by Eve Gaddy
He kissed her. Made love to her. For the first time since she’d married Victor Lawrence, Sarah felt free.
Chapter Twenty-Two
November Present Day
RETIRED DETECTIVE Anders O’Connor was a big man. Tall, lean, with piercing blue eyes and a shock of white hair framing a movie star handsome face. Though Emmitt had told them he was in his mid-seventies, he looked ten years younger.
“We appreciate you seeing us so quickly,” Emmitt said, shaking hands. “These are my friends, Jonas Clark and Claire Westbrook.”
Claire had met both Jonas and Emmitt at the detective’s house and hadn’t had a chance to do more than say hello. She and Jonas had come together, straight from work. Their schedules had been similar lately, which enabled them to see each other outside of work more easily.
“Not a problem. The Davis case.” O’Connor shook his head regretfully. “Not one of our successes, I’m afraid.” He ushered them inside, then led the way into his living room, obviously decorated with an eye to comfort over fashion. It looked lived in and very welcoming. “I understand you asked to see the case file, but the cold case detectives denied you access,” he said to Emmitt.
“Yes. Since it’s still unsolved they didn’t want to compromise any evidence. However, they did tell me what they could. Suspects who were cleared and that sort of thing. They also said they haven’t had anything new come up since the original investigation.”
O’Connor grunted. “I can tell you a little about the case. I’ve kept up with it through the years. What evidence we had—the gun in particular—was never linked to anyone. No serial number, nothing to identify it.” Turning to Jonas, he said, “I know of Emmitt’s books but what would your interest in the case be?”
“Calvin Davis was my cousin. I asked Emmitt to look into his murder. My mother was very close to him and has never gotten over his death. I thought if we found out who actually killed him, it might bring her some closure.”
“Especially if the murderer is still alive and can be brought to justice,” Claire added.
O’Connor turned that piercing gaze on her. “You’re no cousin to Davis.”
“No, I’m related to Isabel Cantrell. She was my cousin.”
“You have her eyes,” the retired detective said.
“Yes, I’ve been told that. Jonas and I are both very interested in getting this case opened again.”
O’Connor frowned. “It’s still open. An unsolved homicide isn’t closed until the murderer is caught. It can be, and probably is, inactive, however.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Claire said.
“I should have told you,” Emmitt said. “I knew it from researching other unsolved homicides. Plus, that’s another reason the detectives couldn’t let me see the case files.”
“Let’s sit down.” O’Connor gestured to the couch. “Anyone want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“I’m good, thank you,” Emmitt said. Claire and Jonas declined as well, and they all sat down.
“I should tell you right off, Frank Dervish is the man you need. He was the detective who took over the case from me.”
“Could I ask why you gave him the case?” Emmitt asked.
“Yes. The simple answer is I was shot two days after Davis was murdered, in an unrelated case. I spent several weeks in the hospital and during that time the captain gave my caseload to the other detectives. He gave the Davis homicide to Frank Dervish.”
Emmitt shook his head. “I tried that already. The cold case detectives gave me his name and yours, said you two might be able to talk to me even though they couldn’t give me access to the case files. First of all, I had a hard time connecting with Dervish. He resigned from the department a number of years ago, and I got the feeling there was a lot of bad blood.”
O’Connor rubbed the side of his nose. “You can say that again. He had to resign or be fired.”
“Dervish refused to talk to me, or anyone else for that matter, regarding this crime. He maintains it was a gang-related killing and there’s nothing to investigate.” He glanced at O’Connor and grimaced. “From some of his comments, I gathered he’s not too fond of blacks.”
“Oh, he’s as racist as they come,” O’Connor agreed. “In fact, that’s why he resigned, because of that very issue, but that didn’t happen until years later. At any rate, by the time I was able to object, Dervish had already decided the Davis case was a gang slaying.”
“You didn’t believe that,” Jonas said.
“No, frankly, I didn’t, but I wasn’t given a voice in the matter. In the brief time I had the case, I saw no evidence of gang-related activity. But Dervish was convinced of it.” He shrugged. “I looked at the files several times over the years, but I was never able to find enough evidence to charge anyone. In my opinion, we dropped the ball on this one.”
“Didn’t you find that strange? Why was Dervish so convinced the murder was gang related?”
He spread his hands. “I don’t know. I found a lot about this case strange. You have to realize I wasn’t able to look into it until sometime afterward. I spent months in the hospital and rehab. But when I looked into it later, I didn’t find much. There were a couple of suspects identified, but they alibied out. I never did think Dervish did much to try to disprove their alibis.”
“From what the cold case detectives told me,” Emmitt said, “Dervish fixated on the gang aspect and didn’t bother investigating anything else.” He looked at his notes. “The key suspect was Isabel Cantrell’s father. She accused him of the murder point-blank.”
O’Connor nodded. “Well, it was 1968, and Buster Cantrell’s white daughter had just gotten pregnant by and married to a black kid. If you want to talk racist, Dervish was nothing compared to Buster Cantrell. That man had a hate for minorities. Especially blacks. But then, I’m not too sure he liked anyone, black, white, or anything else.”
“His daughter Sophie was his alibi,” Emmitt said.
“That she was. Sophie didn’t want to give him an alibi. She hated the SOB. But she reluctantly backed him up when Isabel accused him of the murder. Said he couldn’t have done it because he was with her. I remember. I took her statement, and Isabel’s.”
“Did he intimidate her into speaking for him?” Claire asked.
“I don’t think so,” the detective said. “Not that he wasn’t capable of it but there was no need. She told the truth, I believe.”
“Could he have paid someone to do it?”
“Yes. Which is what his daughter accused him of next. But Dervish maintained there was no evidence that he did so. Regardless of what Isabel said.” He turned to Claire. “You remind me of her, a lot. Your eyes, of course. But something else I can’t put my finger on. I remember her, all these years later. She was so broken up about Davis’s death. It was a shame. By all accounts he was a good kid, trying to make something of himself. Never in trouble, hard worker.” He shook his head. “I never did know what happened to that girl. She disappeared, and then I read her obituary not long after Davis died. I was still in the hospital, as a matter of fact.”
“I can tell you what happened,” Claire said. “Sophie told my mother. Buster Cantrell murdered her.”
“What?” O’Connor half rose. “We never had any evidence of that. All I found was she fell ill and died.”
“Cantrell took her to Mexico and forced her to have an abortion. She died a few weeks after that. In my book that makes him a murderer. If he didn’t kill Calvin, he certainly caused his daughter’s death.”
“Damn. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Can you tell us what else you thought was strange about the case?” Jonas asked.
“Before he does,” Emmitt interjected, “there’s something else odd here, Claire. I meant to ask you earlier but didn’t have the chance. It looks like
Isabel had an ex-boyfriend. It was unclear whether he was actually a boyfriend or just wanted to be. He was a white kid reputed to be in love with her. According to the detectives he was another suspect. In fact, according to Dervish’s notes, he and Calvin Davis got in a fight over the girl earlier that same day. Luckily—or conveniently—for him, he had an alibi.”
Claire started to say something, but Jonas stopped her with a look. She realized there was no way they should have known the boy’s name. “What did you want to know?”
“This kid who was in love with Bella? His name was Larry Westbrook.”
“That’s why your name was familiar,” O’Connor said. “I don’t suppose you’re any relation?”
Larry Westbrook. Her stomach clenched. Claire put out her hand and gripped Jonas’s tightly. Larry. Lawrence. But how? “Lawrence Westbrook is my father-in-law. He’s from Fort Worth and he would have been about the same age as Calvin Davis. But I never imagined . . .” she trailed off. Could it be coincidence? Another Lawrence Westbrook? Not likely. It fit too perfectly.
“Damn,” Emmitt said. “This is carrying coincidence a little too far.”
No wonder Lawrence had looked sick the day he saw Jonas at the hospital. If he’d known Calvin Davis, he must have thought he’d seen a ghost.
The ghost of the man he murdered?
“ARE YOU ALL right?” Jonas asked Claire as they got into the car. She’d hardly spoken a word since Emmitt had dropped the bombshell. Emmitt had left, saying he was going to do what he could to look into Lawrence Westbrook’s alibi for the night of the murder.
“No, not really. I can’t believe Lawrence is the Larry Bella talked about.”
“Did he ever talk about the past? Do you know anything about those years?”
She shook her head. “I never talk much with him unless I have to, and his past was never anything we discussed. I’m not sure Glenn knows anything, either.”
“Is Westbrook’s bank connected with Buster Cantrell’s? Did he take over when Buster retired?”
“I don’t know. It’s something we could find out, though. You know how banks change names and owners. But I suspect it is the same.”
“O’Connor said the night watchman at Cantrell’s bank positively identified Lawrence as driving by the bank during the time in question. Since he worked there, he recognized his car and him driving it. The bank was on the other side of town from Calvin’s house, where he was killed, and that gives Lawrence a decent alibi.” Even if, as he suspected, the night watchman had lied.
“I wonder if we’ll be able to track down the night watchman? What if he lied and we could get him to admit it?”
“If anyone can find him, Emmitt will. But as to whether he’ll admit to giving false testimony—” He shrugged.
“If it’s true, and Lawrence was involved . . . a lot of things make sense now. Why Lawrence doesn’t like me. At first he did, before he met me. The minute we met, that all changed. He used to make comments about my eyes all the time. I finally threatened to forbid him coming over if he didn’t drop it. I said Glenn could see him whenever he wanted but I wouldn’t unless he stopped.”
“Did he?”
“Unfortunately, yes. By then I’d have welcomed a good reason to cut off contact with him.”
Jonas pulled into the hospital parking lot to drop Claire off at her car. “I have to take my mother to the eye doctor. She’s finally agreed to let me help her and talk to her doctor.”
“I hope he can do something for her.”
“So do I. He’s had her on a new protocol I want to discuss with him. I don’t like leaving you like this, though.”
“You mean, since I found out my father-in-law might be a murderer?”
He took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “It’s okay to be upset, Claire.”
“I don’t know what I am.” She was quiet a moment, then said, “I wonder why you haven’t dreamed about Calvin’s shooting.”
“Not that I remember.” And he was fairly sure he’d remembered all the dreams by now. “Even if I dream about the shooting and know who the murderer is, we can’t prove it.” He really didn’t want to “see” Calvin’s shooting. Not in a dream or anywhere else. Even if it would tell them who the murderer was, he could hardly think of anything less appealing than dreaming about a murder. Especially, in a weird-ass way, his own.
“No, but we’d know what direction to go.”
“We already do. Your father-in-law. You really don’t believe your soon-to-be ex knows anything?”
She considered that a moment before shaking her head. “No, I don’t think Lawrence has told Glenn about any of it. I could be wrong but I just don’t see Lawrence admitting to anything, even to Glenn. And Lawrence may not know you’re related to Calvin.”
“Of course he does. I’m sure he figured it out immediately after he saw me. He wouldn’t believe it was by chance I look like him.”
“I suppose not. And it explains his weird behavior when he met you.”
“Yeah, must have been pretty uncomfortable to see a man who looks exactly like one you thought you’d killed years ago.” How strange that they’d all be connected now. Coincidence? Or fate? “I’ll talk to you as soon as I finish with my mother.”
She leaned over and kissed him before getting out. “All right. I’ll see you later.”
WHAT THE HELL was Frank Dervish in such a panic about?
Lawrence had tried to find out over the phone, but the man refused to tell him. Dervish had insisted he had to see him in person and alone. Was it about the Davis situation or did he simply need money again?
Lawrence knew he should have done something about the asshole years ago. But Dervish had been useful. If not for his handling of the Davis case, Lawrence might be in prison. Lawrence knew he’d had a lucky break when Dervish had been assigned to investigate the crime. He’d met the other cop, the first one, briefly. That one wouldn’t have looked the other way, not about anything. But Dervish, well, the man was as prejudiced as the day was long. He hadn’t wanted to know if Lawrence was actually guilty of shooting that black bastard, Davis. Or if Buster Cantrell had done it either. No white person was going down for a crime against a black. Not if Dervish had anything to do with it. No, he’d been happy to blame it on gangs and look no further.
Until he’d lost his job at the FWPD, and then he’d come to Lawrence, reminding him there was no statute of limitations on murder. He’d been hitting Lawrence up for something—money, influence, or both—ever since. Dervish could still face prison time for his part in covering up what really happened, obstruction of justice at the very least. But Lawrence was the one who would really be screwed.
Not that he’d ever admitted he’d pulled the trigger. Still, Dervish knew. Even Dervish wasn’t that stupid. Otherwise, why would Lawrence have bankrolled him all these years?
“It’s open,” he called out when the doorbell rang. Bad enough he’d sent his help away. He wasn’t getting up to wait on the son of a bitch.
The ex-cop looked bad. Even for a drunk, he looked bad. But that wasn’t Lawrence’s concern. “Why are you here? What is it you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”
“Are we alone?”
“Goddamn it, yes. I sent the nurse away, but she’ll be back before long. What do you want?”
“Could I have a drop of whiskey? It’s cold out tonight. I’ll get it.”
“You sure as hell won’t. I didn’t have you here to feed you my booze. Spill it. What the hell do you want?” he asked him yet again. Was the man ever going to get to the damn point?
“I had a phone call from a true crime writer. Name of Emmitt Rickerby. Guess what cold case he’s investigating?” He didn’t wait for an answer but leaned forward and whispered, “The Davis case.”
No shit, Sherlock. “So? There’s no
thing to find, is there?”
“N-n-n-o.” He didn’t sound at all sure.
“Is there evidence? Evidence I don’t know about?”
“Well, your alibi was pretty weak. If somebody were to really investigate—” He broke off and spread his hands. “I didn’t question that night watchman very closely. Just took his word for it that you were at the bank during the shooting.”
Henry Young. The night watchman at the bank. Buster’s bank. Buster had paid for Young’s son’s schooling, college included. In exchange, Young had corroborated Lawrence’s alibi. “Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well find out, damn it. Jesus, do I have to do everything myself?” Clearly he did. Dervish was useless. “He’s bound to be ancient, even if he is alive. And there’s no reason he’d change his testimony at this late date.”
Unless he’d grown a conscience or something equally inconvenient. Still, maybe he had Alzheimer’s.
“Never mind, I’ll have my assistant look into it.” Or he’d google an obit for him. With any luck, the old geezer was dead and buried. “Is that all?”
“Your bruises were documented in the notes. All that about your fight with Davis earlier in the day is documented.”
“So? There were witnesses to that fight. It happened hours before the son of a bitch was shot.” No one but him knew half his bruises came from that evening, when he’d had the final showdown with Davis.
“It doesn’t look good. Gives you motive.”
“Motive doesn’t matter shit if I’ve got the alibi.”
“I suppose.”
He sounded worried, which annoyed the hell out of Lawrence. How hard could it be to find out if the old man was still alive, and if he was, take care of it?
“I googled this Emmitt Rickerby after he called,” Dervish continued. “I refused to see him, told him there was no point in looking into a case that should have been closed out years ago. Not that I think he listened. He’s black and he has a nose for this sort of thing. I can tell you already, he’s thinking he can make this into a racial thing.” He sounded disgusted. Lawrence didn’t blame him. “It was the sixties, for Christ’s sake. One more black bastard dying was nothing. But once he finds out why I resigned, you can bet your ass he’s going to look into it even more closely.”