“Ha ha.”
Matt and Sonya knocked on door after door. Half the people weren’t home, and the other half hadn’t seen a thing. Everyone was far more interested in talking about the state championship and commiserating with Matt about his injury than talking about the murders.
By eleven o’clock they had moved on to the houses on Robert Street, which overlooked the alley behind the Richardsons’ house.
“Leon, Henry and Lenore Patterson,” Sonya announced as they approached the third house from the corner.
An elderly woman with white hair answered the door. “Mrs. Patterson?” The woman nodded. “We’re with the Justice Project and—”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Patterson interrupted. “Jolene told me about you.”
“You know Jolene?” Matt asked.
“We’ve been friends for sixty years. I was with her when Ray called to say he’d been charged with murder.” She sighed.
Mrs. Patterson hadn’t seen anything noteworthy on the day of the murder, and neither had her husband, Henry, who had passed away a few years after the murders.
“Is Leon at home?” Sonya asked.
“My son lives in Rio de Janeiro. He married a Brazilian woman. I can give you his email address.” She wrote it down on a piece of paper. “You bring Ray back home,” she ordered. “That boy’s suffered enough. And so has his grandma.”
“We’ll do our best,” Sonya said.
For what it’s worth, Matt silently added.
“This is the last house on the list,” Sonya said two hours later.
Hallelujah. Matt trudged up the pathway. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his leg was crying for mercy. Tomorrow I hit the pool, he told himself. No more excuses.
A tall man with a prominent paunch opened the door.
“Mr. Lewis?” Sonya asked.
The man’s eyes widened when he saw Matt. From the look on his face, it could have been Brad Pitt standing on his doorstep.
Lewis didn’t remember where he’d been on the day of the murders, but there was nothing wrong with his short-term memory, and he proved it by launching into a play-by-play analysis of the championship game. He was halfway through the first quarter before he took a breath, giving Matt an opportunity to terminate the conversation.
“Gee, just when it was getting interesting,” Sonya said as they headed to the car.
“I can finish up, if you’d like.”
“I’d rather you pulled out my fingernails with a pair of pliers.”
Matt laughed.
“You should run for mayor,” Sonya said. “You’d be a shoo-in.”
“I’d get the sympathy vote, that’s for sure.”
Sonya gave him a sideways glance but didn’t say anything.
The car was as hot as a furnace. Sonya lowered the windows and took a sandwich out of her backpack. “Didn’t you bring anything to eat?”
Matt shook his head.
She reached into her bag. “I have an extra sandwich.”
“That’s okay. I’ll grab something at home.”
“We’re not done. We’ve got to go back to the houses where nobody answered.”
The prospect of a few more hours under the hot sun had about as much appeal to Matt as walking barefoot on a bed of nails, and it must have shown on his face.
“Is your leg sore?” Sonya asked. “I can take you home if you need to rest.”
Matt held out his hand. Sonya passed him the sandwich.
“How about turning on the AC?” he asked.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. It’s a million degrees in here.”
“I’m not going to pollute the atmosphere just so you can be comfortable.”
“I can’t believe I asked.”
TWENTY
Derek Costello at 111 Huntington Terrace still wasn’t in. Neither was his next-door neighbor, Ella Didrickson, the woman who had seen Walter and Gwen come home on the day of the murder.
A short, powerfully built man was cutting the grass with a push mower at the house beside the Richardsons’.
“Mr. Thelen?” Sonya asked.
“That’s me.” He mopped his brow while Sonya told him why she and Matt were there.
“Ray Richardson. Haven’t heard that name in a long time.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “It was a terrible thing. Just terrible.”
“Were you home that day?” Sonya asked.
“No. I was out of town all week. Didn’t find out about it until I got back. I knew things between Ray and Walter were coming to a head, but I never thought it would end up the way it did.”
“Coming to a head?” Matt asked. “How?”
“They had a big dustup the day before it happened. I was out doing some errands. When I came home, they were in the driveway. Walter was yelling at Ray. You know that Ray was doing drugs, right?” Matt and Sonya nodded. “You better clean up your act, boy, Walter was saying. I’m tired of your crap. You come home wasted one more time, and you’re gonna have to find somewhere else to live.”
“What did Ray do?” Sonya asked.
“He just stood there, smirking like a real smart-ass. Walter lost it. He slapped Ray across the face. Hard. I heard it from here. They stared at each other for a few seconds, not saying anything. Then Ray got this cold look on his face. Told Walter that if he ever laid a hand on him again, he’d kill him.”
That wasn’t the way Ray had described it, Matt recalled. An argument about his lifestyle was how he had put it. Had he forgotten that he’d threatened to kill his dad, or did he just think it wasn’t worth mentioning?
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Matt asked.
“By the time I heard about the murders, Ray had already pled guilty. No point in my getting involved.”
“What do you make of that?” Matt asked Sonya when they were back on the sidewalk.
“It doesn’t mean anything. Haven’t you ever told anybody you wanted to kill them?”
“Yeah, but they didn’t end up dead the next day. I know, I know. If Ray was guilty, he wouldn’t be dead set on spending the rest of his life in jail.” But was it really as simple as that? he wondered. He still didn’t see how Walter could have drunk an entire beer without noticing that the back door had been kicked in, no matter how hard he was concentrating on the newspaper. Nothing about this case makes sense. He felt like a dog chasing its tail.
A chunky man in a tank top sat on the porch of the house on the corner. His bald head glistened with sweat.
“Martin Porter?” Sonya said after looking at the spreadsheet.
“Sup, Matt,” Porter said, rising to his feet. He extended his fist in a pathetic attempt to be cool, smiling broadly when Matt jabbed it with his own. “Marty Porter. I own the travel agency on Deacon Street. We handled the arrangements when you guys went to the capital for the game. The hotel was sweet, wasn’t it?”
“It was great.”
“Man, you really messed up your leg, didn’t you?”
Thanks for pointing that out.
Sonya jumped in. “We’re with the Justice Project,” she said and then explained why she and Matt were at his door.
“I was home, but I didn’t see anything,” Porter said.
“Thanks for your time,” Matt said.
“I played some ball myself back in the day,” Porter said, missing the cue to say goodbye. “Three-year starter at Oakwood. Tight end.” A wistful look crossed his face. “Game day. There’s nothing like it, is there? Running onto the field, the crowd going crazy, the cheerleaders jumping all over the place.” He looked at Sonya as if he expected her to wave a pom-pom. “I still dream about it, believe it or not. Best days of my life.”
Matt and Sonya took advantage of his reverie to make their escape.
Best days of my life, Matt repeated to himself as he swayed down the path. Was he going to end up like that? Living in the past, dreaming about what might have been? Screw that. Across the street a young couple was staring at him. He glared at the
m angrily. And screw you too.
The next hour was an exercise in frustration. Eleven households visited. Eleven households where nobody had seen a thing.
“I’m beat,” Sonya said when they were done.
“It’s only two thirty. Plenty of time for another circuit.”
“If I wasn’t so tired, I’d call your bluff.”
They were walking to Sonya’s car when a blue Toyota pulled into the driveway of number 111. A scrawny man with a goatee got out of the car.
“Mr. Costello?” Sonya asked.
“If you’re with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m not interested.”
“It’s nothing like that, sir,” Sonya assured him before explaining why she and Matt were there.
“Were you home that day?” Matt asked.
“I was here when Walter came back from work.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“Just after three.”
“Are you sure?” Sonya asked.
“Positive. I was working the morning shift at the cement plant in Hayward.” He waved his hand in the general direction of Hayward, a small town a few miles north of Snowden. “I got home at three and saw Walter pulling into the driveway.”
“Do you know Ella Didrickson?”
Costello smiled. “Sure. I know Ella. She’s the neighborhood watch all by herself.”
“She told the police she saw Walter come home at four.”
Costello was unfazed by the apparent discrepancy. “I went outside fifteen minutes or so after I got home. I was going to a friend’s house to watch a ball game. Walter was driving away. Ella must have seen him when he came back.” He shrugged. “I blame the drugs. Ray was a nice kid until he started messing around with that stuff.”
“There’s your explanation for the beer,” Sonya said after they left the Costello residence. “Walter drank it when he came home at three. The burglar broke in after he left the house at three fifteen, and he was still there when Walter got back at four.”
Makes sense, Matt thought. He could stop chasing his tail. But they were no closer to proving Ray was innocent than they were the day they started.
TWENTY-ONE
Matt sliced through the water, pulling with all his strength until he reached the end of the pool. He grabbed the ledge, glancing at his watch as he caught his breath. Forty lengths in a shade under thirty-five minutes wouldn’t get him into the Olympics, but it wasn’t bad, considering he’d only been able to do eight when he started swimming ten days earlier.
“Looking good,” the lifeguard said. “We’ll make a swimmer out of you yet.”
“You’ve got to teach me how to do a flip turn.”
“I’ll show you tomorrow. It’s easy.”
“I’ll be here.”
Matt pulled himself out of the pool. He’d forgotten how good it felt to push his body to the limit, the pleasure he got from feeling the fatigue in his muscles. And he enjoyed swimming more than he had predicted. He liked the feeling of being in a world of his own, where nothing existed except him and the water, where nobody could see that there was something wrong with him. Where he felt like he was normal.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Donaldson,” Matt said into the phone. “I’ll call you next week to arrange the pickup.” He added the information to his list of donations for the silent auction: Donaldson Electronics. 42" flat-screen TV.
“Don’t forget to come by and sign my championship-game program,” Donaldson said.
“I’ll drop into the store next chance I get.”
Matt had known Donaldson was going to make a donation as soon as he introduced himself. Like just about everybody else on Matt’s list, Donaldson was more interested in talking about football than in hearing about the work the Justice Project was doing. And after chewing Matt’s ear off for ten minutes, he could hardly refuse to participate in the auction. It was no accident Jesse had given Matt the task of soliciting donations.
So far he had obtained enough household goods to furnish a mansion, dozens of gift certificates and an all-expenses-paid trip for two to New York City, the last donated by the Porter Travel Agency after Matt buttered up Marty Porter by faking a burning desire to hear all about his glory days at Oakland High.
The Snowden Vision Center had just come through with a year’s supply of contact lenses when Mayor Jamie Jenkins came into the office, wearing a matching skirt and jacket. She and Angela exchanged kisses.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Angela said.
“I have a meeting across the street and thought I’d drop in and say hello.”
“Jesse will be sorry he missed you. Thanks so much for offering to host the cocktail party. We really appreciate it.”
“It’s the least we can do,” Jamie replied. “Hello, Matt. Nice to see you again.”
“You too,” Matt said.
“I was at a mayors’ convention in the capital last month, and I can’t tell you how many people congratulated me on the victory. You and your teammates put this town on the map.”
“Thanks.”
“This is our other summer intern, Sonya Livingstone,” Angela said.
“Dan told me you were working here. Please say hello to your father for me.”
“I will,” Sonya said.
“Dan mentioned you were looking into Ray Richardson’s case,” Jamie said to Angela.
“Only unofficially,” Angela said, in case the mayor shared her father’s misgivings.
“I think that’s great,” Jamie assured her. “I was blown away when Dan told me that Ray refuses to ask for parole. Unbelievable.”
“Did you know Ray?” Sonya asked.
“Just to say hello. We were in the same English class when we were juniors, but midway through the year my father sent me to an all-girls school. He thought being around boys was distracting me from my studies.”
Didn’t keep her away from Dan Burke, Matt thought.
“I knew Walter well,” Jamie added, turning serious. “He was a wonderful man. I was devastated when I found out he’d been killed. He was very kind to me. Very kind.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “After Ray pled guilty it never crossed my mind that he might be innocent. Have you come up with anything?”
“Not yet,” Sonya said, her tone reflecting an optimism Matt saw no reason to share.
He and Sonya had been back to the Richardsons’ neighborhood twice in the week and a half since they first went there, and they had spoken to dozens of former residents who had moved away. But all they had learned was that Ray was a sweet kid until he started doing drugs and that Matt’s accident was the Snowden equivalent of the sinking of the Titanic. Meanwhile, the number of potential witnesses had dwindled to thirty-seven.
“I better run,” Jamie said. “Good luck with the case. And the next time you see Ray, please tell him what a fine man his father was.”
“If my daughter was acting out, an all-girls school is the last place I’d send her,” Sonya said after Jamie left. “I have a friend whose dad sent her to St. Andrews. You wouldn’t believe the stories she told me about some of the girls.”
“Do you have names and contact info?” Matt asked.
“He’s a funny guy,” Angela said.
“A riot,” Sonya agreed.
Matt stayed on at the end of the day to make a few more phone calls. He had just cajoled one of his former teammates, Andy Evelyn, whose dad owned the Snowden Limousine Service, into donating a limo and driver for New Year’s Eve when Anthony Blanchard called.
“Sup, AB? How’s life on the coast?”
“Not good. I’m playing like shit. I’m dropping balls I could have caught in junior high. You wouldn’t believe how big and fast everybody is. I feel like I’m in over my head.”
“You’ve only been out there for a couple of weeks, man. Give it some time. If you didn’t belong, they wouldn’t have given you a scholarship.”
Matt felt for his friend, but it was weird to be commiserating with Anthony over an opp
ortunity he’d been robbed of. His English teacher would call it ironic.
“I’m sorry, man,” Anthony said. “Here I am whining about myself, and look what you’ve got to deal with. How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Have you seen any of the guys?”
“You asking if I’m getting out of the apartment?”
“Your words. Not mine.”
“I’ve seen The Goon a few times. He wants to be called Allan from now on. Says Goon isn’t dignified.”
“That ain’t going to happen.”
“That’s what I told him.”
They talked for a few more minutes, until it was time for Anthony to go to practice.
“I’ll see you next week at graduation,” Anthony said. “Be strong, brother.”
“I’m trying.”
Matt was about to call it a day when a courier arrived with an envelope from Ralph Chadwick, the Justice Project’s investigator. It contained the Richardsons’ phone records from the day of the murder. Only two calls had been made that day. The first was at 3:07 PM, a few minutes after Derek Costello saw Walter arrive at the house, and the second was at 3:13.
Matt called the first number.
“Dan Burke’s office,” a woman said pleasantly.
Matt hung up. That fits, he thought. Burke had said Walter called him after he picked up the replacement car from the limo company, wanting to know if the mayor needed him.
He dialed the second number. “Violet Bailey and Associates,” a voice chirped.
Matt was about to hang up when he remembered that Ray’s mother, Gwen, had worked for Violet Bailey. Walter must have been calling her. It was hard to imagine that Violet would remember anything after all these years, but it was worth a shot.
To Matt’s surprise, Violet remembered the phone call. “I don’t know what Walter said to Gwen, but she was upset when she got off the phone. The shit’s going to hit the fan, she told me. Those were her exact words.”
“Do you know what she meant?”
“No idea. I asked, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”
Matt locked up and went outside.
The Justice Project Page 8