The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “And you really think Sam didn’t know anything about this until the other day?”

  Hannah had asked herself the same question. She didn’t want to think her personal attraction to Sam had clouded her judgment. “I really think he didn’t.”

  “Sam’s motive in killing her might have nothing to do with her past,” Dallas pointed out.

  “Or maybe Sam didn’t do it.”

  “Hannah, the evidence says he did.”

  She opened the fridge and cut off another hunk of cheese. “What about your day? Any luck?”

  “I talked to Eva Flynn’s mother. Like Sam told us, she claims not to know where her daughter has been or what she’s been up to. She didn’t know Eva had been killed. Sam told her Eva was missing.”

  Dallas lacked finesse in delivering bad news under the best of circumstances. Hannah could imagine that from three thousand miles away, and with his own agenda, Dallas hadn’t offered much in the way of sympathy.

  “I ran Eva’s name through the system,” Dallas continued. “She’s got a poor credit history, four outstanding parking tickets in Phoenix, but nothing downright criminal. It might not be the kind of reputation you’d brag about, but nothing so bad you’d hide it from your husband either.”

  And yet she had. There must have been a reason. “Anything more on Vance?”

  “Phipps isn’t talking, but I have a friend at the agency. He tells me Phipps is part of a team trying to break an international drug ring.”

  “And Vance was part of it?”

  “Or peripherally connected. They apparently had him on a fraud charge then cut a deal to get the goods on whoever they were after.”

  Hannah’s conjecture to Sam that afternoon had been close to the mark. “What goods?” she asked.

  “That I don’t know. Information of some sort. I’d guess the guys he was turning on got to him first.”

  Like the gang culture Hannah was familiar with from her days in Los Angeles. If word got out you were about to rat on your buddies, you died. Sometimes your family and loved ones died as well. That might explain Eva’s death. But it was a stretch.

  On the other hand, if Eva was part of the network ... “Whoever broke into Sam’s house was looking for something connected to Vance,” Hannah pointed out. “They must have thought Sam’s wife had the information.”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “What the hell was Sam’s wife doing involved with the mob and drugs?”

  “And where does Sam fit in?”

  They were back to that again. “I can’t believe he was part of it,” Hannah said.

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I think Phipps is working under the assumption that they were both involved. If Sam wasn’t part of it though, and found out what was going on,” Dallas said, “well, that might show motive for murder.”

  “But if she was alive on Monday, after he reported her missing—”

  “Based on what? That recipe flyer you got at the hospital?” His tone was impatient. “Any number of people would have had access to that before it showed up in hospital clinics, especially a physician. In fact, the company charged with distribution picks them up at the printer Friday afternoon.”

  It was like talking to a wall. “With all we’ve learned, you still really think Sam killed her?”

  “There’s something he’s not telling us, Hannah.”

  “There may—”

  “And whoever our killer is, he knew about Ben Albright’s wine cellar.”

  She sighed. “I know.” That was a sticking point Hannah had yet to resolve.

  The next morning, Hannah was at the gate an hour before departure time. No sign of Sam yet. She got her boarding pass, bought a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and sat down to wait.

  At seven-ten, the plane pulled into the gate. Sam hadn’t arrived. Thinking she might have missed seeing him come in, Hannah walked around the lounge area looking for him. She watched the men’s room for a full five minutes.

  Still no sign of Sam.

  Where was he?

  The gate agent was beginning the loading process. With a niggling sense of alarm, Hannah went to the desk and inquired about her traveling companion.

  “Can you tell me if he’s checked in yet?”

  “Sorry,” the agent replied. “I can’t give out that information.”

  Hannah pulled out her badge. “This is police business.”

  Frowning, the woman checked the computer monitor. “No, not yet.”

  Hannah used her cell phone to call Sam. He didn’t answer.

  She didn’t want to board until she was sure Sam had made it. She’d already passed up the opportunity for a window or aisle seat. She wasn’t going to lose anything by waiting longer.

  Her chest tight with anxiety, Hannah paced the now empty boarding area. Why wasn’t Sam here? Had he decided to flee? And following that line of thought, Hannah couldn’t help asking herself if Dallas might not be right, after all. Was Sam actually guilty of murder?

  The final boarding call came, and Sam still hadn’t arrived. The agent was closing the door to the runway when Hannah called Dallas.

  CHAPTER 49

  First thing Friday morning I was on a plane to Atlanta, having used the last of my frequent-flyer miles to book the flight. I’d been hoping to accrue enough points to take a family vacation to Hawaii, but vacation plans were a low priority right then. Besides, there would be no vacation at all if I was in prison, which was where I was likely to end up if I didn’t get some answers soon.

  And I wanted to digest those answers myself before I shared them with the police. I felt more than a twinge of guilt at not telling Hannah about my change of plans, but I needed to do this alone.

  I’d considered simply telephoning Robert Dunbar, the attorney who’d handled the adoption, but I knew he’d probably refuse to talk to me. I wasn’t sure how I was going to convince him to do so once I was there either, but my chances of success, if not high, had to be higher in person than over the distance of three thousand miles.

  The flight was delayed, and I worried I wouldn’t arrive in time to see Dunbar that same day. I paced impatiently at the gate, checking the monitor every few minutes for updates. Would I get to his office before he’d gone for the day? I didn’t relish the idea of spending any more time away from home than was necessary.

  Once, my phone rang. When I saw that it was Hannah Montgomery, I ignored it. Another pang of guilt twisted inside me. I knew she was probably in the next terminal, pacing as impatiently as I was. Only she was waiting for me.

  Finally, we were allowed to board, and the plane took off. Keyed up and restless as I was, it felt like a very long trip.

  I stepped out of the terminal building at the Atlanta airport into a wall of steamy heat. Arizona had been hot. Georgia was sweltering. By the time I made it to the Hertz lot, my shirt was soaked with perspiration.

  The air-conditioned interior of the rental car was heaven. I remembered Hannah sticking her face in front of the air vents of our car in Phoenix and experienced a moment’s regret. There was a part of me that would have liked to have her along.

  Robert Dunbar was in solo practice with an office in the southwest part of Atlanta. I’d checked the location last night on the Internet. Out of curiosity, I checked the yellow pages of the phone book at the airport. His listing noted only attorney at law; no specialities.

  I took the elevator to the third floor of a faceless concrete building and followed the brown linoleum maze of corridors to room 338. From the outdated look of his reception area, I was willing to bet Dunbar’s clients weren’t among the rich and famous.

  His secretary, a middle-aged Latino woman, looked up as I entered.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Dunbar.”

  She frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “But he’s expecting you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m in town onl
y today, and it’s important.”

  The frown again. “Just a moment.” She picked up the phone then addressed me. “Your name?”

  “Sam Russell. I’m a doctor.” I had no idea why I added the doctor part, but sometimes it helped.

  It seemed only to make receptionist more wary. She spoke into the phone softly. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Dunbar. There’s a gentleman here to see you. A Dr. Russell. He says he’s only in town for a day.” She turned back to me. “What’s this concerning?”

  “An adoption.” Terse. I figured the less said, the better my odds of not tripping myself up.

  She relayed the message to Dunbar. I must have passed some unwritten test, because she showed me to his inner office.

  It was dingy without being actually dirty. Cigar smoke hung in the air, and there were papers stacked everywhere—on Dunbar’s desk, a chair, the top of the file cabinet, the floor. They had the look of having been there awhile.

  Dunbar looked close to sixty. His fleshy face was framed by thinning hair he’d combed in a wide swath over the bald crown of his head. He’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his rumpled cotton shirt. There was a spot of grease by the open collar.

  He gestured me to a chair.

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Russell?” His manner was pleasant and upbeat. “You have a patient who would like to place a baby for adoption?”

  “No, it’s not that.” I realized he’d misunderstood my explanation to his secretary and that it had probably worked in my favor. I’d gotten in to see him, after all. I doubted he’d be as receptive to the actual reason for my visit.

  “It’s about an adoption you handled a number of years ago.”

  As I expected, his expression became more guarded.

  “Twenty-eight years ago,” I continued. “The birth mother was named Wycoff. The baby was adopted by Lou and Sonia Flynn.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “But you were the attorney—”

  “It was a long time ago, and the information is confidential.”

  “My wife was murdered recently,” I told him, leaning forward slightly. “She looked very much like the woman known as Eva Flynn, Lou and Sonia’s adopted daughter.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how—”

  “Mrs. Flynn was the one who gave me your name.”

  “That doesn’t change anything.” Dunbar had lost interest. His gaze drifted to the papers on his desk and, surreptitiously, his watch.

  I’d come this far. I wasn’t going to be turned away. In desperation, I did something I’d never done before in my life. I reached for my wallet, pulled out five twenties, and set them on his desk. Dunbar eyed them, not without interest, then looked away again with studied boredom.

  “You can call Mrs. Flynn and ask her for permission to talk to me.” I wasn’t at all sure she’d give it, but I was grasping at straws.

  Dunbar eyed the money again. “That may not be necessary. . .” He drummed his fingers on his desk.

  I pulled out another hundred.

  He waited expectantly.

  I cleaned out my wallet. Another hundred and twenty. “That’s all I’ve got,” I told him.

  He picked up the bills, folded them neatly, and stuck them in his desk drawer. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the birth parents.”

  “Generally, that’s not done.”

  I thought about counting the change in my pockets. Or maybe he’d take Visa.

  “But since Eva already made contact with the family—”

  “Eva contacted them?”

  He nodded. “When she was eighteen. She’d found out she was adopted. Her parents, the Flynns, I mean, hadn’t told her. It apparently caused a major blowup.”

  No kidding. “How did she find out?”

  “I’m not sure of the details, but somehow she came across records with my name on them and came to see me. I contacted the birth mother, Helen Wycoff. She gave permission for Eva to contact her.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I don’t know. I merely gave Eva the information. Later she wrote a short note to thank me. That was it.”

  “How can I reach Helen Wycoff?”

  Dunbar spread his hands on his desk. “Dr. Russell, I’ve already told you more than I should.”

  And been well compensated for the information, I added silently. “You gave Eva the address. I can’t ask her myself, because my wife is dead.” I was fudging the truth, since Eva wasn’t my wife after all, but I didn’t care. I’d have lied through my teeth if I had to.

  It didn’t matter. Dunbar wasn’t talking.

  Then I remembered the hundred-dollar bill I kept folded in my wallet under my driver’s licence. For emergencies. Bribery wasn’t what I’d had in mind at the time, but I was learning that emergencies came in all flavors.

  I pulled the hundred out and put it on the desk. Dunbar reached for it, but I covered it with my hand.

  “When you’ve answered my questions,” I told him.

  He sighed. “I don’t know how to reach her. I have the address and phone number I gave Eva. I’m not sure they’re current.”

  “Good enough. What about the birth father?”

  “Unknown.”

  I remembered Mrs. Flynn’s comment about the birth mother and a one-night stand. “Is that common?”

  He thought I was doubting him. “It’s the truth,” he said. “Sometimes the woman really doesn’t know how to reach the man she slept with. Other times, she doesn’t know which of several men might be the father.”

  “Which was it in this case?”

  Dunbar shook his head. “I don’t honestly know. Helen Wycoff worked as a legal secretary, which is how I happened to hear of her. Not my secretary,” he hastened to add, lest I jump to the wrong conclusion. “But the legal world is in many ways a small one. All I knew was that she had a newborn she wanted to place for adoption.”

  “And the Flynns?”

  “I knew Lou at Cornell. He let it be known that he and Sonia were looking to adopt and hadn’t had any luck. Babies generally go to younger couples.” He offered an apologetic half smile. “It’s a competitive market,” he explained, as if I’d protested the unfairness of it. Probably a number of his clients did.

  “Helen Wycoff didn’t care that they were older?”

  “She chose the Flynns,” was all Dunbar said. But he looked uncomfortable.

  I had the sudden realization that it might not have been as straightforward an adoption as it appeared on the surface. Maybe Lou Flynn was the biological father. Or maybe more money exchanged hands than was legal. None of it was germane to my purposes, however.

  “Did Helen Wycoff have other children?” I asked.

  Dunbar pressed his fingertips together. “None that I knew about. But like I said, Eva sent me a note after she met with Helen. She thanked me for allowing her to know her mother and sister.”

  Sister. That was just the information I was looking for. I’d been married to someone who bore a strong resemblance to Eva Flynn. Sister fit the bill.

  “What do you know about the sister?”

  “Absolutely nothing, Dr. Russell. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  Dunbar found the address and phone number he’d had on file for Helen Wycoff. He gave it to me, and I released the hundred-dollar bill.

  Thank God, the address was here in Atlanta.

  “You understand,” he said as I left, “that this conversation never happened.”

  I was so eager to get on with finding Helen Wycoff that it took me a moment to understand what he was saying. But it wasn’t a problem. All I wanted was the name.

  “Right,” I said finally.

  CHAPTER 50

  The phone number Dunbar had given me was no longer in service. I checked the phone book and didn’t find a current listing for Helen Wycoff, so I drove to the address he’d given me.

  It was a smal
l tract home in an older subdivision that had seen better times. The woman who answered the door when I rang the bell had moved in three years earlier. She didn’t recognize the name Helen Wycoff.

  “You might try Doris Jones two doors down,” the woman suggested, pointing to a saltbox house with a sagging porch. “She’s been in the neighborhood a long time.”

  Doris Jones was in her early fifties, with unnaturally yellow hair and a jowly face etched by hours in the sun. She seemed thrilled to have someone to talk to.

  She stepped out onto the porch. “Helen Wycoff. Of course I knew her. Our daughters were friends.”

  I held my breath. “Your daughters?”

  “Her Andrea and my Jennifer. All the way from Girl Scouts through high school. Are you a friend?”

  “We have a mutual acquaintance,” I explained. “I was hoping to talk to her. Do you know where she moved to?”

  Doris grimaced. “Helen passed away eight years ago. Lung cancer. She never even smoked. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  My heart sank. I had my own reasons for thinking her death unfair.

  “Come in, why don’t you, where it’s cool.” She stepped back to invite me in. “I just got home from work and was going to fix myself a drink. Can I get you one?”

  I was tempted. To have Helen Wycoff snatched from me at this point was almost more than I could bear. “Uh, just water. Thanks.”

  “Sure.” She led me into the kitchen, where she poured water from an iced pitcher into a glass for me then made herself a tall glass of vodka and grapefruit juice. “Let’s go into the den.”

  The den was a step-down addition to the house with cheap wood paneling and a big ceiling fan. The fan felt good.

  “This mutual friend of yours,” Doris asked, “one of her exes?”

  “No, a woman. Someone Helen befriended a long time ago.” More poetic license with the truth. But it wasn’t actually a lie. “You mentioned exes. She married more than once, then?”

  Doris laughed. “I was referring to live-in boyfriends. There were quite a few.”