be killed. And look at Tim. Right after he starts going to church, he gets a bullet to the brain. No thank you. Not interested.” Bitterness laced his speech.
I didn’t say anything. It was hard. I wanted to pull out the old “God doesn’t do bad things. People choose to do bad things” card, but wisely I kept it tucked away.
Craig continued. “I agreed to meet him after church because he sounded so excited. He said he thought he knew who did it and that I would be blown away. Famous last words. Unfortunately, he was the one blown away. That’s all I know. I lost a very good friend and wish we’d never even started the investigation.”
“What about this idea that Tim was sure he had found the killer. Did he give you any hints at all?” Scott asked.
“No, except to say I would be surprised. He said we’d been looking in all the wrong places.”
“Where’d you look?” Scott asked.
“Long story.”
“Would you be willing to come to the meeting tonight and tell us?” I asked. “The six remaining Cliffhangers all had Dacia Stewart as a student teacher. Since we’ve already met, it won’t be like coming in cold turkey. I know the others would like to meet you.” I tried to sound inviting without being pushy.
“To be perfectly honest, I’m done. I’ve had enough of this. I loved Dacia, but that was a long time ago. Having a friendship with Tim was great, but I can’t help but feel he wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for me. I’m just done. Good luck on finding Tim’s killer.”
Craig turned to leave, but Scott caught his arm, “Could you at least give us the names of the people you checked out?”
“You already have the list. It’s in your police report,” Haskell said.
“Tim thought none of them did it?” I asked.
“Yeah.” With that Craig turned and left.
“That can’t be. Phillip House’s name is on the list. Tim didn’t know what happened to Rachel. How could he be so sure it wasn’t someone on the list?” My mind reeled with this last bit of information.
“I told you, all we have on Phillip House is strong circumstantial evidence. We need more. Maybe Tim knew something that led him off the track. If he had known about Rachel, he might have changed his mind. On the other hand, being a child molester doesn’t automatically make you a killer.”
“No, but I bet being a politician who’s also a child molester does. Especially if someone discovers your dirty little secrets. I’m not letting this go, Scott. I’m going to nail the creep if you don’t.”
Scott grinned. “Ooh, big talk from a preacher’s wife. Do they teach you to slay dragons too?”
I laughed, but obstinacy punctuated my next words. “Okay, maybe I can’t slay dragons, but I’ve handled plenty of bad guys at annual business meetings. I have my ways. Seriously, what happened to Rachel was wrong. If he did that to her, how many other girls’ lives has he ruined? This isn’t some game, this is ugly, and I will do what I can. I have to. Rachel deserves better, Tim deserved better, and my guess is Dacia Stewart deserved better. I sat by in high school with blinders on about what was going on around me. I won’t do it again.”
“I didn’t say I was giving up on House. I just said maybe we’re wrong. I made a call after we left your motel and someone is already checking on his financial records. C’mon, let’s go see if Rachel found out anything.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rachel’s hands were flying across the keyboard when Scott and I entered the room. She looked up briefly to acknowledge our entrance. “How’d it go? Find out anything?”
“Oh yeah, we found Tim’s mystery guest. You’re not going to believe who it is. He’s on the list of suspects in the file.” I couldn’t resist dangling the carrot in front of her.
Rachel made a face. “I found out a lot of interesting info myself. I’ll tell if you do.”
Scott interrupted. “Listen, girls, I need to run home and see Tanae and the kids before meeting tonight. Why don’t you keep the information to yourselves until we’re with the gang? That way everyone hears the same thing at the same time, and we won’t be playing he said/she said.”
“Fine.” Rachel looked down and tapped on the keyboard with fast, efficient strokes.
“Give Tanae a hug for me,” I said.
“Will do. I’ll see you ladies at Todd’s.”
I was glad the Cliffhangers meeting would be at Todd Davis’s house. He lived ten miles out of Anderson on a farm—no bad memories for Rachel. He’d been a farm boy his whole life and was the only one of the group who shared my faith in Christ. He and I had become friends when we met in Sunday school in the three-and four-year-old class. Our teacher, Miss Lacock, would always ask how our week went, and everyone would say good or great or okay except for Todd. He always, always, always said, “Sorta good and sorta bad.” Then he’d say they had too little rain, but that mama cat had kittens. Or his sister picked on him all week long, but his dad let him ride a pig. We loved his stories, but Miss Lacock didn’t appreciate them much, I think because we all thought they were so much more interesting than Zaccheus, Moses, or Paul.
As we got older, his stories weren’t as fascinating, but by then we were buddies, so I hauled him along to the Cliffhangers’ gatherings. He went under protest because he didn’t really care about mysteries. He stuck with the group all four years in high school, but his participation was that of an onlooker. He liked things he could understand—a good corn crop, barrows and gilts, moisture—lots of moisture—and combines.
Rachel continued surfing the Internet. “It’s amazing what you can find out with a name and social security number. Why does everyone think their children’s names and birthdates make good passwords? Personal information is the easiest to find. I even got into
some sealed police files. Easy, smeasy for an ingenious hacker like myself.”
“And you’re modest too. You gotta like that in you ingenious hackers.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, though they sparkled for the first time since I’d seen her. If anyone had a calling to be a computer whiz, it was Rachel. Talk about a kid in a candy store. Commandeering private data from various Web sites and sources thrilled her. I could literally see her body relax as the printer spewed out page after page of background data on the four original suspects in the Stewart murder case. She’d also garnered information about Tim’s death. In fact, she downloaded his complete file, which was minimal, and printed it out. She was definitely ready for her part of the meeting.
“Let’s get a bite to eat before we go to Todd’s. It could be a long night.” My stomach growled in agreement.
Rachel grinned. “I’d prefer a drink, but if food is all you’re offering, I’ll take it.”
At five-thirty, we left the motel. Neither of us had much to say once in the car. My mind whirled with details of the case. I did manage to ask what Rachel wanted to eat and after a bit of I-don’tcare-well-I-don’t-care-either, we decided on the Chinese place on Scatterfield. The food was always good, quick, and inexpensive.
Too late, I heard the brakes of the small, red Sunbird ahead of me screech. With a jerk and streak of black rubber on pavement, it came to a jolting stop. I stomped hard on my brake pedal, causing the Escape to swerve. I fought the steering wheel for control. We skidded within a foot of the rear bumper of the front vehicle. The car behind us wasn’t so lucky. Rachel’s head whipped backward as the car crunched into the rear bumper of our SUV. The impact didn’t deploy the airbags, but the seat belts left a few bruises.
Traffic lurched to a full stop. I opened the driver’s door and stepped out. The vehicle that hit us was a beige Volvo. The teenaged driver of the front vehicle was out of the car, sobbing, hands fluttering, her two friends trying to calm her down. I thought I’d better check on them before checking on the Volvo driver. Ever impatient, the unaffected Indiana drivers started their cars and drove slowly around us, giving us curious stares.
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