(Nod)
“Can you tell me?”
Silence. No transcript notes.
In one of her more coherent answers, Gabby said, “That man had blue pants and a blue shirt. And black shoes.”
Whoa. Jack rewound again, intently listening for the slight emphasis apparently no one else had noticed.
“That man had blue pants and a blue shirt.”
Had she seen two men? Why the hell hadn’t anyone asked? A single killer still seemed likeliest—multiple stabbings almost always meant anger and a personal motivation. If that was the case, had Gabby seen the man in something like a Tyvek suit and not realized he was the same man who walked out past her, almost close enough to touch?
Would it help to know what he’d worn during the murder? Maybe, maybe not. But, damn, Hudson’s interview had been incompetent, to put it kindly.
In the ensuing days, two other investigators went at it, neither with any more skill. By the second interview, Gabby didn’t remember anything her mom said. She remembered blood. That memory ended interview number two.
By number three, five days after the murder, Gabby said, “He kept hitting Mommy, and hitting her and hitting her! An’ yelling at her!” Her voice rose with each repetition until it was almost a scream. “And I wanted to hit him, ’cept...”
She was a little girl, and terrified.
“What was he yelling?”
“She ruined something. But Mommy wouldn’t.”
Why hadn’t those idiots found a woman to interview their young witness? Or at least a kindly father of little girls? Why hadn’t they gently asked simple, specific questions, like, “What color hair did the man have? Was it brown like mine? Black like yours?”
No—to be fair, detective number two had asked that. He just waited until she was already sobbing after their discussion of the blood.
Why hadn’t they sat her down with her father, and let him ask the questions?
All three investigators had concluded, and so noted, that “witness is too young to provide reliable information.”
Had Raul Ortiz ever talked to Gabby about what she’d seen? If so, had she been so confused by then, he hadn’t gotten anything useful? Or had he tried to tell one of the investigators what she saw and was blown off?
Frustrated and angry, Jack wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what happened. But, damn it, wouldn’t Raul have told someone else? Ric would have been too young then, but later?
The detectives had sought out the victim’s friends, but all of them insisted she hadn’t said anything about a man who made her uneasy.
The killer hadn’t raped her. Hadn’t stolen anything from the house that day so far as investigators could tell, unless it was inconsequential, a memento. Hadn’t thought to look for Colleen’s young daughter—or didn’t know she had one until later.
Colleen hadn’t just screamed, “Get out!” Hard not to conclude that she’d known her killer. But how? And was he someone she’d met recently?
Or someone she’d known from her past?
* * *
“JACK.” HIS FATHER sounded pleased to hear from him that evening. “It’s been a while. Something new?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and kicked back in his recliner, gazing at the blank television. Bluntness came naturally to him. “I’ve gotten permission to open a cold case. Colleen Ortiz’s murder.”
The silence was deafening. When his father finally spoke, it was hoarsely. “You can’t rewrite history.”
“I can if I put a name to the killer. If I arrest him.”
“If you’re doing this for me, don’t.”
“I’m not.” Jack sat up straight and put his feet on the floor. Where in hell had that come from? Of course his lifelong quest had to do with clearing his father’s name once and for all.
But things had changed, he realized, when he got to know Gabby. Ric, too, to some extent. They needed closure, and deserved it.
A grunt told him Dad didn’t believe him.
“How do you expect to learn anything the original investigators couldn’t?” his father asked. “Neighbors have moved, died, forgotten whatever they once knew. I heard Raul Ortiz died a few years back. Who is left? The kids?”
“The youngest is thirty now. The son still lives in the house.” He paused. “I reopened the case because the Ortiz girl just came back to Leclaire for a visit.”
“They talked to her then. For God’s sake, Jack, she was a little girl! What do you think she can tell you?”
“She’s already told me some things,” he said in a harder voice than he’d intended. “Among them, she admits she’s spent her entire life haunted by what happened, and by what she witnessed. Turns out her brother, Ric, feels the same, even though he escaped seeing his mother killed or even the house before it was cleaned. For him, he went off to hang out with friends, and his whole world changed. Next thing he knew, his little sister was yanked away. Did you know he hasn’t seen her in over twenty years?”
“You’re angry.”
“Yeah, I am. I always have been. I lost my family because you were unfairly looked at for that murder.”
“No. Things are never that simple. You know that.”
He did. If his parents’ relationship had been tight, Mom would have supported Dad and nothing would have changed for him. As it was, there might well have been a divorce in the next few years, anyway, but that wouldn’t have been the same. His parents would have traded kids for visits, Mom might have stayed in the area, and Kristine and he wouldn’t have had to choose between Mom and Dad.
“The murder was a dividing line.”
“It was that,” his father admitted sadly.
Part of Jack wanted to push until Dad admitted what had been wrong, why the split had been so bitter. But he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and reminded himself he could do that anytime. Maybe over Christmas, which he usually spent with his father. Right now, his driving goal was to identify Colleen Ortiz’s murderer. And one of the first steps was to interview again anyone who’d had knowledge pertaining to the crime.
That included Brian Cowan, the only serious suspect in her murder.
“I’ve been listening to the tapes of the interviews,” Jack said. “I wanted to hear the subtleties that don’t show up in a transcript. The investigators took most of the obvious steps, but the interviews with Gabby Ortiz were a joke. I have the impression they dismissed her as too young to be any use even before they talked to her. She was a traumatized child, and they didn’t even try to ask questions in a way she’d understand. Instead, they pushed her into crying and gave up. I think Gabby saw plenty, and I think she can still pull those memories out of hiding.”
He winced at how grimly determined he sounded. Was he any better than the jackasses who’d further traumatized her? What was he going to do, crack open her head and yank the memories out even if he left irreparable damage behind?
Jack squeezed the back of his neck. His muscles had knots on top of knots.
Damn it, that’s not how it would be. He had to believe she’d be glad to get it all out in the open.
But he knew he might be kidding himself. Cops had to be ruthless. They couldn’t tiptoe around the sensibilities of witnesses and suspects, or they’d never arrive at the truth. A few faces in particular flashed past his eyes. Right this minute, he didn’t much like himself.
“I met her,” his father said. “Gabriella.”
Jack’s hand dropped from his neck. “I didn’t know that.”
“I worked on the furnace pretty close to a week before the murder. She was a curious little girl. Her mother kept telling her to leave me alone to do my job, but I told her I didn’t mind. She was smart. Her questions were sharp for a kid that age.” There might be a smile in his father’s voice. “Cute, too, with those pigtails and bright eyes. Hell, you must
have known her.”
“I remember seeing her around, but that’s all.”
He saw her now. Disconcertingly so.
“What I really called for is to ask you to tell me again what you overheard that bothered you enough to feel like you should go back to check on a woman you didn’t really know.”
His father surprised him once again. “I’d done maintenance on their furnace several times over the years. It was getting old, but they didn’t feel like they could afford a new one. Anyway, I’d talked to Colleen and her husband both before.”
Why didn’t the notes from his father’s interview mention that? Was it possible he’d made a move on Colleen? No, if he had, she or her husband would probably have called another furnace company. Unless Dad and Colleen had actually had consensual sex... But, again, Jack found himself shaking his head. There was nothing in Dad’s tone to suggest anything like that. Gabby would have been around on previous visits, too.
“Nice lady,” his father added, “which is partly why I worried. I should have stopped by or called sooner. I talked it over with your mother, but she thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Until it turned out that Jack’s mother was very wrong.
“I was just coming up the steps from the basement when I heard her say something like, ‘You saw me.’ She sounded...alarmed.”
Had Colleen been doing something she shouldn’t have? Or could she have seen the killer, someone who scared her, and hoped he hadn’t seen her?
“I got to the top of the steps and could see that she was on the phone. She had her back to me, or she’d have probably moved out of earshot. Instead, she snapped, ‘If you keep bothering me, you should know I kept evidence. I won’t hesitate to take it to the police.’ Her voice was shrill. That’s when she turned and realized she wasn’t alone. She said goodbye and hung up the phone. Even while she was writing a check for me and chatting, I could tell she was upset. I asked if she was okay, and she said of course. What could I do? But...it just stuck in my mind. You know? She had evidence of a crime? That’s what it sounded like.”
Dad was right. That was what it sounded like. And Jack thought her threat had been a bad idea.
And then he had another thought. What if the intruder in Ric’s house hadn’t been checking to find out whether Gabby was staying there? What if, now that she was in town, he’d gotten worried about that evidence? Assuming he hadn’t found it twenty-five years ago—and there’d been no sign the house had been tossed—he might have figured nobody would recognize that evidence. But now Gabby was home. She might know something—or her brother might hand over some of their mother’s things because he thought she’d want them. So he’d gone through the house and found nothing except Christmas ornaments stored there. He didn’t know about the storage facility. And, damn, Jack had to be very sure nobody followed Ric and Gabby there when they got around to looking through the stuff. He also fully intended to go with them and stand guard.
He’d have to finesse any explanation of why he needed to accompany them, but he’d manage.
* * *
AT THE HEAD of the driveway, Gabby’s feet refused to move. Easier to decide she was going to walk through the house with her brother than to actually do it.
“You just going to stand there forever?” Ric asked from the porch steps.
She glared at him.
His eyebrows arched. “You’re the one who wanted to get it over with.”
“Why do I have to do it at all?” Gosh, maybe because revisiting her childhood home in hopes it would spark memories was part of what she’d been determined to accomplish?
“You don’t,” her brother said reasonably. “But wouldn’t seeing the indoors looking normal and lived-in help wipe out your bad memories?”
He was right, except—“Yeah, good plan, if you and Dad hadn’t kept the house as a damn shrine.”
Although, the fact that they had might be a good thing, it occurred to her. The house served as a visual aide in her memory recovery process.
Ric kept scanning the block. “Let’s not stand out here. It’s cold.”
His eyes darted back and forth as if he expected—what? A gunshot? She hadn’t even known what that ping of metal off metal had meant when she’d been a child, or why Dad had grabbed her and Ric and all but thrown them behind the car and covered them with his body. Tires had squealed, but he hadn’t moved until a police car pulled up. Witnesses hadn’t heard a shot, either, which meant the gunman had used a silencer—actually, as Gabby had since learned, a suppressor. Gang members sometimes did, the officer had said, looking suspiciously at her father. Even she hadn’t liked the way that policeman had studied Daddy.
“You’re right,” she agreed now. She’d take the grand tour. Wasn’t seeing her home part of why she’d come back to Leclaire at last?
By the time she reached the porch, Ric had unlocked and opened the front door. Despite her resolve, she felt as if she were wading waist deep in a river, the current pushing back as she tried to walk forward. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Or was it the other way around?
To her relief, seeing the living room was okay. The hardwood floor must have been refinished at some point because she remembered it more scuffed and scratched. She and Ric had been hard on it.
Fireplace—check. The big flat screen TV was a major step up from the crappy color TV they’d had then. The new one was accompanied by the usual cable box and high-tech equipment, including a tangle of wires. Ric had to be the one who’d added a serious stereo system and speakers, too.
She didn’t remember the sofa, either, but had an uneasy feeling the recliner might be the same one, albeit reupholstered. Her gaze slid right past the coffee table, too.
“You actually have fires in here,” she said, nodding at the fireplace. When she was a little girl, they used it only when the power was out. But a pile of newspapers, a wrought-iron wood holder and fireplace tools on the hearth made her think that was no longer the case. There was even a handsome screen and a colorful hearth rug.
“Yeah, Mom didn’t like smoke, and Dad—I don’t know, he just never built one, but I like having a fire at this time of year.”
She smiled at him. “I would, too, if I wasn’t always living in an apartment.”
“I could make dinner for you some night. We could roast s’mores.”
Gabby laughed, feeling way more relaxed. “Maybe.”
Maybe not, she thought when her brother led the way past the dining room and into the kitchen. Forget “maybe not.” “Not even on a cold day in hell” was more accurate.
Setting eyes on that damn checkerboard vinyl, she actually recoiled. “Oh, God.”
Ric turned. “Oh, God what?”
It was like stepping into her most recent nightmare, the details of which she’d have sworn she’d forgotten. The endless black-and-white checkerboard floor with rivulets of blood everywhere. No, veins, as if skin had been peeled back from human flesh.
She shuffled backward even as she stared incredulously at a kitchen essentially unchanged from that hideous day. Wood cabinets painted white, white porcelain sink, bar stools with natural wood seats and white-painted legs. White eyelet curtains.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the doorway into the utility room. That’s where she’d hidden, crouched behind the laundry basket with a sheet pulled over herself except for the fold that allowed her to see.
Drip, drip, drip.
CHAPTER NINE
She couldn’t seem to wrench her gaze away from where her mother had died. “This is far enough.” She didn’t need to open cupboard doors to find out if the cereal was on the same shelf.
“It’s been twenty-five years!” her brother exclaimed. “We’ve replaced the floor. Dad had to buy new bar stools—”
Because at least one had been splintered into pieces, and th
e others almost had to have been splattered with their mother’s blood.
Nausea rose to choke her. She whirled and ran for the small downstairs bathroom, bringing up her breakfast in the toilet. Then she stood shakily in front of the sink and rinsed her mouth with handfuls of water. The strength of her reaction appalled her.
Ric’s long arm reached past her. He took a bottle of mouthwash from the medicine cabinet and handed it to her.
She rinsed, then stared at herself in the mirror. She was too pale, and her eyes looked curiously blank. A thousand-yard stare. She’d read that description before, and knew it fit.
Ric’s hand on her shoulder pulled her back to herself. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” he suggested, tone subdued. “Master bedroom and bathroom have been been redone.”
She nodded.
The staircase was familiar, of course, but had no bad associations. The first bedroom had been Ric’s, and was now painted white instead of...green was what she remembered. It held a double bed, not the twin one he’d had the last time she saw it. Yeah, this room wouldn’t impress any women he brought home, she thought with a welcome flicker of humor.
Her bedroom was still pink, but otherwise so bare, there wasn’t anything to react to, not even a bed.
“I think your dresser might be in storage,” he said awkwardly.
Gabby nodded.
Linen closet—he didn’t open the door. When they played hide-and-seek, she’d sometimes used the closet, but he always found her right away.
Bathroom—not really changed, but it had always been plain. No wallpaper, not even a border. She’d wanted Mommy to paint it pink, too, but Ric got mad, so it stayed cream-colored with standard white fixtures.
Ric had obviously claimed Mom and Dad’s bedroom, because she didn’t recognize a thing except the placement of the closets, window and door to the second bathroom.
“King-size bed,” she murmured.
His grin looked forced. “Of course.”
“You have a TV in your bedroom. Remember when you said you wanted one? One of your friends got to have one, and a game console, too.”
Harlequin Intrigue May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 46