by C. J. Lyons
“That or the idea that she saw everything.”
Lucy opened her door. “Yeah, that might have been pushing it a bit too far. Especially given that we have no idea where Maybelle is. Or if she was even there. Wash still needs to confirm her parents’ IDs.”
TK got into the passenger seat, wincing a bit as her weight dropped.
“Sure you’re okay?” Lucy asked. “You got pretty banged up last night.”
“I’m fine. But speaking of last night, I want to call David, make sure he’s not pushing himself too hard.”
“He put on a good show for you this morning, but I guarantee he’ll be napping most of the day. That is, when the nurses and doctors and x-ray techs and lunch ladies aren’t waking him up.”
“Right. I forgot, you went through the same thing with your leg.”
Lucy grimaced. Almost losing her leg after a dog mauled it and then struggling with infection, muscle loss, and now permanent nerve damage wasn’t quite the same as a simple break repaired by a few plates, but TK didn’t know that. “He’ll be fine. A few weeks on crutches then a few of rehab and he’ll be good as new. I can give you the names of good people in Pittsburgh if he wants to move up from Baltimore, let you take care of him.”
To her surprise, TK actually gave her offer some consideration. “I’d be fine with that. And he can do his job from almost anywhere as long as there’s WiFi. But how can we convince him?”
We? Suddenly TK’s love life was dependent on Lucy? Exactly what she’d been hoping to avoid. “Best person I know, can talk anyone into anything? Valencia. Put her on his case and he won’t know what hit him.”
TK smiled. “You’re right. That’s a perfect plan.” She slid her phone out, but before she could place a call, Lucy’s phone rang through on the car speaker.
“Guardino.”
“It’s Wash. Guess who I found?” His voice was jumping with excitement. “Or rather who found us.”
“You found Maybelle Mann?” Lucy said. “So soon?”
“Well, to be honest, like I said, she found us. Remember I told you about all those vintage car enthusiasts? And my posting photos of the Wayfarer on their sites asking for more info? Turns out Maybelle is a regular visitor to several of them—has alerts set up for any mention of a 1949 Dodge Wayfarer. She’s spent most of her adult life searching for her dad’s car, it’s one of the few clear memories she had left of her family.”
“Really? So where is she? When can we talk with her?” TK asked, leaning forward and practically shouting into the speaker.
“She’s here. Well, not, here, here, like in Beacon Falls. More like there—not far from you guys. She’s a professor at Penn State and head of their campus ministry. She’s a religious studies scholar—has published several books under the name she goes by now, Henrietta Mann Rawling. But it’s her, everything checks out, she’s Maybelle Henrietta Mann.”
Lucy pulled into a left-hand turn lane, preparing to make a U-turn. State College was only forty minutes away. “We’re on our way.”
“Hang on. You need to drop TK off first. Guess the mayor’s son has been trying to reach you?”
“I’ve been ignoring him,” TK said. “Why, what’s up? Is he pissed we talked to his grandfather without him?”
“I’m not sure if he’s pissed, but Mayor Greer sure is. He called here, said he needs to see you in his office right away.”
“Thanks, Wash,” Lucy answered before TK could let out the expletive she knew was building inside the younger woman. “Text me Maybelle’s info and let her know I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t give her too many details, I’ll handle that.”
“Will do. Bye.” He hung up.
TK twisted in her seat, her knees knocking against the dash. “You need to take me with you—if I go to the mayor’s office, he’s as likely to fire us as he is to do anything. The man cannot abide a whiff of scandal, not with his congressional campaign, and with Madsen dead and all our evidence destroyed, he has no reason to allow us to continue the investigation.”
She paused to take a breath, and Lucy glimpsed her opening but TK started talking again before she could take it. “We have nothing: no concrete evidence, just suppositions based on computer analysis of photos that we’re missing the originals of and we’re missing the bones that analysis is based on—hell, we don’t even have the car anymore. Please, I know this case looks hopeless, but we can’t give up. Not when we’re so close to maybe finding out what really happened.”
“If Maybelle Mann actually was present at the time of the killings, and if she actually saw anything, and if she still remembers it. She was, what, four at the time?”
“So, you’re giving up. My first case as lead and it’s ruined.” TK slumped back in her seat, reminding Lucy of Megan, her fourteen-year-old daughter.
Although Megan hadn’t been almost blown up, seen her boyfriend injured and a colleague killed, so Lucy could excuse TK’s whining. A bit. “I didn’t say that. And this has nothing to do with you being lead. It’s about finding the truth and some measure of justice for that family—don’t forget Officer Thomson and that unknown boy, as well. Of course we can’t give up. But we also have a contract to fulfill and a client to keep happy. Which means I’m dropping you off at the courthouse.”
TK opened her mouth to protest, but this time Lucy didn’t give her a chance. “And you’ll entertain the mayor and his staff, jump through their hoops, see what they want and most importantly why they want it. If they want us to keep working the case but they want to control when the public learns our findings, that’s one thing. If they want us to bury what we know, that’s entirely different. But we need to buy some time. Can you do that, TK?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” TK answered, snapping to attention until her seatbelt ratcheted her back. “Happy to play patsy and take one for the team. As long as you let me in on the final down.”
“Absolutely. After all, you are lead investigator. It’s your case.”
Chapter Thirty-One
TK navigated for Lucy once they reached Greer. The streets were blocked off around the town square, but past the barricades, she could see the blackened remnants of the warehouse and government center.
The old Woolworth’s building had collapsed in on one side—the side closest to the warehouse where the explosions and fire had originated. Piles of brick, blackened wood, and twisted metal clawed through the space where the coroner’s office had been. Puffs of smoke and ash filled the air as fire crews doused any hot spots and worked to clear the debris. The entire town smothered beneath the stench of smoke.
At the outer perimeter, they were stopped by a state trooper who had them wait in the car while he called to clear TK’s entry into the courthouse.
While they waited, a familiar figure came jogging past the barricades, waving to them. Grayson. Great, her favorite shadow puppet.
“TK, wait,” he shouted.
She was tempted to tell Lucy to drive off but instead rolled down her window as he arrived at her side of the car.
“Hey there, you must be Lucy Guardino. It’s so very nice to finally meet you.” He thrust his hand into the car, past TK, so Lucy had no choice but to shake it. “Guess I’m coming with you then, while TK updates my father.”
“Coming with me?”
“Sure. The judge called, said you had a lead on a witness? My dad wants me to go with you, record the interview, document all the pertinent details, that kind of thing.”
“I can handle it, thanks.” Lucy clearly thought that was the end of the discussion, but then again, she hadn’t met Grayson. TK hid her smile. Rock meet immoveable object.
He opened the car door for TK, then hopped into her seat as soon as she vacated it. “No problem at all. The press conference is postponed until one, but we’ll be back by then, right?”
TK grinned at Lucy, happy to share the unique burden that was Grayson. “Don’t forget to show Lucy your tatts, Grayson. And tell her your ideas for urban development. G
ive you two something to chat about on your way there.”
The state trooper waved her through the barricade. TK in turn waved to Lucy and Grayson as they drove away.
She started across the town square—it had turned into a sea of mud from the firefighters’ water, so she changed directions and took the long way around using the sidewalks. Debris filled the gutters, some from the burnt buildings, most from the crowd that had abandoned everything when they fled the square.
Blood-red Nazi flags mixed with peace signs. Water-stained banners floated in puddles, their words turned into dripping swirls of color, messages of hate and freedom combined into an incoherent rainbow.
Both groups caught in the violence, entrenched in their beliefs. A spark of sunlight struck a smashed bottle, its glass stained with blood.
Her grandfather may have been right: freedom was the right to hate. But what he hadn’t seen, what the men and women caught in the melee last night hadn’t seen, was that hatred was also freedom denied. It locked people into a prison of their own making.
How many wonderful people had changed her life, people who, if she’d isolated herself behind a wall of prejudice like her grandfather, she’d never have met? Valencia, Wash, fellow Marines who’d saved her life and she theirs, David… How empty her life would have been without them.
She loved her grandfather. But maybe in this he was wrong—no one person had the right to dictate how others lived. Maybe she’d been raised to believe that hatred trumped others’ freedom, but she didn’t have to choose that way of life for herself.
The sound of people singing rode across the wind. She stopped, searching for the source. A small group, black and white; men, women, and even little children, stood on the other side of the police barricade, holding hands and singing. Not a song of rebellion or protest. A song of peace and hope: My Country, Tis of Thee.
She blamed her sudden tears on the morning sun glinting in her eyes and continued forward.
When she arrived at the courthouse, she stood looking up the imposing set of stone steps. Then she glanced at the modest and less intimidating police department beside it.
Lucy said to buy time; she didn’t say how. TK turned her back on the courthouse and instead entered the police department.
A few minutes later, she was escorted up to the second floor where the department’s two full-time detectives had a small office—well, there was no door or walls, but it was definitely a separate space from the file cabinets and desks that cluttered the main area—in the rear corner.
Karlan stood, two mugs of coffee in his hands, waiting for her. She stopped beside the two desks that had been positioned so they faced each other, caught by the view from his window. From there you could see across the alley, down into the disemboweled remnants of the coroner’s office.
“One thing about the crime scene being just across the alley, makes it easy to keep an eye on it.” The joke fell flat as they both thought of the body found in that crime scene.
He extended her a cup of coffee as a peace offering. She accepted, grateful for anything that could keep the pounding in her head at bay. Karlan wore the same uniform as yesterday, and she assumed it was not his first cup of coffee of the morning.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Give me a place to hide out? The mayor summoned me to his office, and I’m not sure if it’s to get a statement about last night, a summary of what we found about the bodies in the car, or to fire me now that all of our evidence has gone up in smoke.”
“Probably all three.”
“That’s one weird family. His father, the judge, called us to his house this morning, told us about a night of riots back in 1954 and a cop that was shot during them.”
“Let me guess: Archibald Thomson?”
“Exactly. Said the riots were from a labor dispute and he didn’t know anything else.”
“Like how three bodies, including a juvenile and a female, ended up in the trunk of the car Thomson was in.”
“Wait. You heard we identified two of the bodies, right?” Her mind was fuzzy—no, it’d just happened this morning, she hadn’t had a chance to call Karlan, so he couldn’t have known. “Well, potentially identified. We’re waiting for confirmation.”
“No. When did that happen? How did that happen with Marcia Madsen dead and the skeletons destroyed?”
“Our tech guy. He was helping Dr. Madsen run a computer facial reconstruction program while he was also running down leads on the car. Found the owner. A doctor named Samuel Mann from Washington, DC. He was reported missing in May, 1954 along with his wife and four-year-old daughter.”
Karlan arched an eyebrow. “So if it was Samuel Mann and his wife in the trunk, how’d they get there? Victims of a carjacking or something during this so-called labor dispute that somehow never made it into the history books? And who was the kid with them? Not to mention, where’s the little girl?”
“No idea, no idea, no idea, and State College teaching religious studies.”
That got a reaction as he choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”
“The girl—woman now—was also looking for the car. She found us. My boss is on her way to interview her now. Guess who invited himself along for the ride? After his grandfather the judge said he’d never heard of the Manns?”
“Grayson. That kid. He’s either a stone-cold sociopath or just so desperate for his daddy’s love and attention that he’s been brainwashed. Probably both, given those two. The judge, he isn’t exactly known for his religious or racial tolerance either. And while the mayor talks like he’s Mr. Working Class Man’s Best Friend, rumor has it most of his friends come from Philly and have Italian last names.”
“The mayor has ties to organized crime?” That would explain how a small-town nowhere mayor could be mounting a bid for Congress. Maybe the mob had been using Greer as a dumping ground for unwanted bodies? Perhaps even for generations?
“No proof, but word is both he and his father owe their success to the Philly mob.”
A judge and congressman both in the control of organized crime? No wonder the mayor was so desperate to quash their investigation along with any suspicion that might fall on their family. And it explained why he came to the Beacon Group instead of turning the investigation over to the State Police or FBI.
“Do you think they started the fire last night? No evidence means no case, means no negative publicity. Or maybe they got their mob friends to start the fire?”
“Greer would never give anyone something as big as that to hold over him. He’d keep it in the family. He’s holding a press conference at one. Word is, he’s planning to blame the protestors for the fire.”
“Do you have any actual evidence?”
He made a sour face. “Evidence? Hell, we haven’t even been allowed access to the crime scene yet.” He jerked his chin to the window where the firemen were still at work on the smoldering remains of the building. “Greer doesn’t care about evidence. Or the truth. All he cares about is shutting up the opposition and getting the reporters out of town—hopefully to write about how well he’s handled this crisis. What a leader he’s been in this time of need.”
“And as soon as the press conference is over—”
“Your case will be erased forever and mine will be marked closed. Marcia deserved more.” He leaned back in his chair. “I feel like I’ve failed her.”
“We still have a few hours left.”
“Yeah, but where to start? Security footage was stored on drives in the government building, so it’s destroyed. Did you or your friend see anything? You’re the closest things to witnesses I have.”
“No. We were in the other room.” She thought about it. “Weren’t there officers on duty at the warehouse? That’s where you have your evidence lockup, right?”
“One officer from seven to seven. Patrols both the warehouse and the government center. The desk sergeant stopped him when he was clocking in, reassigned him to protest duty. On orders
of the mayor.”
“Madsen said the mayor came by, sent everyone home.”
His eyes creased. “You realize this is absolute, wild conjecture and speculation. We have no facts, we have no witnesses, we have no evidence.”
“You mean that a politically corrupt official took it upon himself to destroy all the evidence that could cost him his next election? Right. Could never happen…”
He finished his coffee but made a face as if it had suddenly turned bitter. “If he was involved.” She noticed he wasn’t using Greer’s name anymore much less his title. “Purely hypothetically. He’d have to create some kind of delayed timer for the fireworks to go off after he cleared the building. Or at least thought he’d cleared it.”
“Not so hard. Anyone who knew the truck with the fireworks would be there would have ample time to jury-rig a delayed ignition device. Hell, even a smoldering matchbook might have been enough. I’m guessing with all the black powder and other flammable chemicals in the fireworks, it wouldn’t take a huge flame to get things started.”
“Which means we’re looking for someone who knew the bones would be at the morgue…”
“You, me, my people.” She ticked off possibilities. “Madsen and her people, the tow truck driver, officer at the quarry, evidence officer on day shift, and pretty much the entire Greer family, all three generations.”
“And who also knew about the fireworks arriving yesterday.”
“Pretty much anyone who walked through that warehouse entrance—the truck was parked right in the front, along the wall beside the coroner’s office.”
“So we have plenty of folks with means and opportunity. Guess that leaves us with motive.”
They were both silent for a long moment, the only sound the back-up beeping of one of the fire trucks outside the window. “Everyone involved in our cold case is probably dead by now.”
“Except the judge.”
“Except the judge,” she allowed. “But he was just a kid back then. No way he killed four people and got away with it clean.”