by Carsen Taite
Chapter Seven
Riley paced in front of the diner wishing she hadn’t agreed to this meeting. Letting a police detective invade her regular dinner spot had already added disruption to her usual routine. Meeting her parents for lunch the next day was piling on. Of course, dinner with Claire had been more of a pleasure than a burden. She’d enjoyed their gentle sparring, and after the push and pull was out of the way, they’d actually had a pleasant evening. The only drawback was how much sharing a meal with a smart, attractive woman reminded her of how lonely her life had become. Aside from her outings with the sketch club, she had no social life. Dating was a nonstarter. By date three, without exception, every woman started asking personal questions about family and background. Some even guessed she was Frank Flynn’s daughter, and Riley’s steadfast refusal to talk about her father stalled any forward momentum. With Claire, she didn’t have to delve into the past because Claire knew it all or thought she did anyway.
Riley checked the time. They were fifteen minutes late, and she deemed that a good enough excuse to bail. She was several yards away from the restaurant, when she heard her mother call her name. Damn.
She took her time walking back toward them, stymied at the sight of them walking arm in arm. They looked like a happy couple headed to share a meal. She had to dig really deep to come up with a memory of when her parents had looked this cozy. In the year or two before Frank was arrested, their interactions had consisted of whispered arguments behind closed doors about why he’d spent nights away from home without telling her coupled with accusations that he was putting their money up his nose. When Riley asked questions, her mother made excuses for her father’s absence, determined not to mar Riley’s image of her father, but the day he was arrested for Linda Bradshaw’s murder everything changed.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” her mother said. “It was my fault. I’ve been meaning to have the engine light in the car checked out, and it wouldn’t start this morning. I had to call your father to pick me up.”
Riley figured it was likely Frank who’d made her late, but she didn’t bother arguing the point. Her mother’s codependence was legend, and she’d long since given up getting her to see Frank for the mess he was. She strongly doubted prison had changed him for the better. “We should go on in. I don’t have a lot of time.”
A waitress led them to a booth in the back of the diner. Riley had purposefully picked this place down the road from the criminal courthouse because it wasn’t in her usual rotation. She’d only been here once before and the food was good, but she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. The three of them settled into the booth and gave their drink orders to the waitress. She’d barely left them to peruse the menu, when Riley set hers aside and folded her hands on the table.
“You already know what you want?” her mother asked. “Frank, I read online that the smothered chopped steak is delicious. I think I’ll have that with mashed potatoes and fried okra. Riley, do you think that sounds good?”
She knew her mother rambled when she was nervous, but she wasn’t in the mood to calm anyone’s nerves other than her own today. All she wanted to do was get this little family charade over with as quickly as possible. She faced her father square on. “I agreed to meet you and hear what you have to say. Let’s get this over with.”
“Riley,” her mother hissed. “Be nice.”
Riley kept her voice low, but firm. “No, Mom. I don’t have to be nice. I’m a grown woman with a life of my own. I’ve spent years working hard to live outside the shadow of being Frank Flynn’s daughter, but I can never seem to escape.” She directed her next remarks to him. “If you didn’t kill that woman, I’m glad you’re no longer in prison, but that doesn’t change the fact you weren’t there when I needed you to be. I can’t help but wonder if you would’ve been arrested for murder if you hadn’t been cheating on your wife and spending any extra money we had to buy drugs. All I do know is that I’ve spent the better part of my life without a father, and I don’t need one now.”
She could feel her voice start to choke, and she stopped talking to keep from compounding her own discomfort. Frank had dropped his gaze to the table while she was talking, but when she finished, he met her eyes.
“You’re right. You don’t need a father. You’ve made a good life for yourself. You teach, you’re an artist. I remember when you used to draw me pictures to tell me about your day. I still have one, and it got me through some really rough times.” He shifted in his seat. “I don’t deserve your trust, but I’d like a chance to earn it back. I realize you may not even believe that I’m innocent.”
He pulled out a card and slid it across the table. “This is my attorney. Her firm handled my appeal pro bono. She can tell you anything you want to know about the case. I cheated on your mother, and that was a terrible thing to do. I also abused drugs, which compounded my bad decision-making. I can’t make up for my past. I can only change my future. I’ve been clean and sober for fifteen years, but I’ve never been a murderer. I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing two things—working to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else and earning back your trust.”
He sounded earnest and sincere, and Riley wanted to believe him. The little girl within remembered when he would come home from work and scoop her up in his arms and listen to the tales of her day before he did anything else. She would show him her drawings, and he would ooh and ahh over them like they were fine works of art. She’d loved that man with every fiber of her being. Was there a shred of him still in existence or was the man seated across from her now only a shadow of his former self, with all the substance lost to unfortunate circumstance and the unkind passage of time?
She wanted to believe his contrition was real, but she wasn’t there yet. “I don’t think I’m ready to forgive you.”
He nodded, his eyes reflecting her sadness. “Understood. How about today we simply share a meal, and then, if it goes okay, we can try this again another day. Keep it small until you’re ready to take a bigger step.”
His proposal sounded good and easy and fair, but also hard and scary and uncertain. She knew her unwillingness to either let the past go or find some amicable resolution held her back in so many ways, but her current condition was a known, and right now the familiar was comforting and secure. Besides, she suspected that the very fact she was his daughter was likely the reason Claire was snooping around in her life. Reestablishing a relationship with him now seemed fraught with more danger.
Still, he was her father, and, by all accounts, he wasn’t a murderer. Just like she wanted to be afforded the benefit of the doubt, she owed him some leeway, but she didn’t owe him much. “Let’s eat lunch, but that’s all I’m ready for right now. If you want more, you’re going to have to be patient and not push me.”
“Oh, Riley,” her mother said, her voice quivering with excitement. “That’s—”
Frank interrupted. “That’s all I can ask. I promise I won’t push.” He shot a pointed look at her mother. “We won’t push.”
The rest of the meal was spent exchanging surface level conversation. Frank mentioned he’d seen the news about her gallery show and he asked insightful questions about her work and the installation. At times during the back and forth, Riley slipped into a comfortable lull, imagining what their life could’ve been, but then something would come up that related to the years missed and why, and her guard would go back up. She might be willing to forgive, but she wasn’t sure she would ever forget.
* * *
The call came in at eleven forty-five a.m. as they were driving along rain-soaked streets toward East Dallas to interview another one of the members of the sketch club. Nick answered the phone, and after a few “uh-huhs” and a “be right there” he disconnected the call. “Change of plans.”
“What’s up?” Claire asked, slowing the car for the red light ahead.
“We have another body. It’s at Large Marge.”
“You’ve got to be kidding
me.” Claire knew he wasn’t, but she held out hope the report was a mistake. Large Marge was the local nickname for the Margaret Hunt Hill cable-stayed bridge over the Trinity River adjacent to downtown. She prayed the body on the bridge had nothing to do with the case they were working because if they were related, then their problems were about to increase exponentially. At the intersection, she whipped the car around and headed back toward downtown. “Who’s on the scene? Do we trust them? This rain’s going to wash away evidence, they need to—”
Nick held up a hand and pointed to the phone at his ear. “Ron Blake,” he whispered and then returned to his conversation with dispatch. The next few minutes of the drive consisted of Claire racing through the holes in traffic while Nick contacted the officers on scene and gave them detailed instructions about locking the entire area down. When they reached the east entrance to the bridge, Claire hunted down a place to park and leapt from the car. She flashed her shield at the uniformed officer standing next to a handful of orange cones formed into a makeshift barricade. “Where’s Blake?”
The officer blinked at her for a moment like he was trying to decide if he should divulge the location of his superior. “He’s expecting me,” Claire said. “Detective Hanlon.”
“Yes, of course.” He pointed in the direction of the bridge where another patrol cop was directing traffic to turn around and head west before exiting the bridge. “Body’s over that way.”
Claire spotted Blake kneeling about twenty feet away. He waved and called out to her, but she couldn’t hear him over the sound of the honking horns from the traffic jammed up on the bridge. “You’re going to need help with this traffic flow. Call dispatch and tell them you need backup. They should be able to get a few more units out here to help direct traffic.”
With that piece of advice, she left him to his work and headed over to where Sergeant Blake was standing about twenty feet away. She was halfway there when she heard Nick call out to her. “Wait up.”
She slowed but didn’t stop, and a few seconds later, he was by her side. “Reyes is on the way,” he said.
“Good.” She sped up until they reached Blake who stood to greet her. He was wearing a Dallas PD rain cape and rain boots.
“Hey, Hanlon,” he said. “Hope you’re ready to get muddy.”
She looked directly behind him but didn’t see a body. “Tell us what you’ve got.”
“Twenty-something, white female. Near the pedestrian entrance to the bridge. We set up a tarp but were careful not to tramp all over the scene.”
“Who found her?”
He pointed at a tall, thin white man dressed in expensive, name-brand running attire standing a few feet away, talking to another officer. “Will Gentry. He’s a tax lawyer. Crazy fuck likes to take a run at lunch and has a penchant for this damn monstrosity of a bridge. Parked on the west side and ran across. Says he spotted the vic as he turned to head back. He looks on the up-and-up, but it’s a weird day to be out running, if you ask me.”
Judging by his round belly, Claire figured any day was a bad day for Blake to be out running, but he had a point. “I want to see the victim first, but don’t let him go yet.” She looked up. “Aren’t there cameras on this bridge?”
Nick answered. “Traffic cams for sure. Not certain if they’d pick up that area, but I’ll make the call to get the footage saved. Whoever did this might have driven away from the scene, and we should be able to get the tags on all the cars that have come through here.”
“Make a note once we have the time of death to request all footage for several hours on either side.” She lowered her voice. “And keep an eye on the crowd. Whoever it was may still be here.” She took a look around as she spoke, scanning the cars and people who’d gathered and feeling a tinge of relief not to see any signs of Riley Flynn in the crowd.
“Let’s take a look. Blake, please stay here and send Reyes when she gets here.” She walked off before he could offer any commentary on what she was about to see. She’d rather experience the scene firsthand with no preconceived notions.
The woman was posed, her back against a dirt mound. Her legs were crossed and her hands were resting on her knees. From a distance it looked like she was meditating or in the middle of a yoga class. The only indication something was wrong was the fact she didn’t move at all as they approached. Claire bent down to get a closer look when a voice startled her out of her observations.
“You kids planning to start without me?”
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Claire breathed deep. “Seriously, Reyes. I’m glad you’re here, but give a girl a warning why don’t you.”
“Sorry not sorry. I was having lunch a block from here.” She pointed at the body. “This looks a little too familiar.”
“I know.” Claire stepped to the side. “Can you check her pockets first?”
“Sure, Detective. Whatever you want.”
Reyes stepped forward and donned a pair of gloves. She started to reach into the left jacket pocket of the victim but stopped and cocked her head.
“What’s wrong?” Nick asked.
“Hang on.” Reyes started touching the body in several places, making clucking sounds and narrowing her eyebrows. “Blake tell you anything about when he arrived on the scene?”
“No, but I didn’t ask much. You know me,” Claire said.
“Like to see it for yourself. I know, I know.” Reyes motioned for her to come closer. “Check this out.” She took Claire’s gloved hand and placed it on the dead woman’s arm which was incredibly stiff.
“She’s in rigor.”
“Full on.” Reyes pointed to the ground around them. “No sign of a struggle. My guess is she was brought here exactly like this.”
Claire’s brain started firing with her amateur, but experienced knowledge of rigor mortis and time of death. Based on the stiffness of this body, death had occurred hours before, maybe even as early as last evening. It had been a cold night and had rained off and on. Had this body been here the whole time or had someone dropped it here today?
“How about those pockets?” she asked.
Reyes reached into the jacket pocket. “Nothing here. Let me check the other one.” She reached over and carefully unzipped the other pocket and slipped her hand in. “Got something.”
Claire dropped to a squat and held her umbrella over the body while Reyes pulled a folded piece of paper from the dead woman’s pocket. Reyes handed it to her. “No, you open it,” Claire said. She held her breath while Reyes unfolded the paper and held it up for Claire and Nick to see. Claire stared for a moment and then squeezed her eyes shut, hoping when she opened them again, the image would change.
It didn’t. Reyes was holding a rough, yet detailed sketch of the bridge from the vantage point they were standing in right now. Whoever killed Jill Shasta killed this woman too, and they were leaving clues. Big, mysterious, aggravating clues.
Claire’s stomach soured as a thought occurred to her, but she had to be sure before she could pinpoint the source of her dread. “We’re going to need to know time of death ASAP.”
“I can get the autopsy done tonight, but I can tell you right now it’s been hours.”
“Any idea how many?” Claire knew she was asking a lot since they were standing outside in the rain and Reyes had barely had a chance to examine the body, but she had to know as much as she could as soon as she could.
“Don’t quote me on this, but it could be as early as last night. I’ll know more once the effects of rigor start to dissipate.”
Damn. A train of thoughts careened around the bend, tilting on dangerous curves in the form of unanswered questions like where Riley had gone last night after they’d parted ways. Claire found herself hoping Riley had an alibi and even as she did, she realized if Riley was questioned about her whereabouts last night, the dinner they’d shared would be a big chunk of the story.
Chapter Eight
“You’re saying Frank Flynn’s daughter is a suspec
t in the murder of two young women?” Bruce Kehler asked in a bellowing voice.
Claire paused a beat before answering. She’d dropped Nick at the station after they’d left the scene, telling him she needed to run a personal errand, which consisted of a trip to Riley’s apartment, hoping to talk to her about where she’d gone last night after they parted ways. Before she could return, Bruce had shown up at the office, demanding answers about the state of the investigation in light of the new body. He’d cornered Nick and bullied him into revealing that their only real clue was a sketch and they were talking to the members of the sketch club to determine if any of them might have been involved.
When Bruce recognized Riley’s name on the list, he focused on her as the most likely suspect. Nick had texted Claire to get back to the office as soon as possible, and by the time she walked back in, Bruce was worked up into a frenzy over the prospect of putting another Flynn behind bars. When he insisted on talking to her alone, she wished she’d stayed away.
She chose her words carefully, trying desperately to ignore the rising tide of panic she felt. “I’m saying that Riley Flynn has been a person of interest in the case. As have several other people. We’ve been holding back on producing the sketches to the press. So far, we’ve managed to keep a lid on the similarities in the two murders, and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible. It’s possible the sketches were Riley’s. However, the MO of both of these killings fits a man more than a woman.”
“Really? Claire, that doesn’t sound like you. What happened to all the equal opportunity stuff you’re always spouting?”
She bristled at his tone but kept her cool. “I’m as equal opportunity as anyone, but the physical evidence makes it pretty clear this body was carried to the scene.” She relayed the information Reyes had provided at the scene. “Yes, another woman could’ve strangled her, but lifting and carrying her body from place to place is a whole other thing.”