Drawn

by Carsen Taite

  “You’re right. I’ll figure out a way to balance what he wants with my own style.” She debated asking another question for a second before plunging ahead. “You don’t think Bruce had anything to do with the issues in Frank Flynn’s case, do you?”

  He laughed. “You’d make a good defense attorney the way you ask leading questions.” He set his glass down and crossed his arms. “Look, we’ve all been in a position where we have a chance to put a finger on the scale to get it to tip in one direction or another. Sometimes, you’re absolutely sure giving a nudge in the right direction is necessary to ensure justice is done, but if I’ve learned anything in all my years doing this it’s that if something is right, the truth will bear out, no nudging necessary. All nudging does is rush things along, and rushing might get you where you want to go faster, but you might also lose ground along the way. Understood?”

  Claire nodded while mulling over his answer. While not directly implicating Bruce in Flynn’s overturned conviction, he was definitely implying it could’ve happened and it shouldn’t have, along with the subtle warning to keep her own counsel when it came to Bruce. “Understood.”

  “You’ll do the right thing,” he said. “You always do.”

  Later, when she’d settled in at home with a glass of wine, she replayed his words. She did try to always do the right thing, but the key was knowing what that was. Her gut told her Riley was not responsible for these murders, but Bruce wanted her to focus her efforts on Riley and her father. It might be time to pay a visit to Frank Flynn so she could get a feel for whether he was an innocent man who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time or an opportunist who’d cleverly managed to get away with a murder and was out committing more. Contacting Frank would be delicate. He was probably represented by counsel for his appeal, so she would have to be careful not to ask him questions about that case, but even if all she got was a chance to judge his reaction to questions about these recent murders, it would be worth it to talk to him. She sent Nick a text suggesting they pay Frank a visit the next day.

  She set the phone down and stared at the few drops left in her glass of wine while she tried to decide if she should go to bed or have another glass. Right now, she was too agitated for sleep. She should be doing something to try to solve this case, but it was late and, other than sitting on the couch reviewing the evidence over and over, her options were limited. She stood to get another glass of wine, and that’s when the idea came to her. On the way to the kitchen, she stopped at her laptop on the bar and ran a few quick searches. When she was done, she picked up her phone, dialed dispatch, and requested the watch commander.

  “This is Detective Hanlon. I need a patrol unit assigned to the following two addresses until further notice.” She rattled off the info while she poured another modest glass of the Pinot. “Have them call me before they go out. I have special instructions.”

  She didn’t have the authority on her own to request full-scale surveillance of Riley and her father, but having someone watch the house and report back on their comings and goings would be enough to narrow her focus for now, and the extra step should show Bruce she was taking his admonition to focus her investigation on the Flynns seriously. Plus, she had to admit she wouldn’t mind focusing more attention on Riley, but that desire had little to do with the murder investigation and everything to do with feelings she shouldn’t have.

  Chapter Ten

  Riley reread the article in the Dallas Morning News for the third time over her Monday morning tea. She didn’t usually read the news, having been cured of curiosity about current events by the onslaught of media during her father’s trial, but a nagging suspicion that Claire had been holding something back about the Shasta case led her to the internet to see what she could find.

  A few quick searches led her to this story about a dead body found by a runner on Friday morning near the Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge. The deceased, Wendy Hyatt, a twenty-three-year-old white female, had been employed as a paralegal at a downtown law firm, and before her body had been found, she’d last been seen working late on Thursday evening. Preliminary cause of death—strangulation. At the very end of the copy there was a brief mention of Jill Shasta. The reporter had contacted the police department spokesperson to determine if there were similarities between the two cases but had been told the department wouldn’t comment on an ongoing investigation. Riley wasn’t an expert on criminal justice, but she knew enough to know the official statement was code for probably, and we know a helluva lot more, but we’re not ready to tell you yet.

  Claire’s question about when she’d last seen her father echoed in her head as it had for the last two days. She hadn’t answered out of pure stubbornness, but what if Claire had a legitimate reason for wanting to know? Riley didn’t know much about what her dad had been up to since he’d been released, other than reconnecting with her mother and trying to wind his way back into her life. She remembered his offer to let her talk to his attorney about his case. Had the gesture been made out of confidence or did he think she might not take him up on it? Was he a possible suspect in the deaths of these young women, or was Claire simply trying to provoke a reaction, and if so, why?

  Riley spent another half hour looking for more details about the murders, but the vague statement from DPD was the only news on the subject. Annoyed that the internet consisted of nothing more than a spinning wheel of information, packaged differently, but still the same, she turned off her laptop and poured another cup of tea, while she contemplated the day ahead. Other than preparing a few sketches for Lacy, her late afternoon watercolor class was the only thing on her agenda. She reached for her wallet lying on the table and fished out the card Claire had given her when she and her partner had come here last week. When she turned it over, she found Claire’s cell phone on the back. Before she could overthink her impulse, she picked up her phone and dialed.

  “Hanlon here.”

  The sound of Claire’s sharp and sure voice caused Riley to have second thoughts. She started to disconnect the call, ready to explain she’d dialed by accident if confronted on the subject.

  “Can I help you?”

  Riley paused at the question. Police were supposed to be the helpful ones, the heroes, an alleged fact she’d learned in kindergarten through picture books and admonitions that they were the people you run to when you’re in trouble. Other than the past week, she’d only had the experience of them ripping her father from their home, apparently without cause, to convince her otherwise. Frank’s arrest had been a giant, life-altering experience for sure, but she was savvy enough to know that there were plenty of good things law enforcement did. If her father was a murderer, it was the cops’ job to put him back in prison, but was it up to her to help them? The dilemma tied her brain in knots, but she did what she knew how to do best and went with her gut. “Maybe. It’s Riley. Riley Flynn.”

  “Good to hear from you,” Claire said, a hint of surprise in her voice.

  “I didn’t expect to be calling.”

  “But you did.”

  Riley gripped the phone. In a minute, Claire was going to ask why. What would she tell her when she wasn’t even sure of her motive? She settled on a question to buy time. “Meet me for an early lunch?”

  A brief pause, then Claire said, “Just a sec.”

  Her response was Riley’s first indication Claire was taken off guard, and it gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction. Riley heard muffled voices, and a few moments later, Claire came back on the line.

  “Lunch sounds great. Where?”

  “Mia’s. Eleven thirty. See you there.” Riley hung up before Claire could reply. She’d picked Mia’s because it was her territory, so she could be comfortable, but she felt nothing but discomfort at the idea of meeting Claire without setting clear parameters in advance. She stared at the phone, trying to decide if she should send a text to cancel, but her own curiosity won out. She could handle this.

  The hostess at Mia’s greeted her with a b
road smile. “Hello, Riley.” She plunked a single menu from the stand. “Follow me.”

  “Actually, I’m meeting someone here. Tall, blond, looks like a cop.” She cracked a grin, ready to explain, but Claire walked through the door at that moment, saving her from having to articulate a description, which was good, because no description could adequately describe Claire’s perfectly put together beauty and confident bearing. She was dressed in a sharply tailored black suit like the one she’d worn to the funeral, and it struck Riley that, dressed as she was, Claire looked more like a corporate VP than a cop. “Here she is.”

  The hostess looked at Claire like she was sizing her up and then gave Riley an approving smile. “Right this way.”

  The waiter, Daniel, was at their table right away and he gave Riley a thumbs-up behind Claire’s back. Apparently, while she’d been enjoying dining alone all these years, everyone here thought she needed to be coupled up. Boy, were they misreading the situation. She could definitely admit Claire was extremely attractive, and maybe, under other circumstances, she’d consider asking Claire out, but things would fall apart around the third or fourth date, like they always did when she wouldn’t open up and share more about her personal life, dodging questions about her family.

  Except Claire already knew who her father was. Riley couldn’t decide if her knowing made things better or worse.

  After they ordered a repeat of the meal they’d shared the week before, Claire was the first to speak. “I was surprised you called.”

  “I could tell. I decided if you’re going to follow me around anyway, we may as well meet somewhere where we can actually talk. Ambushing me at the gallery wasn’t cool.”

  “True. It was impulsive, not my normal style.” Claire reached for the chips and salsa. “These are the best chips in Dallas,” she said, and dug in as if to curtail any further conversation on the point.

  Riley filed the interesting nugget of information and acted on an impulse of her own. “Was your impulse spurred by the second dead body? The one from Friday morning? Do you think the murders were committed by the same person?”

  Claire took her time chewing the bite in her mouth. When she finally replied, she said, “Officially, I can’t comment.”

  “Good thing I’m not official.”

  Riley waited through the long pause that followed and watched the subtle changes in the expression on Claire’s face. A moment ago, digging into the salsa and chips, she’d been smiling in pleasure, but her face lost all affect the minute she said the word “officially.” Now, she looked simply frustrated. Riley resisted the urge to say anything else for fear she’d tip the balance away from obtaining any information about the case.

  “We think the cases are related, but I can’t tell you why.”

  “So, there’s some reason besides the fact both women were white, in their twenties, and strangled?” Riley didn’t bother trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  “Someone’s been doing their research.”

  “I read the paper. I’d hardly call that research. You can’t really think I’m involved in these murders, can you?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect, until they aren’t.”

  “Do you even hear yourself? If you have an accusation to make, go ahead and tell me what it is and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong. That is unless you’ve already made up your mind.”

  Claire looked frustrated again, and a long beat passed before she spoke, this time to change the subject entirely. “The painting of the Eye at your apartment was stunning. Tell me about your process.”

  Riley wanted to answer with her own question about why Claire had wanted to know, but instead she decided to play along in hopes that answering Claire might be repaid by answers to her own questions. “I spend a lot of time sketching before I ever start painting, with oils anyway. I often use watercolors when I’m out with the group.”

  “When did you first join the Eastside Sketchers?”

  “A couple of years ago.” Riley grinned at the memory. “It was kind of an accident. I was at White Rock Lake one Saturday afternoon, sketching the sailboats when Buster and about eight other people showed up with their sketchbooks and easels. They set up next to me and we started talking. When they left a couple of hours later, Buster told me the site of their next meeting and invited me to join them. I’ve joined them every other Saturday since.”

  “Buster seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is, and he’s incredibly talented. He’s the one who connected me to the Lofton Gallery. I’m lucky he’s taken an interest in my career.” Riley immediately wished she hadn’t shared her personal feelings, but Claire’s obvious and intense interest in something other than her father had drawn her out.

  She was saved from saying more when Daniel appeared with their food. They tucked into the tacos and spent the rest of the meal talking about the innocuous topic of food and their favorite Tex-Mex restaurants around the city, but when Daniel returned to clear their empty plates, Claire launched back into her questions. “Why isn’t any of your artwork online?”

  Riley shrugged. “Why would it be?”

  “Google any artist and they’ve got samples of their work on the web, either showing it for sale or on social media to promote their work. Most of the people in your sketch group post their drawings, and they’re amateurs.”

  “Maybe it’s because they’re amateurs. They have nothing to lose by putting their work up for the whole world to criticize and copy. I get that everyone thinks they have to put their entire lives on the internet in some ironic quest to be authentic, but that’s not me. I’ve spent years building a portfolio, so I could get representation. Other than the dean at Richards, no one has seen my work before I submitted it to the Lofton. If I were starting out trying to get licensed on a large scale, I imagine social media stats would be important, but Lacy Lofton likes the idea that they are rolling out a debut of never before seen artwork. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of promotion on social media after the show.” It suddenly struck her that Claire had been scouring the internet for information about her art. “Why the interest in my work?”

  Claire shifted in her seat and developed a sudden fascinating interest in the last remaining bits of chips and salsa. “Just curious.”

  Riley knew there was some other reason, but she sensed pushing the point wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Okay.”

  “How long have you been teaching?”

  Happy to have a change in subject, Riley answered easily. “Three years. I did the usual starving artist thing after college, working in art supply stores and applying to galleries and museums. One of my professors at Richards told me about a continuing ed class they offered. The instructor that was lined up to teach the class quit suddenly and they needed someone to fill in. I took the gig and it eventually led to teaching classes for credit. I’m an adjunct, which allows me the freedom to go off and do my own thing when I’m not teaching, but the pay is pretty crappy.”

  “You must do okay,” Claire said. “I mean you live in a great part of town. That brownstone can’t be cheap.”

  Riley heard the underlying meaning—she wasn’t successful enough at anything to deserve to live where she did. The implication stung. “If you have a question, ask it.”

  “Maybe you have a roommate who helps pay the bills.”

  “Maybe you spend too much time talking to criminals to get how rude you sound when you talk to regular people. I don’t have a roommate. Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a deal with the building owner. I’m the on-site super. I can’t do anything fancy, but I can handle simple plumbing repairs, a stuck door, or minor electrical work, like changing out a light switch. I’m on call for repairs and emergencies, and in exchange I get a great deal on the rent. That’s not illegal is it?” She hadn’t meant to get angry, but the more she thought about the question, the more it pissed her off. “Where do you live and how do you pay for it?”

  “I’m sorry.” Claire offered a tentativ
e smile. “Nosiness is an occupational hazard.”

  Riley stared into her eyes, looking for a sign Claire’s questions were more personal than professional, but she wasn’t ready to trust her instincts where Claire was concerned. Already, she’d talked more during this lunch than she ever had while sharing a meal with another attractive woman. For a short while, she’d almost forgotten Claire was a cop and any questions she asked weren’t asked out of a friendly desire to know, but rather to catch a killer. Which brought her back to the question Claire wouldn’t answer: why was she so interested in her artwork?

  She’d have to figure that out on her own, but in the meantime, it was time to bring the conversation around to the reason she’d wanted to meet Claire today. “Speaking of nosy. You’ve asked about my father. Do you think he’s involved in these murders?”

  If Claire was shocked at the blunt question, she didn’t show it. She did glance around as if to ensure no one was listening in, and she lowered her voice. “I don’t know. Do you think he is?”

  Riley’s instinct was to shut this conversation down, but she paused and put herself in Claire’s place, starting with the premise everyone was a suspect. Her approach was abhorrent when it came to people who should be above suspicion, but Riley knew the fact Frank had been in the system would be a forever taint to his reputation no matter what a judge might say about his innocence. Still, it wasn’t fair. “You don’t think he should’ve been released, do you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re one of those cops who thinks that just because someone gets convicted on a technicality, they still deserve what’s coming to them.”

  “I don’t appreciate being lumped in with anyone. I have my own mind and I make my own decisions based on the evidence I find.”