by Mary Burton
“Did you find anything?”
“It’s not much. A grainy picture.”
“I’ll take whatever you have.”
“I’ve sent it over. Should be there shortly.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He didn’t have long to wait. Seconds later a picture addressed to him arrived in his computer in-box. He stared at the grainy face of Nathanial, son of Smith’s third victim, Ellen Boykin.
He couldn’t make heads or tails from the image. The kid could be anyone now. Picture in hand, Brody walked toward April Summers’s office. April had joined the Rangers three months ago as their newest sketch artist. He’d heard good reports. And he was hoping for a little magic now.
He knocked on the door and a petite brunet raised her head from a sketchpad. She wore heavy, rimmed, dark glasses that did not suit her slender face or pale skin. The glasses magnified dark eyes that narrowed with annoyance when he knocked.
“Ms. Summers?”
She pulled off her glasses and shoved aside her annoyance. “Yes.”
“Ranger Brody Winchester. Got a question for you.”
She tugged at the hem of her blue blouse as she rose. She was short, not more than five feet, but possessed an energy that reminded him of a pit bull. “What do you need?”
“Got a picture of a twelve-year-old boy that was sent to me by Social Services. It was taken about twenty years ago. Mighty grainy.”
“And you want to know what he looks like now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She accepted the photo and studied it. “I have a computer program. I can run his picture through. Do you know anything about him? Habits and lifestyle choices affect how we age.”
“All I know is that his mother died when he was twelve. She’d been a drug addict for years, but I don’t know if the boy picked up her ways or not. He was in foster care briefly before he vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Case workers believe he ran off looking for his father. He didn’t like the family he’d been placed with and talked about finding his birth father. They searched for him a bit, but over time he was forgotten and vanished.”
“He could have been living on the streets.”
“Could be. Could have had a real hard life. But I’m betting on the fact that he didn’t have to scrimp and save but grew up in a decent enough home.” Brody explained the boy’s possible connection to Smith who had said he’d seen to the boy’s welfare and education. “I’d assume he also had an education.”
“I’ll come up with a few scenarios.” She checked the clock. “I’ve got several in the queue before you, so it might take me a day or two.”
“Faster, the better.”
As Brody strode back to his office his cell rang. He answered it as he stepped into his office. “Winchester.”
“It’s Santos. I just received the report on that letter delivered to Jo’s house.”
“And?”
“She was right. Smith didn’t write it. Handwriting analysis said it’s one hell of a fake but Smith didn’t write it.”
Brody stood silent for a moment.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Call DPS for me. I want more patrols through Jo’s neighborhood. Smith didn’t write the letter but some nut did and he knows where Jo lives.”
Jo sat in the chair beside the couch in her office staring at the young girl who sat slumped back, her arms folded across her chest. The girl, fifteen, had dyed her blond hair an ink black, wore smoky eye shadow that matched her dark clothing. This was Jo’s second visit with Mindy, and she’d not made any inroads with the troubled teen who’d taken to stealing.
The girl had wrapped herself in layers and layers of makeup and anger, and Jo wondered what horrible secret required so many defenses. “Mindy, I understand that you don’t want to be here and that you don’t like to talk, but your parents are worried.”
Mindy glanced at her chipped red nail polish and said nothing.
Jo set her notebook aside and sat back in her chair. Mindy’s parents were affluent, straitlaced and a far cry from the girl sitting here. “I never fit in at my house. I wasn’t the Goth kid but the geek kid. My younger sister and mother were the beauty queens, and all I wanted to do was read.”
Mindy kept her gaze down.
Jo continued. “When I was a little younger than you I told my parents during dinner that I wanted to major in psychology one day. I’d finished a report on the subject and was fascinated.” Jo released a breath. “They both laughed and said there were better ways to make a living.”
Mindy looked up, and for a split second, hints of curiosity flickered in her gaze, before she looked back at her folded arms. “My mother wanted more than anything to enter me into a beauty contest. I did not want any part of it, but my mother is a stubborn gal. She finally got me to enter. Want to know how?”
Mindy shrugged a shoulder. Though she said nothing, her gaze remained on Jo.
Jo took that as a yes. “She promised me one hundred dollars. Said she’d drive me to the bookstore and let me spend the whole one hundred dollars on books.” The memory coaxed a smile. “I jumped at the chance. And I let her spray my hair until it hardened like a helmet. She painted my eyes and cheeks. To be honest, I thought I looked more like a rodeo clown than a girl. I even managed a baton-twirling act. Though I must say I do throw a real nice baton. Boy, how I could make that baby spiral in the air. And did I say I convinced Mom to let me set the baton ends on fire?”
Mindy shrugged. “So what happened?”
Jo didn’t point out that this was the first time the kid had spoken in their sessions. “I gave it my all and I had come in . . . fifth place. Beat out by four perky, petite blondes. But I did win a ribbon for the talent.” She smiled. “I received more applause than any of the girls that night when I threw my flaming baton in the air.”
“Did you get your books?”
“I did. Took me two hours of wandering in that store because I wanted to choose carefully. And the best news of all was that Momma shifted her pageant dreams to my younger sister. Who, by the way, loved every minute of her pageant days.”
Mindy rolled her eyes. “It was smooth sailing for you, and you never looked back.”
“No, honey, I made some bad mistakes after that. Mistakes I couldn’t blame on anybody but myself.”
Mindy’s brow knotted. “What kind of mistakes?”
Jo checked her watch and realized they’d gone five minutes over their time. “I’ll tell you next week.”
“What if I don’t come back?”
Jo shrugged as she rose. “I guess you’ll never know.”
The girl rose, pulling her backpack with her. “These sessions are lame. They aren’t helping.”
Jo put her hand on the doorknob and paused. “The choice is yours, Mindy. I’m not going to make you come back.”
“My parents will.”
Jo opened the door. “Well, on the bright side, if you have to come back you’ll find out the next chapter in my story.”
The girl held her gaze a beat before turning to leave. As Jo followed, her phone buzzed. Ignoring it, she met the girl’s parents, offered suggestions and updates before escorting them to the elevator.
Back at her desk, she snapped up the receiver and dialed the receptionist. “I have a call?”
“You have a call on line two. A Mr. Morris Gentry, attorney-at-law. He’s called four times today.”
She’d testified in court for clients and law enforcement and had dealt with her share of attorneys, but the name Gentry did not ring a bell. “Take a message.”
“Sure.”
Her phone buzzed again twenty seconds later and she snapped it up, annoyed. “Mr. Gentry said this is in reference to Mr. Smith.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“That’s all he’d say.”
“I’ll take the call.” She punched line two. “Mr. Gentry, this is Dr. Granger. What can I do for you?”
/> A man cleared his throat. “I was the attorney for Mr. Harvey Smith. I assume you are acquainted with him.”
“I am.” She clicked through her memory. “And you defended him at his trial.”
“That is correct, Dr. Granger.”
She picked up a pen and doodled circles on her blotter. “What can I do for you?”
“Before he was arrested three years ago, he contacted me and gave me a package, which I was to deliver to you at the time of his death.”
She held her breath. “What’s in the package?”
He hesitated. “I do not know. All I know is that I got his assurance that it contained nothing considered illegal.”
What did Mr. Gentry consider illegal? When she’d read the trial transcripts she’d judged his definition as relaxed. “Can you send it to me?”
“You are to come to my office and sign for it personally.”
“I don’t have time for that. Would you courier it to me?”
“Mr. Smith was specific that I see you sign for it.”
She didn’t like having her actions dictated by a dead man. But to ignore the package was to ignore possible evidence that could help with the current murder investigation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Good. Very good.” He gave her his address.
The drive across town took twenty minutes, and by the time she parked, a half hour had passed. Gentry’s office was located in a high-rise with sleek glass windows and a marble foyer. A scan of the directory in the lobby and a punch of the buttons and she arrived at Gentry’s tenth-floor office.
The offices were as nice as the entryway, and she could see that Gentry’s practice was profitable. He’d garnered a great deal of publicity from the Smith trial and had shown himself to the world to be a quick-minded attorney.
The receptionist was as sleek as the office and the moment she saw Jo she announced her to Gentry. The attorney greeted her within seconds of her arrival.
Gentry was a short man in his midfifties with a thick belly and dark hair that had thinned considerably. But his suit wasn’t off the rack as it had been during Smith’s trial, but custom. Gold, monogrammed cuff links winked in the light from a large picture window behind his desk.
He extended his hand to her. “Dr. Granger. So glad you could come quickly.”
She accepted his hand, noting it was too soft for her liking. “You made it difficult to resist.”
“I am following my client’s instructions.”
“Understood.”
He escorted her into his office and to a plush mid-century modern chair by a chrome desk. Behind him, glass windows offered a spectacular view of the river.
“Can I offer you coffee or tea? A soda perhaps?”
“I’m fine. I need to collect what Smith left me and be on my way.”
“Yes.” He reached behind his desk and lifted a small beaten-up shoe box wrapped in duct tape. The box stood in stark contrast to the office’s sleek surroundings. A spider in a lush bowl of cream. A cancer. A reminder that no matter how much money Mr. Gentry had spent on his new life, it had been built on the back of something very ugly.
She accepted the box, noting it wasn’t too heavy. God, but she did not want this box. Did not want this morbid connection to a dead man who’d dedicated his life to evil.
“I have a letter opener if you’d like to open it now,” he said.
She stared at the secured lid. “Thank you, but I’d rather not open it now.”
His face frowned his disappointment. “You aren’t going to open it?”
“Not now.” As he continued to stare she added, “I was to sign for it but I don’t need to open it in your presence.”
“ No.”
“Excellent.”
He cleared his throat. “If you do not want the box I can take it for you, examine the contents and destroy it.”
She really looked at him for the first time. Keen interest sparked in his gaze. “What was Mr. Smith like when you represented him?”
“Honestly, he was delightful. He was courteous. Kept up with the current events and was always curious about what was going on in the world.”
“I would think he’d have worried about his defense.”
Gentry adjusted a cuff. “He never had a real interest in his case.”
“Odd, considering the consequences he faced.”
“Believe me, we had this discussion many times. I wanted him to be engaged and to worry about what could happen. But he didn’t care, as if relieved to be behind bars. As long as he could read and write he was happy.”
She dropped her gaze to the box and smoothed her hand over it.
He leaned forward. “Do you mind me asking you a question?”
“You may ask.”
“Why ask me to hold a box for you? Who are you to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Only once did he mention you. He’d been convicted and sentenced to death. I’d come to talk to him about appeals, but he showed more interest in an award you’d earned. It had been written up in the paper.”
She smoothed her hand gently over the rough cardboard as if it could bite. Finally she rose. “Thank you.”
“You’ll let me know what is in the box?”
“Why do you care?”
“The most notorious serial killer in the last fifty years leaves a box in my charge. I’m curious. Curious enough in fact to have it X-rayed soon after he gave it to me.”
“X-rayed.”
“I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything really unseemly in the box.” He dropped his voice a notch. “I’ve read how killers like him like to keep trophies. Body parts and such.”
Somehow she doubted Mr. Smith would have left her anything gruesome. It would have been rude, uncouth.
She signed the receipt stating she’d accepted the box and with it in hand, she left a disappointed Gentry. Outside the building, she inhaled deeply, savoring the warm air, which eased the chill seeping from the box.
She didn’t think about where she was going because she knew if she thought too hard about her destination she’d find a way to second-guess herself. Going to Brody was getting to be a habit. A bad habit. And if she had sense, she’d find another way. But right now, she couldn’t think of another person to be with when she opened the box.
Fifteen minutes later, Jo walked through the main doors of the Rangers’ Austin office and stopped at the reception desk. “Is Ranger Winchester here? Jo Granger to see him.”
“Let me check.” The officer cast her a skeptical gaze when he announced her on the phone. His eyes widened with a startled surprise. Brody was coming.
Seconds later, Brody emerged from a side door. Jacketless and hatless, he had rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. “Jo, is everything all right?”
A week ago he’d called her Dr. Granger. Formality had been a polite barrier between them. Somewhere along the way that fence had dropped and awareness had developed. They’d never be lovers again, but maybe there could be room for friendship. She certainly needed a friend right now.
“Is there somewhere private where we could talk?”
“Up in my office.” He pulled the box out of her hands as if he understood she hated touching it.
She flexed her fingers as they made their way to his office and didn’t release the breath she was holding until he closed the door behind them.
“Who sent you the box?”
She explained about Gentry and the call.
Brody’s jaw tightened, released. “First the visit. Now the box. Smith can’t stay out of your life.”
“Don’t forget the letter.”
“Smith didn’t write it. It’s a great forgery.”
She smoothed her hands over her skirt, trying to erase the weight of the box from her hands. “They’re taking over my life.”
“No, they are not.” Brody reached in his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife, flipped it open and pressed it to the old, cra
cked tape. “I’m going to open this?”
A single nod was all she offered as she folded her arms over her chest and watched.
With a quick, sure stroke he pulled the blade over the tape’s crease between the lid and the box and sliced it open. Carefully, he removed the top.
Inside were stacks of letters. He picked up the first and studied the address. “It’s addressed to you. Dated twenty years ago. March 24.”
She frowned. “My birthday.”
Inside was a birthday card featuring a pink bunny and a large number twelve. Smith had written a note, which Brody read. “Jo, wishing you all the best on this important day of your life.”
It had been her twelfth birthday and the card included a picture of her at her one beauty contest. Her hands trembled a little when she studied the picture of her hideously teased hair and heavy makeup. She’d been holding the fifth-place trophy. Off to the side her mother grinned and beamed.
She closed her eyes, absorbing the enormity of the moment. “He believed he was my father.”
Brody studied the other envelopes. They were all birthday cards, written and dated in sequential order.
Her gaze remained locked on the picture. “He couldn’t have been more than twenty feet from me.”
“Do you remember anything about that day?”
“Only that I did not want to be there. My head itched from the hairspray, and my dress was so tight I couldn’t breathe. Mom was in her glory, and I was miserable.”
“Did your mother act strange that day? Did she notice anything?”
“If she did, I never knew. She was all about the pageant that day.” She shook her head. “And Smith was right there watching.” She closed her eyes. “I’ve asked Mother directly if he is my father and she becomes offended. Which, of course, is classic avoidance.”
“Happens in the best of families.”
Her attempted smile fell short. “Brody, could he really be my father? I mean I know I never fit into my family, but lots of kids feel that way. Doesn’t mean anything. But now as I look at this, I’m afraid.”
“Jo, don’t borrow trouble.”
She lifted her gaze to find his boring into her. “I didn’t go looking for it. It came to me.”