"You think she did. That's not a fact."
"Yeah. People keep reminding me about those pesky facts." I closed my eyes, let out my breath and thought for a second. "Maybe someone left Will on the porch and she and Jasper kept the child for a week or two. When Will's skin darkened and his features began to look more African-American, Jasper told her to get rid of the baby."
Burl nodded. "Knowing Jasper, that explanation makes sense to me. She musta got attached to Will. Real attached."
"That would explain her scrapbooks," I said.
"Yeah, but there's more to this," he said, shaking his head. "Whoever broke in and stole those books knows something we don't, something worth breaking the law for."
I thought for a second. "Okay, what if Will's abandonment wasn't random? If someone intentionally left the baby with Verna Mae, she would have known whom to contact once Jasper screwed things up, maybe asked them to pay her to keep quiet about the baby."
"Not random, huh?" Burl said, sitting back.
I nodded, liking this idea. I knew better than to fall in love with it, though. "If we knew of anything else taken from the house last night besides those albums, that would sure help."
"No way to know," Burl said. "I didn't find anything but those tire tracks. I'm working on a match, but the cast wasn't good. Don't hold your breath."
"The books... Verna Mae's connection to Will, you think that's all the thief wanted?"
"Could be," Burl said. "They missed the keys, though."
"Oh, yeah." I smiled. "Guess we have something after all. Changing the subject, have you heard any thing about the cold case at the CPS office yet? If that's how Verna Mae found out where Will had been placed, it could lead us somewhere."
"Bet she paid someone to steal Will's file and trash the place as a coverup," he said.
"If you can get a hold of the case file, maybe they collected fingerprints or had a lead. Could be names in the file we could check out."
Burl sighed. "Abby, they won't even have a case file."
"But you said—"
"Ever hear of the statute of limitations? I called over there hoping they'd help me track down whoever worked that case, see if the guy is still around. If you expect fingerprints, you're dreaming."
I stood, feeling a little stupid. I should have realized there'd be no file—unless they were very, very behind at the county sheriff's office and hadn't thrown out anything in two decades. "I'm tired and discouraged," I said. "Maybe on the drive home I can sort things out."
Burl got up, put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. "Turn on the radio and give it a rest."
"Yeah. I might do that." Funny, but I welcomed his fatherly embrace and marveled at how murder and secrets had joined two strangers in friendship so quickly.
I took Burl's advice and sang along with Dave Matthews and Norah Jones in the car. Definitely relaxing. Once I was home and climbed into bed, I was fast asleep in twenty minutes, Diva purring next to me as happy as a lizard on a rock.
Thursday morning I spent a long time in the shower, organizing my thoughts on the case. I dressed in shorts and a T-shirt—it was supposed to get into the mideighties today—and went to my office to call Jeff for the names and numbers of the officers who'd arrested Lawrence Washington. He told me one officer was dead, the other a retired detective named Randall Dugan. Jeff had never met either of them. He said he'd phone Dugan and tell him to expect a call from me.
Every newspaper article I'd read about Washington's case said they had a mound of evidence, but details might provide me with something useful. Who better to give me the inside scoop than the officer who'd worked the case? Thirty minutes after speaking to Jeff, I called the retired policeman, and he answered with "Dugan here," in a raspy, abrupt greeting.
I gave him my name, reaffirmed my police connection to the ongoing murder investigation and said, "Do you remember the Lawrence Washington case?"
Silence followed and went on so long I finally said, "Mr. Dugan? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Kline said you needed my help with a fresh case."
"Did Sergeant Kline mention the fresh case may be connected to your old case?"
"Oh. That's right."
Memory problems? I wondered. "Lawrence Washington," I prompted.
"I remember him. Shouldn't be sitting in Goree, where they practically wipe those inmates' asses for them, I'll tell you. What do you want to know?"
"I recently interviewed Lawrence Washington. Apparently you have no doubts about his guilt?"
"Are you nuts? He did that girl for a lousy fifty bucks. Shot her brains out. We found her ID and the money in Washington's bedroom two hours later."
"I read that much in the old newspapers. What about the weapon?"
"No weapon."
"Did you find out Washington was the shooter through a tip?" I asked.
"Officer's best friend." I could picture Dugan smiling.
"You had Crime Stoppers back then?" I said.
"They've been around for thirty years, lady. How old are you, anyway?"
Apparently not old enough to know better than to ask dumb questions. I was glad he couldn't see me blush. Before I could cover my embarrassment with some smart-aleck remark, Dugan said, "The tip on Washington wasn't for Crime Stopper money. Came in straight to the precinct, and we followed the lead. Once we collared the kid, he never denied he did it."
"What did he say?" I asked.
"A whole lot of nothing. Wouldn't even talk to his own lawyer from what I heard."
"Did you ever find out who gave you that tip?"
"No. But not for lack of trying. That was Frank's deal. Finding out who called."
"You mean your partner, Frank Simpson?"
"Yeah." A quiet "yeah" followed by, "God rest his soul."
"I assume Frank was as convinced as you were about Washington's guilt?"
"Man, I miss that guy. Visit his grave with Joelle on our retirement anniversary. We retired on the same day, you know. But he only lived three months and then, wham!"
I heard a slapping sound so loud I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second. Dugan's words had begun to run together, and I guessed his emotion had been boosted by a few Miller Lites.
"Joelle is your wife?"
"No. Frank's wife. Frank was too good to live, you know what I'm saying? Some guys are just too good to live."
"Frank thought Washington was guilty? He agreed with you?" I repeated.
"He never agreed with me," Dugan said with a laugh. "That's what I liked about the guy. He could keep me in line. I couldn't agree with him on Washington, though. We had the evidence, an uncooperative kid who had dumped his wheels that night. I figured he thought the car had been spotted near the scene and got rid of it in some junkyard. Anyway, we had everything, toots."
Toots? My turn to wonder how old someone was. "Did Frank ever come around to your way of thinking?"
"Nope. I testified in court, which let him off the hook. He still had his doubts about Washington. He and I had a few cases like that, but not many. Frank always held onto his doubts to the bitter end. I swear that's what killed him. The fucking doubts." I heard the clink of a bottle or glass, and then Dugan swallowed.
"What exactly were those doubts about Washington?" I asked.
"He said the case was too pat. Too easy. He worried about the easy ones. Joelle said Frank was still talking about that one 'til the day he died."
"Joelle? Does she live around here?" I asked.
" 'Course she lives around here. Why?"
Why? I thought. Because I need to talk to her. But aloud I said, "Just wondered. I think it's great you two keep up with each other."
"We always keep up with each other's families. That's who we are. You still haven't told me how the fresh murder connects with this. I want to know."
I explained about Verna Mae's death, the scrapbooks, the blanket and the will leaving everything to my client.
"Okay, Washington knock
ed up some girl before he did our vic. So what?" "So what" had become one word.
"There's a lot of money involved, money my client knew nothing about. But others may have. I don't have to tell a retired police officer what the prospect of a few hundred grand does to some people."
"This still isn't fitting together for me," he said.
"Washington picked up the blanket at an upscale store and it ended up at Verna Mae's house."
"How in hell does that prove he didn't kill my vic?" he asked, sounding angry. "You're wasting my—hey. Wait a minute. How much did you say that blanket cost?"
"A lot, but—"
"Maybe Washington didn't want money for his sick mother. Maybe he killed Mason to buy his girlfriend some fancy-ass blanket for their kid." I could tell Dugan was liking this idea.
"The woman who sold the blanket doesn't think he bought it. He was picking it up for someone else."
"She doesn't think he bought it? She's not sure?"
Obviously cops never really retire. "You're right. I don't have any proof Washington didn't murder Amanda Mason." I waited for Dugan's I told you so. The words remained unspoken, but I could hear even more attitude in his tone as I segued into a good-bye. I wasn't about to convince him that he might have arrested the wrong guy. Not in a million years. Frank's wife was the one I needed to talk to.
Joelle Simpson was my next stop. Maybe what her late husband had told her would provide enough information for me to return to the prison and question Lawrence Washington again, this time telling him I had doubts about his guilt, just like Frank Simpson and the chaplain. Maybe then he'd talk.
After I hung up from Dugan, I'd called Frank Simpson's widow and told her I needed her help on one of her husband's old cases. She'd acted like I was a long-lost high school friend. "Could you come today?" she'd asked. "Frank would want you to come right away if he were alive."
A little stunned by this instant and eager cooperation, I got in the Camry a few minutes later, directions in hand. She lived in the northwest suburbs not far from a busy mall, and the traffic was horrendous at mid-morning. Maybe because I'm paranoid about being rear-ended—something that's happened twice in the last year near shopping malls—I looked in the mirror more than usual during the halting trip to Joelle Simpson's neighborhood—and realized I was being followed.
If you're going to follow someone, why drive a flashy apple-red Lexus? I'd noticed that car as I'd left my house. Noticed because none of my neighbors own a car with gold hubcaps and windows tinted too dark to be legal. That same car or its twin was several vehicles behind me. Vanity and gridlock will get you every time.
I was in the left-turn lane and my tail wasn't. Guess that would have been too obvious. Easy enough to go past me at this intersection and make a U-turn. Whoever it was could easily pick me up in a few seconds. But I'd be waiting.
I made my turn, went two blocks and pulled into a driveway, hoping the tail would think this was my destination and drive on by. Then I could read the plates. Less than a minute later, the Lexus came cruising around the corner and slowed, obviously spotting my car.
At that wonderful moment, someone pounded on my driver's side window. I was so startled I nearly jumped through the sunroof.
A man in his sixties holding a golf umbrella pressed his face to the glass. I glanced back at my tail and saw that the car had also pulled into a driveway, but in the first block. Damn. I couldn't see the plates. I rolled down my window.
"You selling something?" the man asked, his irritation obvious. " 'Cause if you are, we don't need your Avon or your Tupperware." He pointed at me with the handle of the umbrella as if scolding a child.
"Um, no," I answered sweetly. "I'm kind of lost. Can you help me?" I glanced back at the Lexus idling a block away.
"Oh." This seemed to deflate the man. Here he'd been ready to scare off one of those perfume predators who he probably didn't realize rarely sold doorto-door these days.
"Where you headed?" he asked.
I gave him Joelle Simpson's address.
"You're almost there." He pointed down the street with the umbrella, telling me to drive three more blocks and turn right.
Since the guy was gesturing while giving directions, I might still be good. The tail would think I'd simply gotten lost, and once the Lexus was behind me again, I could make the plates and call them in to Jeff.
After I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward Mrs. Simpson's house, I watched in the rearview as my tail backed out and headed in the opposite direction. My heart sank like a rock with a hole in it. I couldn't read anything. The Lexus was too far away. The adrenaline rush that had surged through me at the prospect of obtaining a solid lead vanished like hailstones in July.
I drove on to the Simpson house thinking how my sister had been knocked silly at Verna Mae's place and now I'd been followed. Someone was paying close attention. Who? The only people aware of me working this case were Burl, HPD, Angel... and my sister... my aunt, oh, and the chaplain and then there were all the people I'd interviewed and—holy hissy fit. The whole frickin' world knew.
I'll be on the lookout for my friend in the Lexus, I thought, as I parked in the Simpson driveway. I only hoped Jeff or Angel hadn't put some babysitter on me. That would be worse than a bad guy hanging around.
A smiling Joelle Simpson, her ginger hair gray at the roots, greeted me at the door of her modest brick home before I could even ring the bell. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress and no makeup, and had an almost ageless oval face. She must have avoided the Texas sun her entire life.
She grasped my hand in both of hers and smiled broadly. "No one's ever asked me anything about Frank's cases before. I really hope I can help." Her attitude was a welcome departure from the prison visit yesterday and my conversation with Frank's partner earlier today.
As she led me inside, my initial take on the house was that it seemed like a cozy bungalow filled with comfy furniture. Then I took in the photographs filling the walls—photos in stark contrast to the smiling, sweet Joelle Simpson and her warmth. Not family photographs, but the work of someone with a serious hobby. No Texas landscapes or old barns or fields of bluebonnets. They were all people... haunting character studies. Some were in color, some in black and white—people young and old, crying, or with heads bent, or clinging to children or other loved ones. A few were so searing in their portrayal, I had to look away.
"Frank," Mrs. Simpson said quietly. "He took them."
"They're... amazing. Who are these people?"
"Families of the victims. He got their permission, if you're wondering. Most of the time, he'd invite them here later on, after he'd developed and framed their pictures. The families wanted to see, and the pictures offered an opening for them to talk about the day their lives changed forever. They welcomed the chance to sit and talk with Frank, sometimes for hours."
"Sounds like Frank had a big heart," I said.
She blinked back tears. "Funny, that's what killed him. A heart attack. I told our grandchildren his heart was so big it just burst. He was the kindest man I ever met."
I reached out and squeezed her arm. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"That's okay, Abby. Can I call you Abby?"
"Of course."
"I'm Joelle. Anyway, the occasional sadness, the bouts of tears, it's all part of missing him and I expect it will go on forever. Now tell me more. You mentioned Lawrence Washington on the phone."
"Yes. Did Frank talk much about him?" I'd learned from Dugan that he had, but I needed Joelle's take on this.
"Frank knew something wasn't right about that case, said he thought the boy was innocent. Let's go get Frank's book."
His book? I wondered, as she led me up a narrow staircase and into a converted bedroom with wall-towall shelves. They were filled with hardback and paperback books as well as a slew of albums, each labeled with a month and year on the spine. On the left wall I noted more framed photographs, and one jumped out at me. It was an eight-by-ten blac
k-andwhite of Lawrence Washington sitting with his cuffed hands resting on a small table. He was leaner than now and wore a Texas A&M T-shirt, his tired eyes staring into the lens, dark and as sad as I remember from yesterday. If I had seen this picture first, rather than the one from the newspaper, I would have known Will and Lawrence were most certainly father and son.
"I'm not sure of the month," Joelle said, stepping toward the 1987 shelf.
"April," I answered, wondering why Washington agreed to the photograph. Maybe he'd wanted someone to remember the worst day of his life.
She pulled the album and brought it to a card table set up in the center of the room. "Frank used to have half of this space set up as a darkroom, but I finally had some friends remodel it about a year after he died. Took me that long to accept he wouldn't walk through the door with a new roll of film in hand." She pulled her lips in and out a few times, the album held tightly against her chest.
"I lost my daddy not long ago," I said. "I understand."
"I'm so sorry." Joelle reached out and squeezed my hand.
"What's with all these albums? More pictures?"
"Not exactly. I added more shelf space so I could organize these. He had them everywhere. I've always wished one of his old police buddies would write a book and use them—they all say they're going to write a book, you know."
I smiled. "I have a detective friend. He tells me that half the force say they have a book in them."
"Frank kept information about every case, though
I'm not sure he was supposed to do that. I'm hoping one day, because of him, a wrong can be righted." She set the album on the table.
We took folding chairs side by side and Joelle began turning the pages. Not only were there pictures and newspaper clippings, but Frank Simpson had kept notes about each case. Amanda Mason had been murdered in April, and Joelle pointed out a photo of Frank standing between a middle-aged couple. The picture was nowhere near the quality I'd seen hanging on the walls.
"Who took this?" I asked.
"Randall."
"Randall?" I said.
"Frank's partner, Randall Dugan. He took some of the pictures for the books."
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